At the time of writing, the “framework document” on Norn Iron is about to be published. It is a time of great expectation, of high tension, of fearful imaginings, for all parties involved in the Northern conflict, and, of course, for Sam Snort.
It is certain that the document, if it is to succeed, will have to take on board many of the suggestions which Sam Snort has proffered over the years as his contribution to peace and harmony in the Northern part of this . . . ah fuck it, you know the drill yourself.
Before examining these proposals in their gory detail, it is important that all parties to the settlement pose the right questions, in order that they might come up with the right answers.
There would be no point, for example, in asking the wretched denizens of South Armagh, “which of these cities lies on the highest line of latitude: Brisbane, Los Angeles or Lisbon?” That would not be a good idea, because in South Armagh, they know fuck all about anything apart from Brits, Brits and Brits, with a dash of Gaelic Football thrown in to season the sense of all-pervading misery.
No, a simpler question would be, “are the Brits a shower of fucking cunts?” The probable answer is, “oh aye.”
Then you could proceed with a more complex question, like, “are the Brits the worst shower of total fucking cunts in the entire fucking world?”
The answer, again, would be affirmative, mumbled in that gruesome Crossmaglen whine.
On the Unionist side, Sam Snort fears that the whole process may be doomed from the start by the crucial failure to ask the right questions. From all quarters, we hear the plaintive cry, “what do the Unionists want?”
This is tragic. This is all wrong. This is fundamentally flawed. The question, of course, is not “what do the Unionists want?” The question is, “what do the Unionists need?”
no poontang
Now, some commentators will say that the Unionists need ‘re-assurance’, ‘security’, and ‘a guarantee of the continued status of Norn Iron as a part of the United Kingdom for so long’ . . . ah, fuck it, the usual shit, the usual shit.
Sam Snort does not agree with this, because Sam Snort knows deep down what the Unionists need more than anything else.
I hold in my hand a cattle-prod. It is a fine, precision-made implement, some eight feet in length, with a rubber handle. The rubber handle prevents the bearer from receiving electric shocks. Yes, it is an electric cattle-prod, a highly desirable tool, rather like the Snortian pecker, and nearly as long. This is what the Unionists need, and they need it now.
What happens is this: David Trimble, Jim Molyneux, John Taylor, Big Ian Paisley, Peter Robinson, and various other anal-retentive representatives of their unfortunate people line up in an orderly queue.
Enter Sam Snort, smiling, cattle-prod in hand, ready for action. One by one, Sam inserts the electrified end of the prod where the sun don’t shine, shoving it up the recta of the assembled dignitaries, and turning it rapidly.
This spectacular event will be televised nationwide, and by satellite to 800 million people worldwide. It will be called: Norn Iron – Where Prod Meets Prod. It will, as they say, be a turning point in our history.
Having loosened up the anus of Unionism in this appealing fashion – and ignoring the inevitable pleas of Peter
Robinson and David Trimble for more – I can then work on other areas which have been completely neglected in the pathetic Forum For Peace. Poontang, for example. There is no poontang in the framework document. No ’tang whatsoever. Poontang is out, out, out.
One would have thought that at this stage of the game, all of the relevant parties would have cottoned on to Sam Snort’s conviction that only through poontang can the divided peoples of this island come together in a meaningful way. But no, they haven’t. Fuck them.
orange pecker
Only when Paisley is in a position to holler, “Ulster Says Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes, Oh My Gaaaaad” can there be any hope of peace. Only when Pope John Hume can ditch that stuff about the need for parity of esteem with his Protestant neighbours, and talk about the need for a good fuck with his Protestant neighbours, will Ireland be free. It’s Peace Through Poontang or no peace at all, bub.
Up there in Dublin Castle, the assembled fuckwits of Irish politics are saying that “everything is on the table.” Is it indeed? Is everything on the table? Oh, I think not, my friend, I think not.
There are, for example, no peckers on the table. Not a one.
There are no green peckers, no orange peckers, no red, white and blue peckers, no apprentice boy peckers, no peckers with “Tiocfaidh Ár Lá” tattooed from stem to tip, no peckers of any description.
For fuck’s sake, it is the one and only thing that the whole dismal shower of them have in common, the only shared heritage they can claim.
Only by whacking their dongers down on the table can any “parity of esteem” be established. And only by Sam Snort whacking Hissing Sid down as the ultimate yardstick, can the warring factions see how far they have to go to measure up to their responsibilities.
Only then can “Not An Inch” have any true meaning. Only then can they bury their differences, and come together to bury the baldy lad. So much poontang, so little time.
Time For Poontang. Time To Go.