A Drink with Shane in Boogaloo
Posted: Wed Apr 20, 2005 11:53 amby hurricane jake bastard
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<blockquote>... Suddenly, in the distance, as the hill got even steeper, Money saw our destination. "There it is, the bastard," he shouted. With just over half an hour until last orders, we had arrived.
"Whether he's here or not," we agreed, "we've earned several pints tonight." Money went to the head while I ordered two creamy glasses of Vitamin G.
When I brought the pints back to our table, Money said, "So did you say anything to him?"
"Who?"
"Fucking Shane MacGowan, you were standing right next to him!"
Sure enough, the Dalai Lama of Drinking himself was slumped on a stool in the elbow of the bar, with no fewer than four cocktails at work in front of him. After another shot of Irish courage I strolled up to say hello.
Well, actually I asked the bartender what whiskeys he had, and when he indicated to the shelf I said, "What would you recommend, Mr. MacGowan?"
"Black Bush," he blurted out between those extraordinarily awful teeth of his. And thus began our evening of drinking with King Pogue.
We bought Shane whiskey, he bought us whiskey. Even passed his Benson and Hedges around. We shared stories about Ireland and hurling and international bands trying to play the U.S. after 9/11. He told me all about his wife's new book as well. "She's a channeler, you know. This book is like 'A Drink with Abraham Lincoln and Napoleon' and blokes like that." Which probably explains why she can understand a bloody thing Shane has to say.
He's mostly unintelligible -- I had to listen very hard to really get any of it. But he rewards the effort by being funny and engaging and very gracious.
It's the laugh, however, that wins the prize. It's like this gasping burst of static, as though his throat is a garbage disposal in the sink and it's just consumed the 15 or so teeth he's missing. Shane laughs a lot.
Money was quick to point out that despite having at least four drinks on the go, the man tends to keep them all level. "It's a balanced diet, (insert static burst and toothless smile)." God in heaven, it was the perfect Shane experience.
Long after closing (and a few post-hours rounds), we said our goodbyes to Shane, one of the greatest talents in the history of modern music and a drunkard so thoroughly pickled as to make Keith Richards look like a particularly uptight vicar. We had set out on a mission to meet this legendary singer-songwriter-sauce bucket, and in the course of only two pubs we'd struck gold. No cheesy photo op, no autograph nonsense, just some good conversation and a shitload of booze with a very kind and funny man who just happens to be an underground superhero.
</blockquote>
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<blockquote>... Suddenly, in the distance, as the hill got even steeper, Money saw our destination. "There it is, the bastard," he shouted. With just over half an hour until last orders, we had arrived.
"Whether he's here or not," we agreed, "we've earned several pints tonight." Money went to the head while I ordered two creamy glasses of Vitamin G.
When I brought the pints back to our table, Money said, "So did you say anything to him?"
"Who?"
"Fucking Shane MacGowan, you were standing right next to him!"
Sure enough, the Dalai Lama of Drinking himself was slumped on a stool in the elbow of the bar, with no fewer than four cocktails at work in front of him. After another shot of Irish courage I strolled up to say hello.
Well, actually I asked the bartender what whiskeys he had, and when he indicated to the shelf I said, "What would you recommend, Mr. MacGowan?"
"Black Bush," he blurted out between those extraordinarily awful teeth of his. And thus began our evening of drinking with King Pogue.
We bought Shane whiskey, he bought us whiskey. Even passed his Benson and Hedges around. We shared stories about Ireland and hurling and international bands trying to play the U.S. after 9/11. He told me all about his wife's new book as well. "She's a channeler, you know. This book is like 'A Drink with Abraham Lincoln and Napoleon' and blokes like that." Which probably explains why she can understand a bloody thing Shane has to say.
He's mostly unintelligible -- I had to listen very hard to really get any of it. But he rewards the effort by being funny and engaging and very gracious.
It's the laugh, however, that wins the prize. It's like this gasping burst of static, as though his throat is a garbage disposal in the sink and it's just consumed the 15 or so teeth he's missing. Shane laughs a lot.
Money was quick to point out that despite having at least four drinks on the go, the man tends to keep them all level. "It's a balanced diet, (insert static burst and toothless smile)." God in heaven, it was the perfect Shane experience.
Long after closing (and a few post-hours rounds), we said our goodbyes to Shane, one of the greatest talents in the history of modern music and a drunkard so thoroughly pickled as to make Keith Richards look like a particularly uptight vicar. We had set out on a mission to meet this legendary singer-songwriter-sauce bucket, and in the course of only two pubs we'd struck gold. No cheesy photo op, no autograph nonsense, just some good conversation and a shitload of booze with a very kind and funny man who just happens to be an underground superhero.
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