Irish Independent: Me and Shane on...

[MacRua]

was looking through bins and found this. The Pogues and The Dubliners on TOTP, 1987...

Me and Shane on . . .
As TOTP is finally confined to the archives, rock-chick Lise Hand remembers the day she got to rub shoulder-pads with some of pop's less than radiant stars
Irish Independent
Saturday June 24 2006
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As I edged cautiously into the large dressing room, deep in the concrete labyrinth of the BBC television centre, its lone occupant threw me a cool stare. Apologetically, I began to reverse through the door, but he strolled over and proffered a half-guzzled bottle of red wine.

"Like a drink?" asked Shane MacGowan politely.

Sensing a test of some sort, I took a hefty swig from the bottle. It was ten in the morning, but what the hell. It's not every day you get to hang out on Top of the Pops.

The day in question was April 2, 1987, and it had begun early with a spot of confusion at Dublin Airport. Miraculously, a rowdy cover of The Irish Rover by The Dubliners and The Pogues had somehow staggered into the UK Top 20, and the two bands had been invited to appear on Top of the Pops that evening. And I, as a working rock-chick, was going with them.

This was heady stuff indeed. For someone whose early ambition was to be a Pan's People dancer, and who had experienced a Road to Damascus-style conversion to peroxide after being transfixed by a white-booted and beautiful Debbie Harry crooning Denis on the show, this was the ultimate backstage pass.

But at 7am in Dublin airport, Ronnie Drew wasn't sharing my excitement. His fellow Dubliner, Barney McKenna was MPD (Missing Presumed Drinking). Resigned to playing with one beard less, they went to board the plane - only to find Barney fast asleep on a seat directly in front of the departure gate, where he knew he'd be found.

A few hours later, I was having my first snifter of the day with my new best friend Shane, while Barney curled up in a corner of the dressing room and snored like a contented dog. But it didn't stay peaceful for long: five Dubliners, seven Pogues, plus assorted personnel and pals collectively known as Heads, soon had turned the bare room into a riot of strumming instruments, cigarette smoke, chat and gargle. Just like home.

A succession of anxious TOTP assistants, sporting matching black T-shirts and clipboards, sidled in from time to time to do a headcount. It was impossible, though, like trying to mind mice at a crossroads.

Finally, everyone was herded down to the studio for the rehearsal. My first reaction was shock. Was this cramped, dingy chamber really the glittering, stately pleasure-dome of my youthful imagination? The Ground Zero of Pop, which had hosted musical royalty such as Bolan, Bowie, the Beatles? The rickety stages looked as if they were held together with some sticky-backed plastic left over from the set of Blue Peter.

Never mind, I consoled myself. At least I get to rub shoulder-pads - this was the Eighties, remember - with a galaxy of pop's most radiant stars. And here they came . . . a whey-faced lad in a daft Frank Spencer beret. It was the preposterously-named Ben Volpeliere-Pierrot and his pathetically-monikered band, Curiosity Killed the Cat. A synth-funk trio of saddos called Living in A Box, and Alison Moyet who was (God forgive me) the only heavyweight act of the evening.

The rehearsal was trouble-free, but the aftermath wasn't. There was the question of Shane's attire. His T-shirt, which bore evidence that it hadn't been donned straight from the fresh laundry pile, was deemed too rock and roll by the studio's fashion-police. An incredulous Shane begged to differ, robustly and effusively.

There was a tense stand-off for a while, but how it resolved itself remains a mystery to me, as I was too busy trying to infiltrate the Cats' dressing-room to steal Ben's hat as a souvenir.

Then it was showtime. Under the searchlight strobe of frantic disco-lights, the happy-clappy presenters and on-cue screeches of the teenage audience in their best tops and skirts were drowned out as Shane began bawling, "On the fourth of July eighteen hundred and six . . ."

How strange it was to see the old and new interpreters of traditional Irish music bring their Rabelaisian revel to the spiritual home of pop music - Shane's bellow and Ronnie's rasp set to the thunder of fiddle, accordion, flute, guitar and drums. Suddenly, the pleasure-dome was ablaze.

While nobody noticed, I slipped from the wings and had a sneaky bop onstage behind the raggle-taggle rebels. I reckoned Debbie Harry would understand.

[Niall]

good article cheers mate