Shane MacGowan and I sat in near silence for two hours last year. We were at his home, just outside Dublin. I’d been warned by his wife, the writer Victoria Mary Clarke, that he was depressed and anxious, not really in the mood to talk. But nothing could prepare me for this. He scoffed at my questions or snorted with contempt. He looked at Victoria despairingly when I asked about his mix of Englishness and Irishness. “God, these questions are fucking …” He decided the sentence wasn’t even worth finishing. I tried to talk about his most famous song, Fairytale of New York. “It pisses me off when people always talk about it,” he said in that famous mumbled slur. I asked if people were right to refer to him as a genius. “Probably, yeah,” he said. What made you a genius? “God! Fucking ridiculous question!” He had a point.
At times, he chuckled resembling a snore. “Chhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Continuously, he loudly drank his gin and tonic from a large glass. Schhhhhhlrrrrp.
For a decade, he refused to speak to any British newspaper. I finally understood why when I had the displeasure of experiencing the slowest two hours of my life with him. Strangely enough, it also felt like the fastest. After I left, I called my editor and informed her that he hardly said a word. She asked if we should scrap the article. I disagreed, stating that I needed more room to capture the essence of MacGowan’s character. He was a man of few words, but his silence spoke volumes compared to the typical week-long, tell-all interviews of other celebrities.
MacGowan, who passed away at the age of 65, was known for being challenging. He took pride in his sharp bitterness and rebellious contradictions. However, he also possessed a deep soul – a truly remarkable one.
Similar to his close companion, Sinéad O’Connor, who we also tragically lost this year, he appeared to be set on a path of self-destruction. They could have been mistaken for siblings. It’s likely that he consumed copious amounts of Guinness from the Liffey River over the years, and that was even before he turned to hard liquor. And then there was the heroin. The condition of his teeth was a clear indication of his addictions: decayed formations that were eventually replaced with a set of pearly whites that gave him a charming yet devious smile. Sinéad reported him to the authorities out of concern for his well-being, as she feared he was slowly killing himself with heroin. Victoria expressed her gratitude towards her. It’s possible that the surprise lies in the fact that he managed to live as long as he did, rather than passing away at such a young age.
Similar to O’Connor, he possessed a love for poetry. During his time as a student, his imaginative writing earned him a scholarship to the esteemed Westminster public school. In the 1980s, for approximately five years, he used his punk-folk band, the Pogues, to create beautiful songs about longing (A Pair of Brown Eyes), displacement (Fairytale of New York), and resistance (Streets of Sorrow/Birmingham Six). His lyrics were influenced by literature, music, Gaelic myths, and the Bible, and the most exceptional ones depicted charming snapshots of everyday life.
He embodied both English and Irish identities, but some criticized him as inauthentic and accused him of perpetuating negative stereotypes. He did, indeed, alter his accent to embrace his Irish heritage. He represented and spoke for the Irish diaspora, particularly the “London Irish”. However, in typical MacGowan fashion, there were also contradictory elements: he was a vocal supporter of Irish nationalism and the IRA, yet also wore a jacket with the Union Jack and mourned the death of the Queen.
In April, we had a meeting to discuss his extensive art book that was scheduled to be released – with 1,000 copies priced at £1,000 each. Victoria’s hope was that it would generate enough funds for his care, as money was a major concern. However, Shane was not interested in discussing the book or any other topic.
“Shane, would you like to discuss anything?” Victoria asked in a kind manner.
“No, not really,” he responded with a snore-laugh.
“Shane, you seem to be regarding him with fear or suspicion, but that is not his intention,” she explained. “He is simply interested and doing his best. Please, try to be more accommodating.” She was much more talkative than he was reserved.
MacGowan appeared to have been living underground for ten years. Although his skin was flawless, it had a sickly pallor. He took me on a confusing and unpleasant journey. It was a humiliating dismissal. However, despite his deliberate silence, there was a mischievous glint in his eye. His brevity came across as playful rather than cruel. Somehow, despite everything, he was charming. Incredibly charming.
The fireplace was filled with religious symbols. Victoria mentioned that MacGowan didn’t have many visitors, but the priest would often come by and they would chat. I inquired about MacGowan’s beliefs. It almost turned into a discussion. He mentioned that he had doubted his faith at times, but it never lasted for long. He briefly became lively when I mentioned that some people thought he had a desire for death. He was horrified by the thought and passionately exclaimed, “Of course I value life!”
Victoria stated that it is not always guaranteed.
“I am quite fond of life!” he stated firmly.
He expressed a desire to live as long as he could. The only other instance I observed such enthusiasm was when he spoke of Victoria. He stated, “She brings so much joy into my life.”
In the end, we decided to end our relationship. Despite the struggles, I had developed feelings for him. Victoria offered to take a photo of us, but we declined at the same time and couldn’t help but laugh.
I informed him that I wanted to express my enjoyment.
“Chhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” he snore-laughed.
Victoria gifted me a shirt featuring her face on the front. Initially, I had no intention of wearing it. However, I now value it greatly. She also gave me a ride back to Dublin. Along the way, we ran into one of their acquaintances. He noticed that I appeared worn out. “Oh, so you’ve experienced the Shane treatment,” he remarked knowingly.
That night, I received a phone call around 11pm from Victoria. She informed me that Shane was present and wanted to speak with me.
“Hey, it’s Shane,” he softly uttered. “I have a question for you. Do you have faith?”
I expressed to him that I believe in humanity, but not necessarily in a deity. I had hoped that this would open up a conversation between us.
“May I inquire about your thoughts?” I posed the question, although I was already aware of the response.
He stated, “I was simply curious about you.” He then said, “May God bless you.” The call ended abruptly.
Source: theguardian.com
