Shane McGowan

 
I recently tried to watch "The Shane McGowan Story" on pay-per-view (in the free movie section!) and for the life of me I couldn't understand what the fuck he was going on about. He sure hasn't aged well.
What was also alarming about the documentary was various loved ones going on and on about his genius -- father, mother, girlfriend, all clear-eyed and lucid-- yet not one of them then said: AND WHEN HE NODS YOU CAN HEAR SLOSHING. Shane himself looked like a bullfrog who had recently aquired arms and was celebrating with many, many pints and a fag. The sound that emitted from the liver colored hole in front the beast's head had the rhythm of human speech, but it was mostly long vowels sounds puncuated with "y'know wud I mean?".

In my early twenties, I had a hopeless beavis and butthead-like crush on Shane McGowan. He has fangs! I wanted to Irish in the worst way. I bought a Chieftains CD. I wore dark sport coats. I tried to read "At-Swim-Two-Birds". And his lyrics were all about illegal horse races and alcohol induced hallucinations! Sweet! Bauhaus was for fags! This was the real shit.

It went so far as spending a quarter of an hour negotiating with a bartender at Spec's, trying to get him to do a boilermaker with Creme d'Menthe and Guinness. Shane loved this drink! He claimed in an interview that's what rotted his teeth! Sign me the fuck up!

Finally: "I'll give you the shot. I'll give the pint. What you do with them is your business." Smart, wise man.

It didn't even matter that when I first read some Brendan Behan and saw that Shane had been doing a lot of lifting. He's a drunk! (Behan was a drunk and pervert, which is cooler.)

I sort of drifted away from all that fake Irish crap after a few years, maybe going back to the Pogues every so often for cheap nostalgia when I washed dishes.

Imagine my horror to learn my old hero is actually legally retarded.