It's Really Pogue, Man
Talking to Shane MacGowan, singer and lyricist with a spirited bunch of North London Irish lunatics called the Pogues—trying to decipher the words buried in the stream of mumbling and riotous laughter that pours from his mouth—is a bit of an experience.
It's Really Pogue, Man
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Richard Grabel
Talking to Shane MacGowan, singer and lyricist with a spirited bunch of North London Irish lunatics called the Pogues—trying to decipher the words buried in the stream of mumbling and riotous laughter that pours from his mouth—is a bit of an experience.
Shane, you see, has the worst set of rotted, woebegone teeth I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter. Such miserable teeth inevitably stand in the way of clear enunciation.
Add to this a tendency to mumble. Add to that the frequent explosions of the Shane MacGowan laugh.
The Shane MacGowan laugh bubbles up from his throat like a faulty geyser, splattering and sputtering in spastic delight. It goes “cccchhhhhh,” or something like that.
Add to that the fact—I’m sure he’d be the last to deny it—that Shane likes a wee drop now and again. And again and again. In fact, Shane has something like a romantic infatuation with booze. Something about boozing being the regular and proper behavior for all self-respecting visionary Irish bards, of which Shane is one.