So I went to see the Pogues last night, with their recklessly dispassionate frontman Shane MacGowan. They were pretty good, and considering I’ve never really liked their music I did enjoy myself quite a bit. Unfortunatley, by the time the gig had kicked off I was half asleep, still tired from all the effort that went into the Christmas meal from the night before.
Shane himself was absolutely wasted, and I don’t use that term lightly, but with the atmosphere in the hall it seemed to be pretty natural.
True story: One of the crowd threw a bottle at the stage, not entirely surprising, and it landed perfectly in Shane MacGowan’s front coat pocket. Strange! Amazing! FANTASTIC! No, but it was pretty cool, I would hope someone got it on film.
A one picture argument against the rock and roll lifestyle, eh? One up of the evening is that Shane only laughed once, so I’ll only suffer a week of sleepless nights. No joke, but for me there’s a direct link between the wheezing hacks that he’s managed to turn into a laugh and the darkest fears in my heart. I’m pretty sure that if I were to encounter a Boggart, the creature that would manifest would make the same horrible sound.
Anyway, that’s me for today, back to watching Drake and Josh with my brother.