A man you don’t meet every day
TO SAY I’M EXCITED IS AN UNDERSTATEMENT. Shane MacGowan, the reclusive former Pogue, has agreed to an interview. MacGowan has not talked to a British newspaper for 10 years and there is so much to ask him, not least how he is still alive. MacGowan, a brilliant lyricist and songwriter at his peak, drank and drugged himself to the point of destruction 40-odd years ago. Fans have feared for news of the inevitable ever since. But amazingly he’s still with us, living in Ireland with his journalist wife, Victoria Mary Clarke, and about to publish a gigantic book of his art, handwritten lyrics and school essays. Dublin, here I come!
A few days before the interview, I receive a message from Victoria. “If you can be here for a few days, you will have more of a chance of getting him in a good mood!” Ah. MacGowan is almost as famous for his irascibility as for his music. A few days in Dublin sounds lovely, but impractical. I apologise to Victoria, and tell her I can only do the Friday as arranged.
On the Wednesday, I get another message from her. “Just to warn you, he is very depressed and anxious.” MacGowan always gave the impression nothing bothered him – he would say what he liked when he liked to whom he liked. Anxiety was the last thing one associated with him. And yet he has said he had his first breakdown aged six and suffered with depression through much of his life.
I get into Dublin about 10am. Victoria says Shane will be in bed till at least noon and agrees to meet me at the hotel close to their home. She drives up in their ancient battered green Merc. Victoria is a youthful 5 6-year-old with emerald green eyes. Everything is green in MacGowan’s life. She and MacGowan, 64, have been together on and off (much more on than off) for 35 years. We go for a coffee and
