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Last year, Haney MacGowan and I were in his home near Dublin for two hours, sitting in almost complete silence. His wife, writer Victoria Mary Clarke, had warned me beforehand that he was feeling depressed and anxious and may not be in the mood to talk. However, I was still taken aback by his attitude. He either scoffed at my questions or responded with disdain. When I brought up the topic of his English and Irish background, he looked at Victoria with a hopeless expression. “God, these questions are just…” He didn’t even bother finishing his sentence. I attempted to discuss his most famous song, Fairytale of New York. In his well-known slurred speech, he expressed frustration with people always mentioning it. When I asked if it was accurate to call him a genius, he responded, “Probably, yeah.” I then asked what made him a genius, to which he replied, “God! What a ridiculous question!” I couldn’t argue with that.
At times, he chuckled in a manner reminiscent of a snoring sound. “Chhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” He also drank his gin and tonic loudly from a large glass, making a noise similar to “Schhhhhhlrrrrp.”
For a decade, he had refused to speak to any British publication. After experiencing it myself, I understood the reason why. Those two hours felt like the longest and shortest at the same time. I called my editor after leaving and informed her that he barely said anything. She suggested dropping the article, but I insisted on giving it more coverage. That was the essence of MacGowan – his silences spoke volumes, more than other celebrities could in a week-long, unfiltered interview.
MacGowan, who has died aged 65, had always been difficult. He prided himself on his acidic truculence and fuck-you contradictions. But he also had a soul – boy, did he have a soul.
Similar to his close companion, Sinéad O’Connor, who passed away this year as well, he appeared determined to harm himself. They could have been siblings. He most likely consumed copious amounts of Guinness from the Liffey over the years, even before turning to liquor. And then there was the heroin. His dental health was a reflection of his addictions: decaying stalactites and stalagmites that he eventually replaced with a set of pearly whites that gave him a charming grin, alternating between innocent and sinister. Sinéad reported him to the authorities when she feared he was killing himself with heroin. Victoria expressed her gratitude. Perhaps the surprise is not that he died at a young age, but rather that he managed to survive for so long.
Similar to O’Connor, he possessed a talent for writing poetry and had a deep appreciation for language. During his time as a student, his creative writing abilities earned him a scholarship to the prestigious Westminster public school. In the 1980s, he experienced a peak period of approximately five years where, as a member of the punk-folk band the Pogues, he penned beautiful songs about longing (such as “A Pair of Brown Eyes”), displacement (like in “Fairytale of New York”), and social activism (as seen in “Streets of Sorrow/Birmingham Six”). His lyrics were heavily influenced by literature, music, Gaelic mythology, and the Bible, and his most exceptional pieces painted vivid portraits of everyday life.
He was both very English and very Irish, though his detractors called him a fake and said he exploited the drunken stereotype. Certainly, he changed his accent to embrace his Irishness. What he symbolised, and became a spokesperson for, was the Irishman in exile – or more specifically the “London Paddy”. But because it was MacGowan, there were also the unapologetic paradoxes to boot: the Irish nationalist and IRA supporter who wore a union jack jacket and wept when the Queen died.
We discussed his upcoming art book, which was set to release in April. There were plans to print 1,000 copies at £1,000 each. Victoria hoped this would financially support his needs, as money was a major concern. However, Shane avoided discussing the book or any other topic.
“Shane, do you have something on your mind that you would like to discuss?” Victoria inquired with care.
“No, not really,” he responded with a snore-laugh.
“Shane, you seem to be viewing him with fear or suspicion, but that’s not his intention,” she reassured. “He’s simply here out of curiosity and is making an effort. Let’s not make it difficult for him.” She was as chatty as he was reserved.
MacGowan appeared to have been living in darkness for at least ten years. While his complexion was flawless, it had a ghostly pallor. He took me on a chaotic journey, both enjoyable and unpleasant. The experience was quite humiliating. However, despite his stubborn refusal to speak, there was a mischievous glint in his eye. His brevity seemed more playful than cruel. Somehow, despite all that had happened, he was quite charming. In fact, very charming.
The fireplace was filled with religious symbols. Victoria mentioned that MacGowan didn’t have many visitors, but the priest would often stop by and they would chat. I inquired about MacGowan’s faith. It turned into a discussion. He admitted to doubting it at times, but never for an extended period. He became momentarily energetic when I mentioned that some people believed he had a desire for death. He was disgusted by the notion. “I absolutely love life,” he exclaimed passionately.
Victoria stated that it is not always guaranteed.
He firmly declared, “I enjoy life!”
He expressed a desire to live for as many years as he could. The only other time I saw that kind of passion was when he spoke about Victoria. “She brings joy to my life,” he stated.
In the end, we decided to end our relationship. It had been a difficult experience, but I had grown to care for him. Victoria offered to take a picture of us. “No, thank you,” we replied at the same time. We couldn’t help but burst into laughter.
I informed him that I wanted to express how enjoyable it had been.
“Chhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” he snore-laughed.
Victoria gifted me a T-shirt featuring her face on the front. Initially, I had no intention of wearing it, but I now wear it with fondness. She also drove me back to Dublin, where we encountered one of their acquaintances. This person could tell that I was feeling worn out. “Ah, so you received the Shane treatment,” he remarked knowingly.
At approximately 11pm the next evening, I received a phone call from Victoria. She informed me that Shane was with her and wanted to speak to me.
He quietly said, “My name is Shane. I have a question for you. Do you have faith?”
I informed him that my trust lies in humanity rather than a deity. I believed that we would finally have a conversation.
I asked, even though I was already aware of the response.
“I was simply curious about you,” he stated. “May God bless you.” The call ended abruptly.
Source: theguardian.com
