Is Shane MacGowan Still Alive? Camden Tube to Camden Lock

      I came out of Camden Town tube, badly in need of a piss, and crossed the road to Barclays bank. There was just enough in there to get me through the evening – I was thankful that I’d kept the account at the little village in Suffolk where I’d worked for a while years ago. They knew I was a hopeless case but, because of that, they always made sure I could somehow get hold of money – perhaps they liked the fact that they had an impoverished London-based slob on their books rather then the usual farmers, shopkeepers, salesmen and village idiots. No, not very likely at all, it was probably just a computer error that kept giving me access to cash.

      I was going to an Evan Parker gig at Dingwalls. Not my usual midweek fare, atonal improvised alto saxophone (is it anybody’s?), but I was meeting my old schoolfriend, Plendy, and Martin, a mad Welsh mate of his who worked at the BBC World Service Monitoring Centre in Reading, and who was the kind of bloke who’d make witty one-liners that referred to Anglo-Saxon poetry and Russian revolutionary film makers. You had to be on your toes with Martin all the time.

      I started walking quickly in the direction of Chalk Farm, then saw a figure heading towards me at about 0.5 mph. I instinctively slowed down to get a good look at him. He was wearing a baggy, dishevelled black suit with an open-necked shirt and he looked as though just keeping upright was taking up all his energy. At one point he staggered into the road and kicked a half-full black dustbin bag, then zigzagged back onto the pavement. I tried to catch his eye as he passed me, but he was staring straight ahead, at some point in the pavement or the future which might keep him going. I turned and watched him disappear into the night, then carried on to the club.

      ‘Guess what?’ I said to the lads a few minutes later, as Evan Parker went ‘eeeeeaaooooo a bleedeblee doooOOOWWaaapooopopopo’.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Shane MacGowan is still alive.’

      And before Martin had time to make a witty connection between ‘Rum, Sodomy and the Lash’ and Beowulf, I went to the bog.

       IRISH MYTHS & LEGENDS 1 How to be Irish

      1 Why you Need to be Irish

      Gone are the days when being English opened doors for people around the world. Now Irish is where it’s at culturally, economically, sexually and politically. The Brits have been jealous of the Irish for centuries because of their ability to drink, their nice singing voices, their straight-armed dancing style (which is so much sexier than Morris dancing) and their ginger hair.

      2 Positive Affirmations

      You can be Irish. You can leave behind the English world of semi-detached houses, garden gnomes and Freemasonry. It’s simple. Just repeat one or more of these simple phrases every day after getting home from the pub and in no time at all you’ll find yourself on the fringes of the Irish football squad for the next World Cup.

      Every day, in every way

      I’m becoming Irishyer and Irishyer

      

      Feck me

      I am Irish

      

      England 0–Ireland 1, Euro ’88

      

      3 Diet

      The way to a man’s nationality is through his stomach. The Englishman needs two vital foodstuffs to keep him going – roast beef and baked beans – while the Irishman can survive on just one, the simple potato. It is the most versatile form of nourishment on the planet and only Guinness has more vitamins and minerals and less calories.

      4 Exercise

      Football and darts are the national sports in England, and everyone in the country knocks a ball around in the road after work then goes down the pub, sinks fifteen pints of lager and throws little arrows at a board. It’s fun, but this regime is not great for total all-round fitness. However, there are many traditional Irish pastimes which increase strength and cardiovascular fitness, such as pub brawling, hurling, throwing the potato and that dancing where you keep your arms straight and move your feet really fast.

      5 Making Friends

      Irish people and English people are very similar except for slight variations in social etiquette. Without generalising too much, whereas the English are repressed, tightarsed cold fish with people they don’t know (such as their parents) Irish people will slap a stranger on the back, shout ‘How are ye?’ at the top of their voices, buy them a drink then take them home and give them a damn good seeing to.

      6 Sex

      Sex sells. Everyone knows this. That’s why I’ve included it in this book. The publisher will probably make sure that ‘sex’ is written on the cover somewhere in an eye-catching font, and then copies of the book will be put in the sex manuals’ section of the big shops. And those sections are always full of eager people with bulging wallets.

      Sex with English people is all messy and complicated what with condoms, Femidoms, spermicidal gel, multiple orgasms (for both partners), prenuptial agreements,

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