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Editor's Note: This blog was contributed by Innes Reekie, who was one of the very first people to lend me a hand when I turned up in London at the beginning of 2005 with nothing but a camera.

As you may have read in the other ZIO blogs of this series (Irish Soul and Pogues Live in NYC), Innes was given the assignment to travel with Shane MacGowan, lead singer of The Pogues, to his Irish hometown and conduct an interview along the way. Because a formal interview never took place, his article never saw the light of day... until now.

Here is Part 1 of 3. Enjoy!

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Part 1

With the recent publication of Shane MacGowan's (eagerly anticipated for more years than I care to remember) biography, A Drink With Shane MacGowan, penned by longtime partner Victoria Clarke, memories flooded back of an eventful, even life-threatening, albeit journalistically fruitless, sojourn I made with both of them to Shane's birthplace in Silvermines, Co. Tipperary sometime around '96 or '97. The book was already well past the expected deadline, the advance long since spent, and Victoria confided she hadn't got much past the first chapter. Such was Shane's reluctance to sit down and speak when confronted by a tape recorder.

I was only vaguely aware of the contempt in which he held those objects, and for that matter, journalists in general. It was never going to be an easy one…in fact the interview never actually took place, and below is the cobbled-together piece I hastily produced on my return, and presented to Loaded magazine. They never used it…no interview to speak of…so for the first time in all its unexpurgated glory (with some updates)…read on…

What's this life lark all about if you can't be a little reckless every once in a while? You know, adopt that 'devil may care' attitude, live a little dangerously; teeter around the edge of the abyss. Isn't that what it's all about? None of us would be working for this particular publication if all we were looking for was a bit of an easy life, a bit of security and a company pension. You can get that with any number of other titles on the shelves. Isn't it more gratifying to thrive on the fear of the great unknown, the adrenaline thrill afforded by never quite knowing where you're going to end up, and the ultimate buzz of laying bets on whether or not you're gonna come through your latest assignment physically and mentally unscathed?

But then again, in adopting an uncharacteristically sensible viewpoint for a moment, there's a bloody great gulf between merely acting a touch irresponsibly and physically putting yourself in the front line of something potentially life-threatening.

Kevin Williamson (a veteran of Poptones Soundoffs), a literary boozing buddy of mine, recently did something which falls well into the 'irresponsibility' category. As a means of promoting Children of Albion Rovers, the anthology of new Scottish writing which he edited and compiled, he fairly sensationally posed for a Sunday Times photographer outside the players entrance to Ibrox, half an hour before the kick-off of an Old Firm game, whilst adopting a crucifixion pose and sporting a Celtic jersey and scarf whilst globules of phlegm rained down on him from dozens of outraged Rangers fans. Admirable, and depending on your loyalties, commendable, but within the bigger picture, and I'm sure he'd agree, pretty damned irresponsible. History an' all that.

But then again, what about accompanying Shane MacGowan on a four day drink'n'drugs binge in his native Tipperary? Isn't that equally irresponsible? In retrospect, I'd probably agree, but when the offer was made it was more a case of, in the immortal words of Lou Reed - 'I guess I'm just dumb cos I know I ain't smart, but deep down inside I got a rock'n'roll heart.' I accepted it as a challenge, but it's more than likely there weren't any other takers, and the editor decided, 'Get that bloke Innes, he's not shy of a drink, plus he's a Jock, so there's a Celtic connection too.'

So, what makes Shane MacGowan such an illustrious and fearsome drinking cohort? Well, for anybody acquainted with his antics while fronting The Pogues, it's fairly obvious. For the rest of you, this is an individual who took hedonism and excess to limits not witnessed since the 'Live Fast, Die Young' set of the late 60s and early 70s.

Between penning countless brutally descriptive portraits of lowlife witnessed from gutter-level and, conversely, some of the most sublimely beautiful recollections and observations on his native land, Shane MacGowan appeared to be metaphorically digging himself into an early grave as a result of his chosen diet of speed, coke, ecstasy, acid, uppers, downers and of course, fucking great oceans of booze. He was single-handedly turning self-immolation into an art form, albeit of freak show proportions. Various medical experts have been predicting his life expectancy wouldn't exceed six months from as far as back as 1986. Since then he's managed to baffle and dumbfound the entire medical profession. Although, his company should perhaps start carrying a government health warning, as he was quoted as recently as March 2000 in The Irish Sunday Independent as saying, 'It's a tragedy. I am beginning to feel that a lot of people are dying in my flat.'

Around 1989, his LSD intake fluctuated between ten and twenty tabs a day, which obviously played havoc with the recording of the If I Should Fall From Grace With God album, resulting in the band over-running studio time by a month, at a cost of a thousand pounds a day. At one point he claimed to be doing in the region of fifty tabs of acid and three bottles of whiskey a day, around which time he allegedly performed a soundcheck with his coat pulled entirely over his head, then spent the majority of that evening's performance scrambling around the stage on all fours looking for bottles of booze he'd earlier stashed on stage.

Shane seemed to experience a period where he and transport of any kind appeared to be at loggerheads with each other. Following a (temporary) break-up with long-term girlfriend Victoria, he reputedly embarked upon a massive poitín and magic mushroom binge, during which he is said to have painted himself entirely black before throwing himself from a moving vehicle, hospitalising himself in the process.

Then there's the much documented, ill-fated Pogues tour of the Far East, where Shane was apparently sacked after drinking too much sake and falling backwards off a bullet-train in Japan, fracturing his skull in the process.

Aeroplanes too, were not without their problems. On one particular occasion, Shane was refused permission to board a transatlantic flight too numerous times to mention over a three-day period. When finally, firmly ensconced in the salubrious environs of club class, he set about consuming in the region of fifty vodka miniatures (and these are doubles) before being unceremoniously carried off at Los Angeles International Airport.

Another classic, retold to me by poet Jock Scot, a long time drinking compadre of Shane's, involved a helicopter, Ascot and a primary school playing field full of kids.

Jock had convinced Channel 4 that, for their forthcoming documentary on Shane, it would make a welcome change to get him out of the much overused barroom scenario and into a different environment. So what else did the Poet Laureate of Life's Downtrodden enjoy almost as much as drinking? Horse racing. Shane loved a flutter on the ponies. Getting him out of North London and up to Ascot was going to be a problem though, but this was seemingly overcome by the novelty of a helicopter ride courtesy of Channel 4 and accommodation in a nearby stately home owned by some debutante types of Jock's acquaintance, making it seem more of an occasion. It had been arranged with the headmaster of a local primary school to allow the helicopter to land in the school playing fields the Saturday morning in question.

So far so good. But come Saturday morning, MacGowan was nowhere to be found, certainly not in his house or any of his regular haunts. He'd been out 'on one' for at least the previous 24 hours. Countless calls later, he'd been located in some uncharacteristic area of London, holed up in a boozer, claiming he couldn't be arsed with the Ascot nonsense any more. He was gonna need some gentle persuasion.

What Jock and various others (no strangers to obstacles such as this) decided on, was to play him at his own game, by pretending to join him on a marathon spirits session and, when they thought he was guttered enough, suggest a meet up with some other friends in another bar, in the vicinity of the designated helicopter takeoff point.

Anyway, I digress, they finally got him into the copter, almost comatose by this time, but what they hadn't reckoned on was that the headmaster of the school had arranged for the whole school to turn out as a welcoming committee for the visiting dignitary Jock had mentioned would be arriving. MacGowan had been going nuts inside the helicopter, causing the Channel 4 types to fear for their lives, and was now refusing to get out. Confusion reigned over the playing fields, but on sighting the first figures alighting from the helicopter, a huge cheer went up and hundreds of flags were waved with a passion.

This exuberant response began dwindling somewhat when the kids clicked that the two men were running away from them, instead of meeting their adoring public, and appeared to have a thrashing lunatic strapped into a stretcher between them. Confusion reigned once more, and the crowd finally dispersed, wondering what all the fuss had been about, none the wiser that they had just witnessed Ireland's finest in full fling, albeit the restrained version. Shane locked himself in his room for the whole weekend, refusing to even entertain the thought of the races and, unsurprisingly, the television programme never got made. Wouldn't have it any other way, Mr. MacGowan!

The fact that Shane MacGowan is still with us is nothing short of miraculous, and indeed testament to this almost immortal cast-iron constitution he's managed to construct over the years, which by now must be far closer to being elephantine than anything remotely resembling human.

And this, dear readers, is why several days largin' it with Mr. Magoo was never gonna be a stroll in the park.

....Continue the story with PART 2.

Check out ZIO's other blogs about Shane and The Pogues:

Irish Soul: Experiencing Shane MacGowan & The Pogues

Live Review: The Pogues @ Roseland Ballroom NYC 2009

Originally from Edinburgh, Scotland, Innes Reekie currently resides in Maida Vale, London.

Re-Action Recordings bleeds him white!

A freelance journalist for 15 years, his work has appeared in no less than 40 publications including NME, LOADED, GQ, The Observer, The Scotsman, Glasgow Herald and The Sunday Times. Primarily covering music, literature and film, he thrives on the challenge of confrontations with supposed difficult subjects who inhabit the darker side of life; Nick Cave, Shane McGowan and Bobby Gillespie being his unholy trinity of most interesting subjects to date.

He was once described on television as being, 'firstly a journalist, but foremost, a chronicler of urban decay' by Irvine Welsh's original publisher, Rebel Inc. It is a description he believes to be 'fairly accurate, although not one my mother is over-fond of quoting'.