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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.

If you missed them, here's PART 1 and PART 2.

And now, the final chapter....

Part 3

The following day starts badly, very badly and unpleasantly sets the tone for what's to come. I awake on Shakey's settee, soaken wet and shaking. Being somewhat unsure of my surroundings, I sit bolt upright in an alcoholic panic, and that sends bastard great tidal waves of nausea sweeping through my body. I make it to the bathroom just in time, retching what appears to be gallon after gallon of burning fluid from the pit of my stomach. I repeat this exercise around a dozen times before we all meet up again to attempt to reach the Emerald Isle. I feel thoroughly wretched, and that's after just one night in the man's company.

That evening, unsurprisingly, the mood is somewhat more subdued, and any attempts at communication with Shane are initially responded to in the monosyllabic. For some reason, Shakey's managed to fly club class, which leaves me stuck between Shane and Victoria. Once he tires of trying to give away the ending of the book Victoria's reading, he kind of nods off mid-sentence and falls asleep on my shoulder until we land. No interview tonight then.

After a bumpy taxi ride with the heater full on, which needless to say, does wonders for my fragile state of health, we finally arrive in Silvermines, Tipperary. We're made extremely welcome by Shane's parents, Morris and Therese, who are obviously over the moon to see the return of their wayward offspring in one piece, albeit clutching a half empty bottle of wine he'd cracked open in the taxi en route. 'Has Noel phoned?' he immediately shouts, undaunted at the barrage of pleasantries leveled in his direction. 'We've got to meet him in the pub.'

'But he's babysitting until midnight, cos Mary's out working,' his mum replied.

'Yeah, but we gotta meet him now!'

'But he's in the house and he can't go out and leave the baby until Mary gets home.'

'But he's organised a lock-in at the pub so we can get a late drink.'

Shane disappears from the room while his dad sorts us all out with drinks. In a moment, Shane's back in a hell of a state, 'The fuckin' coke! The fuckin' coke! Quick someone, do somethin', the coke's fallen down the bog! For fuck's sake sort it out!'

'What is it! I thought you'd finished with all this narcotics nonsense,' Therese replies sternly, but calmly.

'I have! It's not fuckin' narcotics! It's fuckin' coke! We gotta get it out and dry it out!'

At this point, Shane's younger sister, Siobhan, arrives and takes charge like the seasoned veteran in these matters she most probably is. Totally unfazed, she manages to retrieve the bag from the toilet and pour it into a clean grill pan, casually laying it in front of the open fire to dry out.

Meanwhile we all sit around watching The Late Late Show, supping our Guinness, while Colombia's greatest export is returned to its former glory, in front of the blazing fire and surrounded by Christmas decorations, as if it is the most natural, pre-festive scenario in the world. Shakey and I may have exchanged a furtive glance or two. I don't really remember. Following that mini-disaster, Noel phones from the pub and suddenly everything in Shane's world is okay again. The coke has been returned to an acceptable state and Noel's in the pub, which in turn, has decided to stay open late for a select few, in honour of Tipperary's greatest son.

We finally get to The Kiwi Bar in Nenagh's High Street, and sure enough there's a serious lock-in going on in a bar half the size of Shane's folks' front room. There are banjos and guitars and what I would usually describe as a night with great potential on the cards, but I just don't seem to be able to muster any reserves of strength to be up for this particular craic. I try a pint, and almost immediately throw it up, and spend the remainder of the night/morning sitting in a corner wishing I was in a comfortable bed. Talk about letting yourself down in the wrong company.

The drinking and singing is relentless, and finally, even in my advanced state of misery, something happens which forces me from my corner to witness. Shane who, when I last clocked him, had his head in very close proximity to the surface of the bar, has been cajoled by those around him, and in particular a pretty young girl with a lovely Irish singing voice, to do the festive thing and give us a rendition of that Christmas song, the most beautiful one ever written, which taking on board last year's tragic events, has become even more poignant than ever.

Curiosity more than anything, hauls my carcass from the corner I'd made my own, not thinking for one minute Shane is going to even get past the first verse. But eyes closed, and very unsteady on his feet, he rises, and with beautiful banjo and bodhran accompaniment, he exceeds all expectation, and so indeed does his young partner-in-crime. It is faultless, it is perfect, and it is beautiful, even moreso than the record if that's possible, and I can't really take in at that moment the fact that I have just witnessed something bordering on the legendary. In a small bar, along with maybe twenty or so other people, in his hometown, I have just watched one of the greatest songwriters of my generation perform a rendition of one of his most classic compositions. Fuck me, this was humbling indeed! I was even more misty-eyed and speechless than I had been previously. This alone made everything worthwhile, the rest seemed irrelevant.

Shane's mate Noel, a top guy by the way, is fucking paneled, but nevertheless insists on driving us the five miles back to Shane's folks, and once there, becomes embroiled in yet another drinking session with Shane, who is showing no sign of letting up. For Shakey and myself, it's Goodnight Tipperary.

I awake at Noon. Shakey will be halfway across The Irish Sea by now, having gone up to Carney Commons (a great old house which has been in Therese's family for centuries, full of beautiful religious icons, and where The Popes used to rehearse at one point), with Shane to do some photographs.

I kind of expected Shane to return mid-afternoon in the vain hope that we could at least do some of the interview, but I climbed Silvermines Mountains with Victoria, had a coupla pints and a late lunch with her and Siobhan in The Hibernian Bar, drove out to Carney Commons and sat through most of Saturday evening's TV entertainment before he finally returns to drag me back off to Jamsies Bar close to closing time. We have a coupla drinks in there, and then we try to locate Noel, which shouldn't have been too difficult considering we were in his house last night at some point. For some reason the fact that there are two number thirties in the same street make this somewhat more of a task than it ought to have been.

We do much the same as the previous night, only it’s a more restrained affair, and I manage to last the pace. It's Shane who succumbs to exhaustion this time, passing out on me in he taxi home. He awakes long enough to pour some drinks, but by the time I've located my recorder to get something down on tape, he's fast asleep in the chair, breathing deeply.

I begin thinking about this elusive interview when suddenly I notice his breathing has stopped altogether. It was definitely more audible before. I think about what he'd told me about Victoria doing and reach over and thump him in the chest. He tenses, his eyes open then close, and his breathing starts up again gradually maintaining its regularity. Christ, and here's me worrying about a fucking interview!

I leave for London the following morning. Shane has decided to catch a later flight, so we'll do the interview in his local, Filthy McNasties, at nine-thirty that evening. I was aware that Victoria was heading up to Dublin to see her family that day, and although I'm not saying he's completely averse to our interview, I do think there's a million and one other things that would take precedence.

Even so, back in London with no place to crash and having watched my last train to Edinburgh leave, I'm still standing knocking back double Jacks and Coke in Filthy's at closing time on a rainy night in Islington. In fact, I'm doing just what Shane does every night of the week in this self-same bar, except this one of course.

Cheers Shane, wherever you are, "Fairytale" alone made it all worthwhile!

Check out ZIO's other blogs about Shane MacGowan 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'.