Where e'er we go we celebrate/The land that makes us refugees: Partying with the Irish

This bloke liked last night's Pogues gig, and frankly, what is there not to like? The Pogues remain one of my favourite bands of all time, an irresistibly explosive Dubliners-meets-the-Clash sort of crossover, a fluctuating gaggle of superb musicians from guitarists to banjo players to saxophonists to tin whistlers (is that right?) supplying an endless repertoire of raucous Irish gloriousness, and fronted by a man so hedonistic he makes Amy Winehouse look like an amateur.

It has long fascinated me that Shane MacGowan isn't dead. Quite simply, his ability to remain on this earth is nothing short of a miracle, and i'm beginning to think he's actually invincible. Every year I find myself in the same queue, namely shivering my arse off in South London sleet a few days before Christmas while a surly security guard frisks me for goodness knows what, convinced this will be the last time I get to see him alive, and congratulating myself for getting onto See Tickets quickly enough to be here at all. But it never is. Whether he was at Brixton Academy in spirit with us last night remains to be seen, but he was (just about) there in body.

And last night he actually made it onto the stage unaided, if unsteadily. This is an improvement on last year, when, allegedly, the following conversation took place:
Shane: (getting out of the car) Where are we?
Minder Chappie: Brixton Academy.
Shane: Do I like it here?
Minder Chappie: Yes.
Shane: Good. When was I last here?
Minder Chappie: Yesterday.

Last year, he was guided firmly to the middle of the stage, his hand put on top of the microphone, and left there to growl something incomprehensible at the audience which I think ended with the word "fuck!"

"Shane says it's grand to see you," the banjo player translated helpfully.

Last night, Shane didn't even bother to say that, and nobody bothered to pretend, either. He gazed, swaying, into the crowd of bodies in front of him and every now and then mumbled out a song title. Every now and then he sang, too.

And this is where, for me, it all fell down. Admittedly Shane MacGowan isn't known for his dulcet tones, and he probably wouldn't last 5 minutes on the X Factor, but I've always been extremely impressed in the past that, in between his incomprehensible slurred ramblings, you can normally hear the lyrics, and the sound he makes, if a little unique, is always spot on. Last night you couldn't, and perhaps that's why, disappointingly, they let him wander off before "Thousands Are Sailing" (which is the greatest track of all time, no arguments) and left it to someone else to sing. Shane is prone to wandering off during sets, and i'd be intrigued to know how much of this is deliberately worked into the set to give him a rest (presumably some of it) and how much is impromtu. Whichever the case, we got noticably more instrumentals last night - which is fine with me - and the tone was altogether more folky than usual.


They're down there somewhere... It's hard to take a picture while jumping up and down

But aside from Shane's dubious performance, which just teetered on the right side of being what you'd expect from the Shane you know and love rather than being perhaps a little sad, this was, like all Pogues gigs I've been to, pretty awesome stuff. Their repertoire is simply superb, not to say timeless, which perhaps explains the somewhat bewhildering demographic in the audience, from teenagers in trendy boots to ageing punks to middle-aged Irishmen in green t-shirts spilling Guinness over their fellow fans, to white-haired crucifix-wearing ladies called Bernadette, all jumping up and down united in enjoyment to the cacophony from onstage. They moved effortlessly from the pure folk of The Irish Rover to the lyrical Thousands Are Sailing to the frenzied confusion of Fiesta (what's with the tea trays?) with plenty of the likes of If I Should Fall From Grace With God, Bottle of Smoke and Sally MacLennane in between (I did in face lose a fiver betting If I Should Fall would be the opener, but hey, you can't have everything.) By Fairytale, which is the moment each year when every Brixton-bound Pogues fan knows Christmas has really begun, even those squeamish enough to have booked seats rather than entrusting themselves to the pulsating mass of Guinness-swilling bodies downstairs had long got to their feet to join in. A nervous-looking girl destined to be forever anonymous on account of not being called Kirsty came onstage for this grand finale and sang pretty well, but it wouldn't have mattered if she'd mimed because 5000 drunk people of tenuously Irish origin were enthusiastically drowning her out. An over-excited chap in a "Look them in the eye and say Pogue Mahone" shirt with teeth to rival Shane's turned round and tried to waltz with me, which was a little difficult given the row of seats in between us and the fact he could no longer stand without help; glittering bits of paper fell from an unidentifiable spot somewhere in the ceiling. And then it was all over. We made use of the queue-free toilets (this is by far the best reason to have VIP tickets) and fell out into the freezing night, sliding unsteadily towards the tube and trying not to trip over the hoards of chancers flogging a variety of vaguely Pogues-related t-shirts and other memorabilia.

OK, re-reading what I've written, yes, it was amazing. It always is. Not as good as last year, perhaps, but pretty exhilirating, feelgood stuff nonetheless. Shane, try not to die before next Christmas, love. We'd miss you.