Very many years ago I went to see the Pogues some place in Belfast. Whitla Hall? Hard to remember. What I do remember is that I found my 30-something self in the midst of a frenzied crowd of much younger people (mostly male) jumping up and down in such a way that I was in danger of losing my footing and being pogoed to death. My ex-husband pulled me out of the melee and (I suppose) saved my life. Thanks Mick. He and his beloved were supposed to be staying with us for a few days but were forced to cancel due to health concerns. We will see them at Easter.
So we spent an hour or so this evening watching Crock of Gold: A Few Rounds with Shane MacGowan. I liked it. Seemed fitting. I was neither shocked nor sad to hear that Shane had died. Surprised, considering his health issues, that he'd lasted this long.
Way back, probably during some summer in the 80s, living in Ballykeel 2, I'd listen to the first two Pogues albums, windows open, daring my Loyalist neighbours to be offended by the trad Irish-ish. If they'd come to my door, I imagined myself saying, for fucks sake, they've been on The Old Grey Whistle Test. That is part of MacGowan's legacy for, to some extent, he gave us back our music.