8. The Pogues - A Fairytale of New York
When A Fairytale of New York first came out at the end of November 1987, about 3 million MTV and VH1 plays ago and back when the word arse was more likely to be bleeped out than faggot, it was a no-brainer ideal choice of Christmas present for the waitress I fancied at The Beefeater. Liz Marah hated everything we played in the kitchen and caused my attraction to waver no end with a confession that her favourite band was The Beastie Boys, but having Irish parentage meant that The Pogues would prove to be a safe bet if I was to buy her any music. Plus, it was only about £1.50, so a minimal financial risk as well. It didn't actually work in terms of securing a date (not a proper one anyway), at least not for another year when she asked me to go out with her on (ironically enough)Christmas Eve, which I did, but had lost interest by then after too long wallowing in a futile state of infatuation during my time at The Beefeater (so that wasn't a proper one either.)
That is merely incidental to the more significant links to this song. At the time I revelled in my Irish heritage, like everyone else with any tends to. In the film, My Big Fat Greek Wedding (years later), the Dad says that there are two types of people - Greeks and people who want to be Greek. I think the same could be said of the Irish. And for a couple of years, I wanted to be more Irish than I was (before that, I wanted to be more Greek than I was) which was in mathematical terms, if indeed you can apply maths to ethnic or national origin, one quarter. Many of my mates had Irish parents, but were born in London, which kind of screws with the whole fractions thing (half Irish or fully Irish but born in Britain?). Together we embraced Irish music with a hunger fuelled not merely by our heritage, but by those things that appeal to boys aged 16-19 - fast music that you can dance to in a manly and manic way, busy pubs full of people eager to talk to each other, copious amounts of beer (or Guinness, although after three of those you feel like you've had a big meal and your poo comes out looking like the sea around the Exxon Valdez) and a chance to align yourself with an ethically justifiable, rebellious underdog, which is how I saw Ireland in the context of its historical relations with Britain.
Other than seeing The Pogues in concert at that time - I say 'see' but you don't really see a lot of the stage while you're wildly whirling arm in arm with your mates and strangers beneath a rainstorm of thrown lager - we all got our weekly fix of Irish music and craic in The Archway Tavern. Our favourite band were Dingle Spike - more traditional than The Pogues and without the latter's punkier sensibilities, but then it was a Thursday night.
The following year, I turned up at university parading my (quarter) Irishness with a tricolour badge on my denim jacket and a flag in my room, keen to reassure people that I sympathised with the cause and not the methods of Republicanism (The Archway fostered similar sentiments, but few contributed to the bloke with the black eye who collected for the 'boys back home' with his tricolour emblazoned charity box.) Given that one of my first close mates at university was a Protestant from Northern Ireland, I was very vocal in giving that reassurance. It was fine, he kindly tolerated my naïve and removed view of the situation in his homeland and turned out to be my first dance partner there, when during the freshers' disco in hall, the dancefloor cleared as The Pogues came on and he and I recreated what I've just described from one of their gigs.
On top of all this, I read nothing but Irish history and novels at this time and made sure I'd make a visit to the Archway each time I visited home (which was every two weeks to coincide with Arsenal home games.)
Between buying Liz A Fairytale of New York and meeting my wife 3 years later, I visited New York twice and stayed with Irish relatives each time. New York turned out to be the common ground when I first starting talking to Jen (as she'd spent some time there, babysitting her nephew) and just a fraction over a year after that, I took her to the Archway Tavern on... wait for it... Christmas Eve and after a mate jokingly got the band to play Dirty Old Town (covered by The Pogues, of course) for 'Mike and Jenny who got engaged tonight', I decided on the back of a mere 5 pints of lager that I might as well ask. So after closing, outside the Tavern, next to the kebab van, I got down on one knee and she said yes.
As opposed to 'you cheap lousy faggot'.
That is merely incidental to the more significant links to this song. At the time I revelled in my Irish heritage, like everyone else with any tends to. In the film, My Big Fat Greek Wedding (years later), the Dad says that there are two types of people - Greeks and people who want to be Greek. I think the same could be said of the Irish. And for a couple of years, I wanted to be more Irish than I was (before that, I wanted to be more Greek than I was) which was in mathematical terms, if indeed you can apply maths to ethnic or national origin, one quarter. Many of my mates had Irish parents, but were born in London, which kind of screws with the whole fractions thing (half Irish or fully Irish but born in Britain?). Together we embraced Irish music with a hunger fuelled not merely by our heritage, but by those things that appeal to boys aged 16-19 - fast music that you can dance to in a manly and manic way, busy pubs full of people eager to talk to each other, copious amounts of beer (or Guinness, although after three of those you feel like you've had a big meal and your poo comes out looking like the sea around the Exxon Valdez) and a chance to align yourself with an ethically justifiable, rebellious underdog, which is how I saw Ireland in the context of its historical relations with Britain.
Other than seeing The Pogues in concert at that time - I say 'see' but you don't really see a lot of the stage while you're wildly whirling arm in arm with your mates and strangers beneath a rainstorm of thrown lager - we all got our weekly fix of Irish music and craic in The Archway Tavern. Our favourite band were Dingle Spike - more traditional than The Pogues and without the latter's punkier sensibilities, but then it was a Thursday night.
The following year, I turned up at university parading my (quarter) Irishness with a tricolour badge on my denim jacket and a flag in my room, keen to reassure people that I sympathised with the cause and not the methods of Republicanism (The Archway fostered similar sentiments, but few contributed to the bloke with the black eye who collected for the 'boys back home' with his tricolour emblazoned charity box.) Given that one of my first close mates at university was a Protestant from Northern Ireland, I was very vocal in giving that reassurance. It was fine, he kindly tolerated my naïve and removed view of the situation in his homeland and turned out to be my first dance partner there, when during the freshers' disco in hall, the dancefloor cleared as The Pogues came on and he and I recreated what I've just described from one of their gigs.
On top of all this, I read nothing but Irish history and novels at this time and made sure I'd make a visit to the Archway each time I visited home (which was every two weeks to coincide with Arsenal home games.)
Between buying Liz A Fairytale of New York and meeting my wife 3 years later, I visited New York twice and stayed with Irish relatives each time. New York turned out to be the common ground when I first starting talking to Jen (as she'd spent some time there, babysitting her nephew) and just a fraction over a year after that, I took her to the Archway Tavern on... wait for it... Christmas Eve and after a mate jokingly got the band to play Dirty Old Town (covered by The Pogues, of course) for 'Mike and Jenny who got engaged tonight', I decided on the back of a mere 5 pints of lager that I might as well ask. So after closing, outside the Tavern, next to the kebab van, I got down on one knee and she said yes.
As opposed to 'you cheap lousy faggot'.
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