Shane slurred out the first line in an Irish ballad tempo:

�It was Christmas eve, babe, in the drunk tank�,

Oh, I loved it already. The Nelson Algren in me was right there. What was fucking sadder (and nobler) than that � locked up on Christmas Eve. It got better:

�An old man said to me, won�t see another one -- but then they sang a song, the rare old mountain dew � I turned my face away, and dreamed about you.�

I�d already heard a couple of songs from the album, �If I Should Fall from Grace with God�, by the Pogues, including the title track which was a cracker. A friend of mine had lent me the cd, probably mid 90s. The song continued, the narrator in his cell remembering:

�Got on a lucky one, came in eighteen to one � I�ve got a feeling, this year�s for me and you � So happy Christmas, I love you baby � I can see another one, where all our dreams come true.�

It�s a song of big talk and hope that crashes into bitter disillusionment as the once young and vibrant couple, on the loose in New York, step back and look at each other through the years. It�s sung as a duet between Shane MacGowan and the wonderful Kirsty MacColl, trading lines:

�You�re handsome, you�re pretty, queen of New York City, when the band finished playing they called out for more � Sinatra was swinging, all the drunks they were singing � we kissed on a corner and danced through the night.�

But then it darkens, as nothing they�d dreamed materialized:

Her: �You�re a bum, you�re a punk�
Him: �You�re an old slut on junk, lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed�
Her: �You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot � Happy Christmas my arse, I pray God it�s our last�

This, I�m thinking, is both the saddest and most beautiful song I�ve ever heard. The couple ends the song, not on an up note but managing to find a weary and resigned peace, still clinging to each other by the last verse.

When �Fairy Tale� came out in 1987, it went to #2 on the UK charts, kept out of the top spot by some forgettable tune by �The Pet Shop Boys�(where the fuck are they, now??). Tragically, in 2000, Kirsty MacColl was killed in a boating accident, which lends an even stronger sense of melancholy when listening to it these days. It�s become a tradition for me to play it every Christmas, several times, and it cuts through all the faux glitter and phony holiday sentiment. The chorus from back in the jail cell is uplifting throughout:

�And the boys of the NYPD choir were singing Galway Bay � and the bells were ringing out on Christmas Day�.

Marc Goldin currently lives in Chicago, with three cats, each one more long-haired than the last. Interests have ranged from medieval monasticism to discontinued stations on the London Underground � literary likes too diverse (some would say schizo) to list here although the last several years have been witness to an intimacy with Scottish and Irish literature. American Southern and Beat era lit also account for some of the �missing years�. Music tastes run the gamut from Cuban Danzon to Ska (all three waves but having a specific attachment to the second, two-tone period) to the Tuvan throat singers. Has written book reviews for a now defunct Irish literature site and has several short stories in various stages of development. Mad for black and white photography and aspires to someday have a complete collection of photos documenting every close in the Grassmarket area of Edinburgh. Works in the IT dept. of a French company in the current political climate. In football, supports Chelsea, Hibs, and for the sake of employment security, Marseille. For more articles and reviews by Marc on The New Review, click here.

© 2006 Laura Hird All rights reserved.