Years ago, I was assigned to be the MC for a Pogues concert at the old Masonic Temple in Toronto. The show got off to a late start–as usual–while the rest of the band waited for Shane McGowan to show up. When he finally did–dragged towards the stage by a handler–it was wisely decided that it would be best to get Shane onstage and singing before he couldn’t. He was, of course, in his cups. Deep in his cups.
As the handler hauled Shane past me at a distance of at least a dozen feet, I could smell the alcohol. Not just a little whiff but a full on snootful. It as if someone had shoved me into a toilet bowl full of Jameson’s.
Now we can all enjoy this experience thanks to the introduction of Pogues Whiskey. At “three years and a day,” it’s not going to be the smoothest shot you’ll ever have, but I have a feeling that wasn’t a concern.
I’m not sure what that last line means, but it’s probably something very rude in Gaelic. If I’m not mistaken, it’s “Kiss my…something.” (Via Tom)