As I prepared to leave the house to meet up with my pal Lindsay for the long awaited Shane and the Popes show, I had time for one last listen to "Hell's Ditch," before I grabbed my tickets and left for the Spectrum theatre in downtown Montreal.

    Arriving early for the show, there was the obvious crowd to be expected at a MacGowan gig: from the sixteen-year-old kids with Nipple Erectors T-shirts to the studded punks with two-tone Doc Martens, to the middle-aged diehard fanatics, as well as the better half of the Irish population of Montreal.

   Now the excitement that one pays for with a Shane MacGowan ticket has to do not only with seeing the manifestation of Irish misery in the flesh, but indeed whether or not he'll even show up for the gig, and if he does, will he make it through the set without catastrophe. And so we waited with baited breath, and whispered bets could be heard as to whether or not the man would show at all.

   Orealis opened for Shane and the Popes, playing all manner of traditional Irish and Scottish diddlies with a wah-wah pedal, and a lot of distortion guitar thrown in the mix, along with a combination of fiddles, flutes, whistles, percussion, keyboards, and bass guitar, which were responsible for blasting out Celtic soundscapes that unleashed within you the irresistable need to dance! They played a very tight set to warm up the anxious masses, and their full-on creative energy was much appreciated by all. I only wish they could have played longer.

   Expectedly, the headlining lads took their sweet time coming out, keeping the crowd in suspense as to whether or not the show would go on. Unbridled chanting of "SHANE! SHANE! SHANE! WE WANT SHANE!" was the only way the crowd could express their anticipation for his arrival. Anyway, about half an hour later, Shane comes stumbling out on stage followed by his bandmates, the Popes, who break instantly into a rendition of If I Should Fall from Grace with God with Shane singing brilliantly well and extremely coherently, despite his charmingly inebriated state.

   Rowdy from the start, not only was it a tight set from all band members, MacGowan included, but Shane's showmanship was tiptop. Shane was up there dancing, smoking, shouting, leering, drinking, and even speaking French! He was also kicking over the microphone stand and having beer fights with the audience, who had no qualms about drenching the man in booze. At one point, in middle of audience, who had no qualms about drenching the man in booze. At one point, in the middle of Streams of Whiskey, an entire cup of beer smacked Shane square in the chest, soaking him to the skin. Barely taking any notice, he simply shook himself off and sang even harder. His mellowed retaliation for the beverage bombardment he received was to drop kick empty beer cups into the front section or throw them right back at whoever launched one. Even Paul, the Popes lead singer, got in on the action and enjoyed himself by kicking over his mic stand again and again and again, just for the sheer pleasure of watching the roadie pick it up each time.

    It was a good energetic show from start to finish, and there was a great balance between Shane's antics and professional, well-played pure rock. The Popes have the advantage of being a talented and established group to begin with, so even if Shane isn't up to his legendary par, they are a band that can hold up a great show anyway. This particular night had everything working like a well-oiled machine.

   So after the show, I had heard from some friendly Americans that the Mahones were going to be playing at Hurley's Irish pub down on Crescent street, so we headed off there for a post-show pint in honour of an excellent MacGowan gig, as well as even more great music. The Mahones raised the roof with their tight "Irish traditional meets punkrock" set. This does relate to Shane MacGowan, I swear, just keep reading. So the Mahones had been playing steadily for a while, and decided to take a break while the pub started to empty out with the help of the pub owner and some big goons responsible for choosing who could stay past closing hour. As my friends, John, Steve, Keith, Linz and I had been chatting to the band throughout the set and dancing up a storm in the front section, they had told the goons that we could stay past close to watch them play some more.

   While I was hanging about waiting for them to start up again, I turned around to get a drink and Shane MacGowan was standing right behind me. Wow, this was more than I bargained for. Being fairly mobbed by those left in the pub who saw him, I decided not to bother him, and only watched him wade through the fans and personnel to a bench occupied by the Popes, and a few others. I was fortunate enough to have two encounters with Shane that evening. At one point, while enjoying a private concert from the Mahones, followed by the Popes and Paul MacGuinness's solo performance of Like A River off Holloway Boulevardthe whistle player from the Mahones, who I had met earlier that night called me over to the table where he was sitting with Shane.

   Plucking up my young nerves, I walked over and sat down across from Shane, being introduced by our mutual friend. We chatted mundanely about the show for a few minutes, and then I thought to myself how generally miserable he seemed. So just for a laugh, and a change from the usual chatter, I challenged him to an armwrestle. He didn't say anything at first, and then looked up at me, puzzled for a second, because I suppose it is an unusual request. Then I was quietly reassured, as the ghost of a smile appeared, and a laugh whistled through what rotten teeth remained, as he rolled up his sleeve and put his elbow on the table, meeting to challenge me to the armwrestle of a lifetime. After a couple of false starts that got him giggling a little, we fell into it----each of us winning one of our two battles of strength. Then we chatted a bit about cutting turf in Ireland, among other things, and he heartily shook my hand as I got up to return to my seat among various friends and acquaintances, not wanting to overstay my welcome with Shane.

   By this point the pub had been completely emptied out but for the bands and about 12 or 15 others, us included, and again we were elated to have another performance from the Mahones. A version of A Pair of Brown Eyeswas played at some point, followed by a few other songs, but by now it was about 5 o'clock in the morning, so I can't really remember the titles. However, despite the late hour, the pub was glowing with good cheer all round.

   At this point, Finny from the Mahones decided he had thoroughly exhausted his voice (he must have been singing on and off since about midnight), he held out his guitar at arm's length and asked if any one else wanted to play anything, not expecting any responses. Maybe it was the ridiculousness of the situation, or maybe it was the Guinness in the air, I can't say for sure what made me do it, but I got up from my seat at that moment and jokingly, asked Finny if he would let me play something, expecting a laugh and a patronizing denial of my request. Instead, to my dismay, his reaction was to strap his electric guitar on me and give me a genial introduction. Jesus, what have I done, I thought. Shane MacGowan and the Popes are five feet away, the Mahones and their pals are scattered about the room, and I've never played guitar or sang in front of anybody in my entire life. But then again, a chance like this doesn't come along everyday, so I broke into a rowdy version of Billy Bragg's Have or to Have Not, which onlookers, thankfully, got right into. A grand chorus of twenty drunken voices rose to sing along to 'just because I dress like this doesn't mean I'm a Communist,' and I can safely say I've never been happier to see smiling faces. I played a couple of other things, some Wilco, Clash, Billy Bragg, and then I started to play I'm a Man you don't Meet Everyday off of Rum, Sodomy and the Lash, not just because Shane MacGowan was watching, but because I absolutely love that song. Much to my incredulous dismay though, I could see Bobby, the Popes' bass player, getting up from his seat and walking toward me. A little confused as he approached, I continued to play the song, before I realized he had picked up his bass guitar and was playing along with me for the rest of the song!!

   When we finished (that must have been the longest four minutes of my life), we shook hands, and exchanged a hug and he suggested I come and chat to the band a bit longer. Still completely in shock from the accumulation of events, I agreed, and found myself sat next to Bobby on bass, and Andy Ireland, the drummer, chatting about everything from politics, to art, to Ian Dury and the Blockheads. Andy, the drummer, seemed genuinely dismal to the core, so I did my very best to cheer him up---cracking jokes, telling him he should smile cause its not that painful, and asking him about his family and life back home.

    My second encounter with Shane arrived when I was once again summoned to the end of the MacGowan table by the Mahones' whistle player, who pushed over to allow me to sit between him and Shane. This was a jovial exchange, and Shane seemed genuinely interested in making an effort to talk about all sorts of things, though we mostly discussed Billy Bragg, whereby Shane confided that he is a very decent bloke for whom he holds a lot of respect. He then asked me if I was in a band, which I laughed out loud about, because nothing could be farther from the truth, I only wish I was in a band! Anyway, there I sat next to Shane MacGowan while he nursed a pint of Whiskey, and spoke in a dry voice about touring with Billy Bragg, and the first time he saw the Sex Pistols and Motorhead live, and as seven o'clock rolled around, I decided it was probably time I went home and got some sleep, so I said my goodbyes all round, garnering a very sweet, solid and lengthy handshake, and a sloppy kiss on the cheek from Shane and the same from his bandmates.

   Closing the empty pub door behind me, I walked down Crescent Street hoping only to have made an impression that they can remember at least until the whiskey wears off. As Lindsay and I sat on the metro early Sunday morning, we rocked back and forth with the train and I smiled to myself humming some distant Pogues tune in my head.