A true story. It was the summer of 1987, June or July, and I was sat on a plane heading to JFK, for what would be my first visit to America. Also on the flight, by pure coincidence, was Philip Hall, a cooler-than-cool press officer who, when I was still less than a year into my job as news editor at the NME, had become a good friend as well as an invaluable contact, giving me exclusive stories that cemented my reputation as someone who was apparently pretty good at his job. He was in business class, but wandered down the aisle to the cheap seats to give me some of his champagne, and to thrust a cassette into my sweaty palm. “This is what The Pogues are putting out at Christmas,” he said. “Let me know what you think.” Thus, the first time I ever heard Fairytale Of New York, I was 30,000 feet over the Atlantic, just hours before seeing the city myself for the first time. We all know it’s one of the best festive tunes ever, but the thoughts and memories it stirs in me are particular, special, personal. Philip is no longer with us, and every time I hear the song I think of him, and how much I miss him. I also think of the song’s co-author, Shane MacGowan, and the times we hung out together at Filthy McNasty’s pub a few years later. Once, I boldly asked him how much money he made from royalties and PRS each year from this one song. He cackled like a phlegm-drenched chainsaw, and told me with great candour: “More than you’ll ever you see in your whole life, ya cunt.” Merry Christmas, everyone.
Posted on: Wed, 24 Dec 2014 23:11:13 +0000
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