My friend who works at this fancy bar in NYC ended up drinking with him all night once in his hotel room. My friend woke up with the worst hangover of his life. Shane was sitting in a chair with a glass of white wine in one hand and some gin in the other watching Law & Order and laughing.
Years ago, I worked as a barman in West London, and after closing time would generally make my way over to a great little pub -- now sadly a chocolatier's, apparently -- in Belgravia. Mr. MacGowan was a semi-regular there, so I'd seen him several times over the course of a few months before the night in question. Though I'd been a Pogues fan for years prior, I'd never approached him or said anything beyond polite chitchat if he happened to lean on the bar next to me while getting a pint.
On The Night of the Shoe-Pissing By a Drunken Musical Legend, I was upstairs at the urinal (I use the singular, as this was a proper old pub with a trough rather than individual porcelain bits as we're used to in North America), when lo and behold, the aforementioned Drunken Musical Legend wobbles over next to me, unzips, and begins to unleash. At first, he made solid contact on target, but gradually began to pivot.
All this time, I'm staring straight at the wall, as I do not, under any circumstances, wish to see Shane MacGowan's penis. Seriously, look at the man's teeth. I can't imagine what his junk looks like. The first inkling I have that anything's amiss is the sound and then feeling of piss splattering over my Chuck Taylors.
No sooner had the downpour begun than it ended, I hear him zip up and wobble back out the door (and no, he didn't wash up. Did you really think he would?)
I wipe off the shoes as best I could, washed my hands rather thoroughly, and went back to my seat at the bar.
"Shane MacGowan just pissed on my shoes," I tell the manageress, who was tending bar.
"Happens to every man around here eventually, mate," she replies.