Thousands are sailing... a song for our times. RIP Phil Chevron

'And I never even got so far that they could change my name...'


I break my long silence on this godforsaken blog to post that song, due to the tragic news today that its writer, The Pogues' Phil Chevron, lost his long battle with cancer, aged just 56.

I mean seriously what kind of fucking godforsaken world is this when Phil Chevron is taken from us yet Robin Thicke lives? A severely fucked-up world is the answer. A severely fucked up world indeed.

I am extremely glad I had the immense pleasure of seeing the pretty much "classic" Pogues line up in Sydney last year. It was an amazing night, I couldn't believe my eyes -- there on stage was these legendary figures from another, glorious era, who created an entire new genre of their own. And Phil Chevron stepped up to sing "Thousands Are Sailing" while Shane McGowan staggered off stage to refill his drink.

I put the full words to "Thousands Are Sailing" below, coz it is not just a great song, but fucking goddamn poetry. And its story of forced emigration -- specifically about Irish emigration to America -- is just really fucking relevant. And the tragic dying trying to reach safety is really fucking relevant, from the horrific death of 363 (at last count) who died trying to reach Italy to the goddamn hellhole of *THIS* so-called country where the authorities make of point of letting asylum seekers die.

SO FUCK YOU TONY ABBOTT, FUCK ALL THE RACIST POLITICIANS WHO KILL THE DESPERATE MAY YOU ALL ROT IN THE DEEPEST, DARKEST, HOTTEST RECESSES OF HELL! NOW JUST READ PHIL'S WORDS COZ THEY ARE GREAT!


Thousands are sailing

The island it is silent now
But the ghosts still haunt the waves
And the torch lights up a famished man
Who fortune could not save

Did you work upon the railroad
Did you rid the streets of crime
Were your dollars from the White House
Were they from the five and dime

Did the old songs taunt or cheer you
And did they still make you cry
Did you count the months and years
Or did your teardrops quickly dry

Ah, no, says he, ‘twas not to be
On a coffin ship I came here
And I never even got so far
That they could change my name

Thousands are sailing
Across the western ocean
To a land of opportunity
That some of them will never see
Fortune prevailing
Across the western ocean
Their bellies full
Their spirits free
They’ll break the chains of poverty
And they’ll dance

In Manhattan’s desert twilight
In the death of afternoon
We stepped hand in hand on Broadway
Like the first man on the moon

And “the blackbird” broke the silence
As you whistled it so sweet
And in Brendan Behan’s footsteps
I danced up and down the street

Then we said goodnight to Broadway
Giving it our best regards
Tipped our hats to Mister Cohen
Dear old times square’s favorite bard

Then we raised a glass to JFK
And a dozen more besides
When I got back to my empty room
I suppose I must have cried

Thousands are sailing
Again across the ocean
Where the hand of opportunity
Draws tickets in a lottery
Postcards we’re mailing
Of sky-blue skies and oceans
From rooms the daylight never sees
Where lights don’t glow on christmas trees
But we dance to the music
And we dance

Thousands are sailing
Across the western ocean
Where the hand of opportunity
Draws tickets in a lottery
Where e’er we go, we celebrate
The land that makes us refugees
From fear of priests with empty plates
From guilt and weeping effigies
And we dance





'The island it is silent now, but the ghosts still haunt the waves ' Phil Chevron sings his song.

RAISE A BEER, YOU GODDAMN BASTARDS.

‘Filthy and full of drunk losers ... A complete dive’

This is my first post and my first piece of advice as part of an alcoholic’s guide to modern life is you need to find yourself a good home.


For me there is no question: it is the Shannon Hotel in Chippendale (inner-inner city Sydney).

A lovely review of this delightful drinking hole can be found here

Some of the comments posted include:

"What a miserable place. Filthy and full of drunk losers..."

"A complete dive. Full of pissed middle aged yobos."

"Full of sleazy barman [sic] and low life sad, insecure alcoholic punters."

and

"Great place for squatters!"

But some of the comments are negative.

In other words, it is a fucking great place for your modern alcoholic to get away from the mobs of marauding young people with their pierced toenails and stupid ring tones, and enjoy a decent drink.

There is nothing worse than trying to enjoy the process of getting drunk surrounded by large numbers of people who are a thousand times more attractive and cooler than you. It is simply distracting.

The Shannon presents no such problems. It is a pub that, trying to be nice, the best thing the reviewer can say about it is it has its own dartboard.

But it is a good dart board, and most importantly, almost always available.

It is an Irish pub, which is defined as one in which the bar manager is always drunk. Paddy, god bless his soul, is no exception. Ever.

He is the only bar manager I have ever seen be thrown out of his own pub. When asked about the incident later, he claimed he wasn't being ejected, merely helped to the door.

And anti-smoking laws remain a "nice theory" within the Shannon's walls.

This, no doubt, makes me a "sad, low life alcoholic". I can only hope so.

At least the rest of you bastards are not getting under my fucking feet when I am trying to down my umpteenth schooner and aim for the general vicinity of the dartboard.

All that said, I do have to confess that if I was to offer one point of constructive criticism, it would be that perhaps The Shannon Hotel could be improved by, maybe, the occasional cleaning of the toilets.

Just a suggestion.