Shane MacGowan
A no-brainer. Probably the most infamous of all still-living boozehounds. Alas, this great, bloated, slurring lump of a man is also an object lesson in the ravages of continual inebriation on the body and mind. He claims to have had his first Guinness at age five, and has had a drink in his hand more or less continually ever since. It has exacted a heavy price. Once one of his generation’s greatest songwriters, who effortlessly tossed off romantic ballads of rough-cut beauty, MacGowan’s talents have been dissipated by the drink, and he hasn’t recorded an original album in years. Exalt his songs, not his appetites.
Ozzy Osbourne
He pissed on the Alamo. He snorted a line of ants. He tried to strangle his wife. He recorded The Ultimate Sin. If whiskey is the devil, then the Prince of Fuckin’ Darkness was its slave for decades. Ozzy is back on the wagon now (after falling off a few times), but the stories from the time he was really in his cups will live in infamy. In 1980 he was self-aware enough to write “Suicide Solution” (“now you live inside a bottle, the reaper’s traveling at full throttle”), but does anyone think he could’ve come up with a gem like “Crazy Train” sober?
Oliver Reed
“I do not live in the world of sobriety,” the barrel-chested, potbellied actor famously averred. No indeed. This man’s man is rumored to have once quaffed 106 pints in 24 hours. (Think about that.) Wikipedia has him and 36 friends polishing off “60 gallons of beer, 32 bottles of Scotch, 17 bottles of gin, four crates of wine and one bottle of Babycham” during one evening’s revelry. And the Internet Movie Database offers the following anecdote about his last hours, in a pub in Malta near the set of Gladiator, his last film: “He died of a heart attack in a bar after downing three bottles of Captain Morgan’s Jamaica rum, eight bottles of German beer, numerous doubles of Famous Grouse whiskey, and beating five much younger Royal Navy sailors at arm-wrestling. His bar bill for that final lunch time totaled 270 Maltese lira, almost £450.”
Frank Kelly Rich
A self-professed functioning alcoholic (anywhere between eight and 30 drinks a day, he says), Mr. Rich is also a genius of sorts. Founder and publisher of Modern Drunkard magazine, his Denver-based media empire extols the virtues of heavy drinking in style, celebrating all aspects of the lush life. The former Army Ranger is dedicated to resurrecting the besotted golden age, the pre-hippie era of Bogie and the Rat Pack. His is a necessary fight. If you don’t think prohibition could happen again, you’re not paying attention. “This time they’re doing it more slowly,” Rich told this paper last fall. “They’re more wily about it. Drip by drip.”
David Wells
He was “half-drunk” when he pitched his perfect game in 1998. He was all-drunk in 2002 when he called 911 to report that he’d gotten two teeth knocked out by a “fucking Italian, little squatty-body motherfucker.” And perhaps he was also all-drunk when he tripped over a barstool at home two seasons ago, falling on a wine glass that severed a tendon in his right wrist and cut his left palm. (“I can’t lie,” he joked at the time. “I cut my wrists because I wasn’t getting any run support.”) He’s fat, loud, and opinionated, and he drinks to excess. He’s our kind of people. And he wants to stay with the Red Sox.
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Mike Miliard: mmiliard@phx.com
