Saturday afternoon: it's a bright, dry day and the leaves continue to fall, softening the city. Nonetheless, smartly dressed members of the chattering classes choose to relax in a busy Dublin hotel. Meanwhile, a knowing group of journalists and photographers has turned waiting in a bar into a comic vigil. No one is complaining, but time is passing and - surprise, surprise - still no sign of singer Shane MacGowan. Three telephone messages have been passed on, "he's on his way" - each message is greeted with laughter. More jokes.

A tall man, presumably another rock journalist, announces "everything is under control, I'm buying Guinness for everyone". The interview-queue is already long. Seasoned rock journalists are not worried and smile at me, the anxious rookie. This "will-he, won't-he show up?" is part of the routine. Such are the capricious, off-stage antics upon which rock legends are partly constructed.

An hour passes. The banter is continuing. It seems everyone is involved. After a couple of false alarms the cry "he's here" goes up and a small stampede moves into the front lobby. The porters are unimpressed, they've seen it all before. A youngish, pale-faced, vaguely-bearded man shuffles in, accompanied by a short, busy character who seems to be checking the exits and chants "everything is cool, everything is cool". MacGowan's dazed face is momentarily marked by a sense of purpose. An inner radar is directing him towards the bar. The band of reporters and hangers-on follows. Onlookers are divided between disapproval and amusement.

At a small table, his back to the bar, MacGowan prepares to hold court. Heavier than expected, his feet moving as if in weighted boots, he has lost his waif's look. His face is puffier, his skin waxy and unlined, his nose swollen, the famous assortment of broken teeth on display. "He's got a belly," one devotee observes sadly. Considering the twilight zone MacGowan inhabits, comments about his weight seem spectacularly irrelevant.

Shortly after appearing to have settled himself, his drinks plural on the way, he slowly rises to his feet and wanders off to the men's room. It's turning into a long visit. Three smiling Englishmen are curious. "Why are you hanging about then?" Lurking outside a men's room is an awkward occupation - awkward enough to make one feel obliged to explain one's reasons. "He's in there, all right. We saw him," confirms one of the trio. "Oh, do you know him? Could you ask him to come out?" They suggest they should be interviewed instead: "I used to play the drums," says one, helpfully. More laughter. There's a touch of Candid Camera about the proceedings, which are proving embarrassing. MacGowan reappears and shuffles towards the wrong bar. Realising his mistake, he deftly reverses and heads back. Cameras begin to click. Show-time.

Interviewing rock stars is supposed to be different, or so some rock journalists maintain. So different, in fact, that it must put pressure on singers who don't feel like clambering over the furniture, shouting at the interviewer, or simply refusing to speak.

Image is all. There are the sulkers and the pouters and the "don't ask me that" prima donnas, but the wilder and weirder the better. Of course, an increasing number of big stars favour a more philosophical approach nowadays - hence, an audience with Sting tends to focus on his pre-ordained mission to save the world rather than discussing trends in modern music. Shane MacGowan, however, resides in a happily anaesthetised world of his own.

There is no sulking, no tantrum, no messianic vision, not much gravitas either. He is simply, to use his own phrase, "out of it". Or is he? Regarded as a genius and a rock icon, his lyrics are powerful, often moving and evocative. Cultural commentators have decided he is the spokesman of the London Irish. All of which could be true - but while admirers revere MacGowan, most eulogies end with predictable lamentations of regret about drink and God knows what else. "Alas, poor fucker," intones a man in a three-piece suit.

Lids drooping over eyes that seldom open fully, and frequently close completely, MacGowan is pleased to recognise some of those present. He is asked if he regards the Spice Girls as his main challenge for a Christmas number one: "Naw, it's between me and Daniel O'Donnell." He laughs, everyone laughs. His hands are shaking and he continues drinking, smoking; drinking, smoking. And I'm selfishly fretting in case he passes out before it's my turn. But MacGowan maintains a steady too-drunk-to-walk-but-sober-enough-to-listen-to-questions demeanour. This is his preferred mode of existence and is also an effective way of maintaining a distance. Whether drunk or very drunk, he seems to have long decided which questions he will answer and which ones he doesn't hear.

Attempting to interview him leaves me feeling like a voyeuristic combination of coroner and detective. Among the several ironies at play is that if this man were not a famous rock star it is unlikely the hotel management would have allowed him the freedom of the premises. I keep reminding myself that he hasn't been in an accident - at least not today. His attitude though is more sympathetic than I expected.

Does he feel Irish? I ask him. "Of course, I am Irish," he stresses in his slurred but strong south London accent. "I was born here. It's where I'm happy." His songwriting is easy to explain. "My people are storytellers. There's that word, seanchai," he enjoys saying it. "I come from that world of seanchai and storytellers." For all the stories about his stage fright which suggest he needs to be drunk in order to sing, does he actually enjoy performing? "I do, it's gas. I'm used to it." Pause. "I've been performing all my life. When I was a kid, three or four, I was up on the table back home in Tipperary, singing for the relatives." His clouded blue eyes open and he says matter-of-factly: "It's easy to get going and sing, perform, when there's a whole lot of people watching you and responding."

MacGowan was born in north Tipperary on Christmas Day in 1957. He is the elder of two children: his sister is five years younger. "My extended family is huge, but the immediate one is very small." The MacGowan family story is not one of desperate poverty. "My father was a clerical worker, my mother was a typist in a convent. There were no building sites. My mother comes from farming people in Tipperary. My father's from Dublin."

MacGowan says the problems began when he left Ireland. The family emigrated when he was "about six or seven". Was it exciting? "No. I didn't want to go. I hated leaving. We lived in Brighton at first. It's a terrible place. Know what I mean like, always cold and windy, really cold and always grey."

The man who had earlier been describing himself as a provider of Guinness, butts in and sympathises with MacGowan over the Brighton weather. The man is not a journalist: "I woke up in London and decided I wanted to drink Guinness in Dublin today. So here I am." MacGowan looks at him briefly and then seems to forget his presence and continues to speak of Brighton's cold: "Much worse than in Ireland".

School proved a nightmare. "I had an Irish accent. Therefore I got my head kicked in. I hated going to school. I got rid of my Irish accent and now I have this one. I hate it."

Various misadventures led to his expulsion at 14. But MacGowan always read. "Not Enid Blyton and Biggles - even when I was a kid, I wasn't interested in that. I read Irish myths and stories. Later I read Flann O'Brien, James Joyce and James Stephens." When he says he is self-educated, there is nothing defiant about it, it is offered merely as a statement of fact. His new album is called The Crock Of Gold, presumably after Stephens's novel. "Yeah, it's great . . . it's a brilliant book. I think the thing I've always loved about O'Brien is that he comes from Stephens and Joyce." How does he feel about the new album? "I like it, it's good. Know what I mean, like?"

Two of the fingers of his right hand are covered in blood, but his hand isn't cut. The blood is coming from his nose in a steady, thick, slow drip. Out of school with nothing to do, he admits he was bored and the music of the 1970s was also boring. "I was the original punk, the first of the punks," he says with the slight wonderment of an elderly gent remembering having served at the Somme. He says he has a strong sense of history and knows his Irish history - the Irish version, not the English. "I know my world history as well," he says.

The theme of emigration is a constant in MacGowan's songs, plotting the triangle between Ireland, England and the US. Is he interested in the wider European story about emigrating to America? "No, it's not my experience . . . well, I am interested in it as history, but for me personally, I know about it, but I don't know it. The story I know is Ireland to England; Ireland to America."

He says his response to history is an emotional one. "It's about human stories, people's lives . . . " - aware his point is understood, he drifts into silence. Suddenly he remarks: "My songs are gentle - well, the ballads are, and the angry ones are fast, aggressive. Depends on my mood, know what I mean, like?"

How did his song about the sand dune burials in Mayo come about? "I was up there, near Louisburgh, when I was about 18 or 19 with some mates and I heard the story about people burying their dead there on the beach during the Famine times. They had no earth to bury their dead - think of it. The place was eerie, the atmosphere was kind of foul, dank . . . all these bones lying about. I'll never forget the place."

I mention I heard the song being sung by Ronnie Drew. MacGowan smiles. Does he still have a high regard for the Dubliners? "Yeah, they're very important. They played traditional songs and kept them famous." MacGowan has also recorded many of their songs - "well, songs they've also recorded. The Dubliners didn't write no songs," he stresses - and confirms he is planning to record Raglan Road. "I won't sound halfways as good as Luke Kelly. He was a great," he says. Of his voice MacGowan remarks: "I don't think I'm much of a singer. But I can write songs." It is obvious his departure from The Pogues still bothers him. What happened? "They became egomaniacs and wanted to be rock stars. I just wanted to keep on playing Irish music." The Dubliners injected an element of protest into their songs, does MacGowan see his London-Irish version of Irish music as having a particularly nationalistic defiance? "No, it's not defiant. It might have been before, I mean ages ago when the Irish were in a ghetto, but no, I think it's more celebratory. Celebrating a tradition. And the English don't have a culture, not any more. The place is full of traditions from other countries; Irish, West Indian, Indian. It's a laugh, the English don't have a tradition and the rest of us are banging out our own traditions. It's a laugh, isn't?" Pause. He has a little nap.

Long after the drunken trances are forgotten, many of MacGowan's songs such as Fairytale Of New York, A Pair Of Brown Eyes and A Rainy Night In Soho will remain. He writes quickly. "Yeah, well, starting out we were a punk band and we needed songs, so I wrote them. I've written more than 300. I just write 'em and if it's no good, then I fire it out. Thrash it. Forget it." What of the punk era, did it produce any lasting legacy? "Johnny Rotten's stuff is great. It will last." His manager appears with a plate of sandwiches. "They're not allowed in here. Shane, you're not supposed to eat this in here. But I've got them for you." A privilege of such magnitude leaves MacGowan untouched - as are the sandwiches.

Eclectic is the word he uses to describe his taste in music. "I like most things; Irish, rock and roll, Irish pop, British pop, black soul, white soul . . Mozart, I like Mozart." Any specific piece: "I'm only getting into it, I don't know much at the moment. I just know I like it." The American rap band Fun Lovin' Criminals have impressed him. "There's lot of great stuff. Music being made all over the place."

The Guinness man butts in: "Are you happy to be back in Dublin?" MacGowan takes a long swallow from his glass. "I'm here all the time. It's no big deal to be here." The Guinness man smiles. "But Dublin's a great city. It's the best city." Polite but firm, MacGowan replies: "I don't think it's the best city, New York is." MacGowan lives near Kentish Town. When he's in Ireland, he says: "I hang around with my mates and my parents. We go down to Tipperary and we drink and we drink."

Although he looks as if he has been consistently drunk for several years, his eyes drooping and his remaining teeth broken and crooked, MacGowan appears younger than 40. There's a lot of the delinquent about him. He is worried about reaching 40 and now thinks he is running out of time.

Already, he has lived almost as long as one of his heroes, James Clarence Mangan, who died in 1849 aged 46. But MacGowan has often denied possessing any dreams of a death wish. "If I wanted to be dead, I'd be dead - know what I mean, like?" The use of words such as "tragic", "heroic" and "doomed" when applied to MacGowan make him break into his hoarse, rasping laugh. He may have mislaid some teeth, but he hasn't lost his sense of humour. The rock scene appears to be constructed upon stereotypes and cliches. "Yes" he laughs "and they're all true."

Considering how often he refers to his immediate and extended families, would he like to have children? "No. I'm just not into all that nappy and baby and crap. I wouldn't be able to cope. Maybe the older kid - you know like when they grow a bit, can walk about and all that, but the baby scene, no."

Intrigued, if slightly disapproving, the Guinness man asks: "Have you no paternal feelings?" The singer makes no apology. "No, I'm not into kids." Change the subject. What's he reading at the moment? Before there's time to cough, he replies, "Fiesta by Hemingway."

MacGowan mentions Siobhan, his sister: "She's done lots of things. She's a great barmaid. But she's gone back to her music. She's doing an album." Among the album notes and photographs included in The Crock Of Gold details is a picture of a young woman posing with three wolfhound puppies. Is it his mother? Big smile, "yeah, that was when she was Colleen of the Year 1956".

No doubt many have attempted to save MacGowan from drink, himself etc. But it's a waste of time. He's happy, living in the present. "I'm content," he agrees. As he wrote in A Rainy Night In Soho: "I'm not singing for the future/I'm not dreaming of the past."

MacGowan smiles: "Exactly." How would he like to be described? "As a song writer, yeah, as an Irish songwriter?"

Shane MacGowan's album, The Crock Of Gold, is on the ZTT label, price £14.49 on CD and £9.99 on cassette.