At home with Lauren, margarita and me

She is sitting on the edge of the bath, wrapped in a fake leopard skin coat and squinting quizzically while smoking a cigarette. I am on my hands and knees, throwing up with all the force and natural beauty of Mount Vesuvius. "Oh, you do remind me of myself when I was your age," Kirsty says, sniffing, then biting on her lower lip to keep from laughing. "Are you sure you're okay? I feel a bit guilty."

"No, I'm perfectly all right it's just one of those sudden flu bugs brought on by margaritas," I try to say; but it comes out as a rather more, uh, solid indictment of my health. I stagger out of the toilet, trying to remember how to walk, and bump into her legs. "You'll be wanting to wash your hair quite soon," she giggles, tamping out her cigarette and lighting up another one. "When you go to bed, don't lie on your back you'll choke on your tongue. Thanks for a lovely night out" she giggles again "see you."

I blame it all on Talking Heads. In the sleeve notes to her just-released Best Of album, various luminaries pay tribute to Kirsty MacColl's ability to write classic pop songs, her Corybantic vocals and phrasing, her breasts (thank you, Morrissey) and, almost unanimously, her partying prowess. Chris Franz and Tiny Weymouth of Talking Heads wrote: "When you hear these songs of Kirsty's, you're going to want to hang out with her, too." And my fate was sealed. Genius that drinks! Doomed.

"It's probably the very antithesis of rock'n'roll, but a fairish old whack of what I laughingly refer to as 'my career' is down to two teachers," Kirsty says, pouring out the first of too many margaritas. She ordered food before she sat down "I know the menu by heart" and stacked up two packets of Silk Cut and a lighter on the table, so the delay between wanting a cigarette and actually smoking it should not be more than six and a half seconds. "My English teacher gave free acoustic-guitar lessons after school; and my maths teacher did the same with the electric guitar. I was too poor to buy a guitar, so my English teacher lent me his, which I thought was very sweet, and above and beyond his job description."

She started writing songs when she was 14 and took a succession of scrag-end jobs in order to buy her own guitar. "Problem was, by the time I'd earned enough money to buy the one I wanted, the price had gone up again." A perfectly timed pause. "So that was when I went on the game."

Having written the sweetness and the wonder of They Don't Know (as covered by Tracy Ullman) before she was 17, Kirsty signed to a record company that had such acute financial problems it could not afford to put her in a studio, so she started doing guest vocals on friends' records, just to keep her voice in shape a trend that was to continue through her career. So far, The Pogues, The Wonder Stuff, The Kinks, The Smiths and Happy Mondays have all benefited from the voice that swoops and loops-the-loop with itself like swallows trying to catch moths at dusk. Fairytale of New York that was Kirsty. Days with Ray Davies Kirsty was there. Hallelujah by Happy Mondays, the song that kicked off the whole Madchester Scene in earnest Kirsty's thumbprints are all over the record.

She has written songs with Johnny Marr of The Smiths, and the next single should be a languorous version of The Velvet Underground's Perfect Day on which she duets beautifully with The Lemonheads' Evan Dando, only "bastard Duran Duran have done a version for their album, so it probably won't be released until 2056. As a tribute to my untimely death".

So Kirsty, I ask, resting my chin on the empty margarita jug, because it is comfortable there and it might stop the terrifying attack of hiccups that has just beset me, why aren't you ridiculously famous? You are one of the most consistent classic pop-song writers of the 20th century, and you have a voice that Dolores from The Cranberries would kill for. Where is the Number One record? Free World from the 1989 LP Kite should have topped the charts; Radio One should have given Titanic Days some on its playlist. Where is the Huge Hit?

"Oh," Kirsty pulls a face, and waves her hands. "Record companies often have a complete inability to get a record in the shop. It's all politics and incompetence. They've done all right by this record, though. Hopefully, by the time I get around to recording the next album, I'll be able to afford that 24-piece orchestra. I think I deserve it by now. Have you got any booze at your house? C'mon, let's go."

An hour later, after we have danced all round the house, I shove my acoustic guitar at her and demand she play all her greatest hits, now.

She does.

The Lauren Bacall of pop music, no less.

The album, Galore -The Best of Kirsty MacColl, is out now on Virgin Records. Kite, on Virgin, and Titanic Days, on WEA, are also recommended. She tours Britain in May.

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At home with Lauren, margarita and me

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