My Way

I read last night that Malcolm McLaren had died in New York. The location changed in the morning to Switzerland. The news reports had also been fleshed out with tributes and appreciations.

For people of a certain age, it’s impossible to deny the impact this man had. You either loved him, hated him, were indifferent, or you were a mix of all three. I liked the vaudevillian, or if your English, music hall aspect of his personality. I liked the clothes and the way he debunked the Sex Pistols myth. He was hated for a while, when the post-Rotten Pistols recorded comedy singles. But I found it quite funny and it dovetailed nicely into the death of punk’s first generation. My Way is a fitting funeral song, and probably captures his personality better than their first four singles.

I was stranded in an Argos car park, the radio was on. The DJ opened with God Save The Queen. He then went on to say the song still possessed the power it had in 1977. And ignoring the context, this was the BBC playing a song they refused to play at the time. There was little power in the song. Time has moved on, taken out of its 70s context, the song is merely an old curiosity; rather like the wobbly sets and RP voices of the time.

I can understand why people go to Punk Weekends at Holiday Camps, it’s the same reason why the Strokes were popular, and why middle-class teenagers like the whole Goth/Emo/Punk thing. But I can’t recall Malcolm McLaren ever getting caught-up with Punk nostalgia; bar appearing as a talking head talking about himself.

When I heard of his death from mesothelioma, there was no desire in me to play a Sex Pistols tune; or play Buffalo Gals. Instead I made an odd connection between Malcolm and a long dead relative. My Uncle Peter.

Peter worked in the shipyards as an electrician. In the 80s he worked on the Thames Barrier, after the yards were closed down. He sourced me a half price pair of Doctor Martens back in 1977, and those DMs pogoed along with the Sex Pistols amongst others. They met the DJ John Peel at a Reading Festival, invading the stage with Sham 69 fans.

Uncle Peter was no great fan of punk, but his boots were for a time. I can’t recall if the boots wore out or were thrown out. But they went the way of those black suede Chelsea boots and big Eighties hair. Peter found work closer to home, and lead a sedate life. He played bowls, got drunk every Christmas Eve – returning home with inappropriate underwear for his wife.

He was approaching the big 60 when his lung collapsed playing football. A joint birthday had been arranged with his Sister-in-Law at the local Catholic Club.
The collapsed lung, turned out to be cancer, and the cancer diagnosed as mesothelioma.

In the Sixties and Seventies, Asbestos was used as an insulator. The hulls of ships he crawled about, contained tiny microscopic fibres, which became embedded in his lungs. They bided their time, ticking away slowly , until it was time to change Uncle Peters cells for good.

Peter never saw his 60th birthday. There was no joint birthday. And I have a terrible memory of looking into his eyes, weeks before his death. He was skeletal, with grey parchment skin. His body shook. But it was the terror in his eyes that I took away with me.

I just hope that Malcolm McLaren had a better death in Switzerland. I hope he managed to do it his way.