Deep in Vogue

You’re on the high seas, close to the Horn of Africa. On a Ship sailing under a flag of convenience. The ship is crammed to the rafters with the stuff your day-today life. It’s the end of the Eighties; a lot of things have happened – good – bad – terrible. But you have lived to tell the tale. The sky is a clear blue, the sea calm as bathwater. From the crows nest you look out, holding a powerful set of binoculars to your eyes.

A small black shape, no larger than a seagull appears in the distance. Like a desert mirage it floats in and out of focus.

Deep in the bowels of the ship, a party is being prepared. Men of various shapes and hues try on dresses; they pirouette in front of huge mirrors. Sea Shanties are conspicuous by there absence. They freeze from time to time, adopting the exaggerated pose of old-time Hollywood Film Stars.

The black shape moves closer and closer; until it’s revealed as a small skiff, no larger than a lifeboat. And although the African heat is stifling, you feel a chill run your spines length. But the vision has you mesmerised, frozen in a pose with the binoculars at your head.

Closer and closer it comes, buffeting up and down, riding the swell of your huge ship. You can now make out the shapes of people. From such a distance they are merely outlines and nothing else.

Deep in the bowels of the ship, music plays. It is mid-afternoon, but the party has begun. Small round tables ring the dance-floor, a DJ spins the latest tunes from New York. Cocaine, amphetamine, heroin and MDMA line the tables. Alcohol is served is small teacups, like a Twenties Speakeasy.

A top the crow’s nest, all you hear is the sound of a small outboard motor, put-put-puttering. Heading on a direct course to your ship.


Now the binoculars show detail. A heavily muscled forearm. The distinctive point of a rocket propelled grenade. Muzzles and the wooden stocks of AK47s. And there you stand, locked in the tractor beam of this tiny ship; unable to raise the alarm.


Through your magnified lenses, faces and bodies take shape. Black lycra body suits, diamante earrings and sculpted hair. In among the muscle and the broad-shouldered jackets; sits a small white woman. Her hair is short and bleached, in imitation of Jean Harlow. She wears a Jean Paul Gautier pointed bra; and a look of sullen determination. On her delicate shoulder hangs a ladies-sized sub machine gun.

In the hour that follows, the small lady has assumed control of your ship. She has changed its course and is heading towards the mainstream. In a few days, your ship will be stripped of it’s contents; and condemned to float like the Marie Celeste. The continuous click of a play-out groove accompanying it’s progress.

I went in search of Malcolm McLaren’s grave, with my daughter, during the School Half Term. But the girl working in Highgate Cemetery had no idea where he was buried. But he’s there somewhere, and I imagine buried with him are all the ideas he borrowed from somebody else. The Marxism he used for the New York Dolls, the nihilism taken from Iggy and the Stooges. Early New York Hip Hop, and late Eighties Ball Culture.

But his kleptomania was entertaining, and like a true pioneer, he rarely profited from his discoveries. His pirate’s chest was systematically plundered by those with better and bigger business brains. So his take on the Eighties Transvestite/Transsexual Ball Culture remains a footnote, released a full year before the all-conquering Vogue by Miss Ciccone. He even had the gall to name check some of the real people from that long dead scene.

And I’d like to imagine Mclaren having a ball down there in Highgate, with his fellow inter-ees: Karl Marx, Douglas Adams and Max Wall. And the funny thing is those skin tight black leggings featuring in the Deep in Vogue video, remind me of Max Wall.

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.