The end

I spent most of the day with Lindsey. I met her in the coffee shop in the library basement, went for a baked potato in the Cellar and ended up round at Gareth and Stu’s.

They live next door to the pub up Treadwell Road, near the cemetery. They both dislike living where they do. Their landlady overpowers them with endless talk, and when we arrived they were sitting watching TV in her tasteless living room. She was out, but her ugly Pekinese Ming slobbered all over us and even tried mating with my arm.

We had a drink at the Wickbourne Road Inn, and Lindsey came back with me to Jervis Terrace. Barry and Pete had rented a colour TV and threw bangers at us as we stood at the door. Ade gave Lindsey a lift home. We got on well I thought, but I’m wiser this time, and I won’t make the same mistake again.

PiL loomed in the evening, but I came to the conclusion that I didn’t really care whether I saw Public Image Ltd. or not, and on reflection I think it was a positive thing that I didn’t want to go. It turned out they only played seven numbers anyway.

What with Lydon’s unashamed exploitation of his audiences (same songs duplicated on each LP) and his recent feeble renditions of “Anarchy in the UK” (quote: “If I ever play a Sex Pistols song again it will be the end”) then I don’t believe I missed out. My recent comments as to his ‘historical importance’ were all just crap. Forget him. He’s lived too long and is an example of what happens to all true punks in the end; they either die or cop out, and it’s Lydon’s misfortune that he didn’t do the former.

So Barry, who’d come to the same decision as me, partly motivated by prospects for female company at the pub, went down in Ade’s car with Pete and Mo’s tickets as well, and got £5 each for them.