I have to get permission to use Marc Bolan’s lyrics in my book.
Ohh woman, I love your chests. Ohh baby I’m crazy about your breasts.”
With your lizard leather boots on
And pull the strings
That change the faces of men”
I find the whole idea of “rights” deeply irritating. We have no rights over anything or anyone. And as for human rights, quite obviously I couldn't give a toss. I could hardly manage to be interested in the rights of my cock.
Which brings me nicely to The Sex Pistols. I have used the mighty couplet from God Save The Queen :
“Where there’s no future, how can there be sin?
We’re the flowers in the dustbin“.
Marc may be dead but the Sex Pistols quite definitely are not.
Paul Cook happened to phone that week.
“Oi you cunt. It’s the King of punk here.”
“Fuck off. You may be a King you cunt but I’m an Ace so fuck you knob head.”
“You looked more like a fucking queen on that Paris runway you fucking faggot.”
“I need to ask permission to use you in my book”
“Well I hope you’ve slagged us all off.”
“What do you take me for you cunt. Of course I have - especially you. I mean what do you call a prick who hangs around with rock stars? A drummer. I wouldn’t hear a good word said about you. But just in case you doubt me, here’s a taste :
“Rotten was the only one of the Sex Pistols with moral conviction. The rest of the band were pretty ordinary although Sid was not as stupid as he made out - he went to the university of life and graduated with extinction.”
“You fucking faggot cunt.”
“Just use it, I don’t care. None of us will see it”
“Even if you do - your all fucking illiterate anyway”
I was taking tea with the King of Punk a few months ago. We were sitting outside on Old Compton Street when Paul saw someone he knew coming towards us. “Quick” he said pulling me towards me. “Talk to me, talk to me, don’t let this cunt see me.”
We huddled together in an exclusive bundle and pretended to be deep in conversation. After a little while I felt this presence next to me. There was a man standing there with his hand outstretched towards Paul. I looked up.
It was Glen Matlock.
Despite all this Paul still gave me the band’s publishing house. Paul said Lydon could be difficult describing him as “hard work” and when I spoke to the Publisher she confirmed this. The whole band have to agree before you can use anything so it could be tricky. I am such a fan of the band and especially Lydon - one of the few real heroes I have. Maybe my book is too positive? Shall I put some more insults in? I know how perverse Mr Lydon is.
Everything has to be done through the lawyers - all of which is the complete antithesis to everything I am. You should have seen the lawyers report to Dandy In The Underworld. It was about ten times longer than the fucking book. And as funny.
89 Please confirm Sebastian Horsley’s stepsister would not object to description of Sebastian Horsley masturbating over her.
158 Please confirm we could prove Jimmy Boyle defecated in the bidet.
The libel laws are really tough in this country. It really angers me. If you don’t like what I write, don’t fucking read it dick head. Or if it bothers you that much - write your own.
As for people who sue? God they are the most pathetic losers of them all. It's people like that one legged hoppity Heather Mills who are litigious. It is only people who crave a reputation which they do not deserve who must call in lawyers to preserve appearances. Mills wants an external authority to declare her to be a lady even if the rest of the world knows she is a tramp. Whatever you hear about yourself you should not challenge it in this manner. Resorting to the law to resolve a dispute is a declaration of spiritual bankruptcy.
As for lawyers? They are really an unnecessary profession. They don’t produce anything. All they do is guide you through the labyrinth of the legal system that they created : and they keep on changing it in case you start to catch on.
It is no coincidence that Barrister is a word in the dictionary that comes between bankrupt and bastard.