Now owning a sex pistols record doesn’t give you automatic entry into the Kings Road Punk chapter but what made me, in my eyes, a bona fide, couldn’t give a toss, anti-establishment rocker was when I asked mother if she wouldn’t mind popping along to Timothy Whites to pick up some zips of assorted colours and lengths. Mother was more than accommodating as it was on her way to the British Home Stores cafeteria where she was meeting Mrs Dudman and Mrs Cameron for their fortnightly sojourn to discuss the shortcomings of Mrs Smart and Mrs Baker who were likewise rendezvousing on the first floor of the Littlewoods cafeteria to discuss the shortcomings of Mrs Dudman and Mrs Cameron. Mother very kindly sewed them onto my freshly pressed corduroy trousers. Blue, yellow, red, green you name it I had it, all sown on far too neatly.
With Fiddlers party rapidly approaching I squeezed into my sisters mohair jumper (four sizes too small) and raided Mothers sowing basket for safety pins that I could link together and with the aid of some fabric plaster covering one of the pointy ends attached them to my ear, the plaster acting as a protective barrier to my virgin lobe and giving the illusion of someone who had obviously had his ear skewered with a knitting needle. Now if that didn’t make me Johnny Rotten and Sidney Vicious I don’t what did!
I was ready to smash Fiddler’s parents’ home up real bad. Gillian had warned me to take my shoes off in the hallway as Fiddler’s Mum and Dad had just had a new cream shag pile fitted. I could do that. I’d smash it up later, when the carpet was a little more worn.
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