In February 1976 an ugly
but affluent figure from McLaren's arty past raised it's head. It was Andrew
Logan,
sculpting socialite with a penchant for surrounding himself with the most
expensive and extensive collection
of human trash-cans currently reflecting the
capital's fashionable malaise. His annual celebrations of decay
have included a
Miss World parody in which a horde of transsexuals tout their trophies, a
favourite with all
the other freaks. But for this year's entertainment, drag
queens were ditched in favour of vital young yobbos.
>Between greedily
guzzling the buckshee booze and attempting to steal Logan's pricey pretty
pictures, The
Pistols played a trio of sets comprising their patented noise for
napalming the psyche of a nation, blowing
the jaded cocaine set menagerie out of
their boredom chic. It could have been a comic strip - Studied
Decadence meets
Social Disease.
Prior to the Sex Pistols party piece,
Logan's gormless gourmets had experienced everything twice and been
bored to
death the first time - the very reason why McLaren had chosen them as the
Lazarus guinea pigs to Rotten's Anti- Christ. Shocked back to life they scurried
off to their grapevines to spread the faith. The Sex Pistols' fate was
sealed.
Logan's set may have kidded themselves into believing they had
developed cold blooded indifference into a fine art, but they merely reflected
the apathy prevalent throughout every stratum of class, age and wealth in the
dulled sensibilities of the entire nation. Which made them just as vulnerable to
the real rage of the Sex Pistols as 'Appalled of Cheam'
Julie Burchill &
Tony Parsons
