Guest Blog: John Lydon

26-10-10

GREETINGS, fellow scumbags. I speak to you from deepest, darkest Soho in London Town. I’m up early on this fine, crisp English morning – the birds are singing and I’ve just completed my first rebellious act of the day by not saying ‘hello’ to the special constable who walked past my house earlier, as I climbed into my chauffered car.

I did it without so much as a care for my own personal safety – he could’ve radioed for his fellow cozzer fascist chums on his walky-talky, who in all probability would’ve dragged me off to a dimly-lit Kafka-esque cell and beaten me until my skin had turned to the consistency of rump steak. But no, he chose to wave back at me and chirp  ‘hello John – beautiful day again’. ‘It may be beautiful for you, sonny Jim, but it ain’t so beautiful for those who are forced to spend their entire, miserable proletarian lives cowering beneath the state-sponsored size 9′, I thought, before glancing down to check the progress of my Country Life shares in today’s FT.

I don’t wanna be another corporate moron
I don’t wanna be another corporate moron
Just another part of the Westernised slave trade
Just another white Uncle Tom
Just Another white Uncle Tom
Although I might do the Axa-Sun Life Thing
‘Cos I signed the contract before I wrote
This song.

That, ladies and gentlemen – and you herberts what live in Buck House – is a little teaser from new album. I managed to lay down a few tracks in-between shooting a short film called The Carphone Warehouse 2-4-1 October Blackberry Deal.

As per usual, I managed to throw those suited c**ts a curve ball by subverting the genre. Not for me was it the usual crass, overblown statement of refusing to do the short promotional feature, or walking off set. When the assistant producer would come to my Winnebago with a bowl of fresh fruit, I’d tell them ‘it ain’t got the black grapes in it – take it away’. Then they’d come back with another bowl of fruit and I’d complain that there were no apricots. And so on, until the production was thrown into total chaos, sending ‘The Man’ into a blind panic, his precious greenbacks disappearing down the drain as a direct result of my guerilla tactics.

Next time I’ll get my agent to insist they write a club sandwich-based rider into my contract. No future for mayonnaise.

As told to Matt Owen

 

 

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