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One that was bound to fail, to be sure, though I was loathe to say that in the article I wrote at the time, but still it was all inspiring as the Clash are still so deeply inspiring to me that I’m not even sure I should write about them anymore because I might start looking like some of those guys that give out all that gush on the likes of Jackson Browne. But then, the Clash don’t celebrate destruction, they merely report passionately on what is going on in the world or whatever's itching them at the moment. I could do without Strummer's Mott-like (but really almost like Ian Hunter at his soppiest) stop-picking-on-us harangue in “Cheepskates,” but he has yet to come out with lines the likes of “You never listened to a word I said” or “You never realized I took the piss out of you.”

Thanks a lot, Johnny, how can we ever repay your royal highness for letting us know where it was at. The Queen made you a moron? You made yourself a moron in front, and I question your intentions all down the line. Sorry. Like I kept hearing you guys were gonna get rid of all this “superstar” stuff, until I read in Punk magazine's definitive (by the lights of me, who admittedly wasn’t there) account of the Pistols’ American tour how some girl came up to you in the Winterland dressing room, stuck out her hand and said “How do you do?” and you started ranting about how “How do you do?” was an invalid statement. Righto, boy. Just keep that stuff up, as it looks like you’re gonna. I realize “Public Image” (the song) is about media manipulation, but who's Gepetto and who are the puppets? Truly, has there ever been a more self-serving song in history?

I have to say that if one of my best friends was involved in a band with me and it was obvious that he was going to kill himself or try to even whether or not he stayed in the band, I’d do everything in my power to encourage him to get the hell out of this media mess and go someplace where he might begin to detox or at least sort his head out. And I don’t care if this sounds self-righteous but I can say that because I went through something similar with Peter Laughner, one of the founders of Pere Ubu who undoubtedly would be a figure on the New Wave scene today if he hadn’t died from years of combined alcohol and amphetamine abuse in 1977.

Oh but of course Sid was so entertaining, he made such great copy. You and Malcolm knew the dailies loved it when he went onstage with “Gimme a Fix” written in blood across his chest, or gouged himself for the 88th time that day. Of course no one is his brother's keeper, but the fact remains that he was your brother, possibly closer than flesh and blood, and whether you were helping him kill himself to make yourself famous or deliver a revolutionary polemic to the world makes absolutely no difference. You were everything you claimed to detest and supposedly sought to overthrow.

But look at what happened here. This was supposed to be a piece about Sid Vicious, and as usual I’ve ended up going on and on about the superstar instead of the fall guy. Perhaps because, ultimately I’m just as lame as everybody I’m belittling, because I can’t confront the reality of Sid either. A month before he died, I walked into Max's one night and saw him slumped at the bar, where I was told he could be found just about any night of the week, staring through blasted eyes down into his drink while punkettes came up whispering blandishments probably about some dumbhead's notion of s&m into his ear and his ever-watchful buddy Rockets Redglare, who took full advantage of his 15 minutes of post-Nancy fame, hovered nearby. Sid looked too gone to even be aware of any of them.

I felt a bit guilty myself, because here was this guy I had done a story on and never met, and I didn’t even have the nerve to go up and introduce myself and try to maybe find out just what kind of cat he might be behind all the media bilge I kept hoping I hadn’t contributed to. It wasn’t that I was afraid of him, more that I had absolutely no idea on earth what I might