Ian Macleay - Malcolm McLaren--The Biography

If you have enough neck, you can get away with anything.

M ALCOLM M C L AREN

As far as I am concerned the Sex Pistols were an idea, not a band.

M ALCOLM M C L AREN

T he boat was called the Queen Elizabeth, funnily enough.

It had a delicious sense of irony about it; all it needed was a Jolly Roger flag with the skull and crossbones. The plan was simple: hire a boat, load it up with the group and an assortment of hangers-on, record-company people and friends, and sail up Londons River Thames. Then park up outside the Houses of Parliament, play a few songs and be as obnoxious as possible.

It would be the final insult, playing in their backyard. Theatre of Provocation and all that.

The time was June 1977, the week of the Queens Silver Jubilee. Bunting everywhere, street parties and bonfires. Malcolm McLaren was 31 years old and the controversial manager of the most notorious rock band of the day actually, make that any day the Sex Pistols. The group were soon to dominate the charts with their self-penned song God Save The Queen, which in one day alone had shifted 150,000 copies. He had hurled a beaker full of urine into the face of the establishment that was to have a seismic effect on the world, changing it musically and culturally. Also, it was to be the last time that music had the power to alter things, to worry people, to make them think.

For McLaren, the moment would never be sweeter. Due to his manipulation, he had caused a tremendous furore about the record before it had even been released, and his tactics provided the group with an attitude suited to the decline in the country. Finally, after being dumped by two companies, he had signed with a third Virgin founded by the future billionaire Richard Branson. Whether or not he had any long-term future with the company was open to conjecture. He found it all a bit cosy and relaxed. No tension, no edge. That is what bands thrive on. Once you lost it, you were just another robot, playing the safe ball, being part of the system. Never trust a hippie.

There was to be a Royal flotilla that would go down the Thames against a backdrop of a huge firework display. McLaren thought it would be nice for the Pistols to have their own cruise ship, so, when the boat left Charing Cross pier about 6.30pm, there must have been about 200 people on it. Branson had paid 500 for the privilege of hiring the craft, and a huge banner in the traditional Pistols day-glo yellow and pink colours was draped down one side of it. God Save The Queen The new single by the Sex Pistols. They thought they would keep it low key.

Soon the music was blaring, a bit of dub; someone put on The Ramones. The bar was packed; they would not serve doubles though. Firewater to the Indians.

The boys started playing on the deck in the covered area. It was very small and there was a problem with the feedback. Who cares though? Starting off with that old favourite Anarchy In The UK, perhaps they were the Bay City Rollers of outrage. McLaren watched as Rotten lurched around on the deck. Frustration at not being able to play had gnawed away at him for weeks. Rotten put the same effort into it no matter where he was. Just like that first day in the shop when he swaggered in, such pent-up anger, a model of bravado. How can I use this? McLaren had asked himself. He was still asking that night.

It was a lovely early-summer evening, but got a bit chilly later on. That summer was special but no one spoke about global warming. As the boat neared Westminster, the party became more raucous; some of the voyagers were really hitting it hard. McLaren gazed down the dirty old river and that is when he spotted the launches packed with police. At first they started buzzing the vessel. Then they clambered aboard like a Royal Navy boarding party storming the Black Pearl.

Westwood was always on about pirates, she had been designing some dresses with a piratical theme. Maybe it would catch on, maybe one day you could have a pop singer with that image. Plundering, taking what he wanted.

The police made a beeline for McLaren. They must have been briefed, him and Rotten, the leaders of the gang. Appropriately, they cut the power as John started singing No Fun, then they closed the bar and escorted the punks back. They started pushing and shoving, then out came the cuffs. McLaren started to protest, then he swore at them, which is what they charged him with in the morning.

When the punk party disembarked, the press were there already on the jetty, and a lot more police. Like at the football: Paul Cook was always on about the rucks he used to see when he followed Chelsea. The flash bulbs started popping. Its all on YouTube somewhere, and someone later published a book with a lot of pictures taken that night. One iconic image was of McLaren being manhandled by the police: Sex Pistols manager led away in handcuffs. It occurred to him around then that they were in the eye of the maelstrom. The jihad of terror was just starting.

Years later some journo wrote it up like it was some masochistic thrill for McLaren, finally being punished by a father figure. Yeah, sure.