“‘Sid Vicious’ or, ‘Are you fucking Simon Ferocious?’”
I’ve only been in love with a beer bottle and a mirror
The jaded shade of Sid Vicious is encountered in a simulacrum of the appropriately named Anthrax Club in New York City in 1981, which just so happens to be the punks’ boozer of choice. What a surprise. He is not in any way enthusiastic, responsive or co-operative. I just can’t reconcile the amount of drugs he has hoovered and booze he has guzzled over the years, while slouching at the bar nursing a slow, solitary, sad pint of Carlsberg Lager. He takes an affected and recalcitrant pleasure in this self-conscious “I don’t give a fuck” attitude. He digresses, is self-indulgent, nasty and tediously boring in trotting out his predictable ‘punk’ schtick. For me this charade provides a delicious palette for some tasty, niggling provocation. After all he is supposedly a “punk” (inverted commas insinuating his questionable status) and should be able to cop it sweet, though I’m not convinced he could for one minute. Anyway, I’m hoping that in whatever compartment of the void he currently resides he will hang around, rather than prematurely depart in a pissed-off reek of black nothingness.
Other shades before Sid have also affected this hissy fit in various guises, the most notably agro version being the final words of the prickly, fearsome and equally awesome writer Nick Tosches. As his diminishing shade vanishes into a reeking whorl of Lucky Strike cigarette smoke, he loudly coughs and splutters his final words, “va fungool!” What a legend. I’m sure Sid would have no familiarity with Nick, as they moved in very different circles. I can imagine though that as Sid slowly fades to grey at the end of this encounter (presumably without any familiarity with the Visage reference), there is a barely legible rendition of the Sex Pistols “Friggin’ in the Riggin’” playing ominously. Now that would certainly make much more sense for a punk departure.
Apart from being a real “tough guy” known for assaulting fellow prisoners when doing stir, his stellar pugilistic moment was assaulting one Todd Smith, the brother of Patti Smith. He clearly wanted to stamp his punk credentials, in more ways than one. Similarly, the photographer Peter Hince recalls a lively encounter with Sid when, clearly worse for the booze, he stumbled into Freddie Mercury’s change room. When he got up from the floor he provocatively addressed Fred, “so have you succeeded in bringing ballet to the masses yet?” Fred casually got up, walked over to him and quipped “aren’t you that Simon Ferocious or something?” He then dragged him by the collar and threw him out. Ah, the height of punk royalty really has to be knocked out by a queen.
So for the better and hopefully worse, let the pogo madness begin.
*
DT: Sid, if I may call you that, it’s so nice of you to allow me into your boozer of choice for this chinwag.
SV: Wot the fuck’s a chinwag then? An’ who are you anyway?
DT: Well first you should know that it’s British slang.
SV: For wot?
DT: A conversation. I believe you are English, aren’t you. Not sure what the problem is.
SV: Why are you ‘ere and where are you from?
DT: Australia.
SV: You’re kidding me.
DT: Er, no.
SV: An‘uva fucking Norman Gunston I ‘av to deal wiv from your lot.
DT: If you like.
SV: Wot do you want you Australian tosser?
DT: Well here’s the deal and I shall be brief because I know pretty much everything about you and your stellar rise to bollocks stardom, from the lowly John Simon Ritchie to the Vicious one himself and
SV: [Interrupts] So wot. Everyone knows wot i’ve done.
DT: Ok, what really happened between you and your “paramour” Nancy Spungen?
SV: Everyone knows she carked it.
DT: Yes but “how” did she cark it?
SV: She was stabbed in our room at the Chelsea Hotel.
DT: But who stabbed her in your room?
SV: That was never sorted. No one knows.
DT: How convenient for you. Especially given that at the time you owned a rather tasty knife. Everyone knew that.
SV: So wot.
DT: Well you clearly got lucky, whether you did or didn’t.
SV: Is this fucking rot finished?
DT: Not quite. There were two conflicting versions of her death and these are on the official police record. Now just tell me before you bugger off, when
[ At this point there is a very loud thunderclap and the room shakes violently, emitting a malodorous, vomit-inducing reek of skunk urine, the signature odour of beer going off. Clearly his parting fuck-off gesture of predictable punk schtick. I have to say I wasn’t expecting it to come so soon. After all he is supposedly a “punk” (inverted commas insinuating questionable status) and should be able to cop it sweet, though I’m not convinced he can for one minute. I’m hoping that in whatever compartment of the void he currently resides he will hang around, rather than depart in a pissed-off stench of nothingness. But I’m not confident.
Other shades before Sid have affected this hissy fit in various guises, the most notably agro version being the final words of the prickly, fearsome and equally awesome writer Nick Tosches. As he vanishes into a whorl of cigarette smoke, his parting gesture is venomously spat out, “va fungool!” What a legend. I’m sure Sid would have no familiarity with Nick, as they moved in very different circles. I can imagine though that as Sid slowly fades to grey at the end of this encounter (I presume without any familiarity with the Visage reference), there is a barely legible rendition of the Pistols “Friggin’ in the Riggin’”. Now that makes much more sense.
Apart from being a “tough guy”, known for assaulting fellow prisoners when in jail, his stellar pugilistic moment was assaulting Todd Smith, the brother of Patti Smith. He clearly wanted to stamp his punk credentials. Similarly, the photographer Peter Hince recalls a lively encounter with Sid when, clearly worse for the booze, he stumbled into Freddie Mercury’s change room. He confidently addressed Fred, “have you succeeded in bringing ballet to the masses yet?” Fred casually got up, walked over to him and quipped “aren’t you that Simon Ferocious or something?” He then took him by the collar and threw him out.” It would seem that the height of punk royalty really is being knocked out by a queen. This really is the real life and not just fantasy]
*