It's his chosen weapon of attack
for the blistering riff of Mr Bleaney.
He looks at Johnny Rotten – a flashback.
How he had coveted that first LP.
He wrote a letter; Johnny said join us.
That day he left the university.
He went down to London on the bus.
Steve Jones is toast, says the NME.
Larkin brings to the band a new energy.
Punk’s gain is a loss to the library –
each slab of noise is a sonic elegy.
Cookie scowls, from John a cheeky grin.
One, two, three, four … Larkin counts them in.
See him swaggering down the King's Road.
Smile like a fool, pull out the organ stops
he has finally killed off work, the toad
Philip Larkin is on Top of the Pops!
The night of his first gig, in a pub
he threw a punch at Generation X
next thing, he's playing the 100 Club
and buying his new trousers from Sex.
The grey mornings in Hull are forgottten
Marr had Morrissey, Eliot had Pound
Lennon had McCartney; he has Rotten.
There's a tender savagery to their sound
they'll go straight to number one – see how.
Phil's the business, he's ex libris now.
The Sex Pistols had outraged the country.
Thanks to their vile anthem, God Save the Queen
and their foul-mouthed ranting on TV
they were more outrageous than Benzedrine.
Larkin, the gentle former librarian
with his horn-rimmed glasses and tortoise stare
had become, ipso facto, their guardian
he had pleaded with them not to swear
but a national sense of moral outrage –
a gift, surely, for those who write or sing –
meant that they were rarely off the front page.
To Philip it was most embarrassing.
He was sure now, he would play softer rock
he would set up a new band, with Glen Matlock.
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