Piccadilly Circus, London, 2011. I stumble on three lads in punk gear. They stand there waiting for someone to pay a quid for a snap with them. Outside the Colosseum it’s the centurions hawking themselves, at Christmas the Santas. Here it’s these three.
London had its 1977: the Sex Pistols, the Clash, safety pins, DIY records, an anthem against the Queen. Punk was a rebel spirit and it had no price. These three turned it into fancy dress, and the dress costs a quid, with the Queen’s face stamped on it.
Punk’s dead right here, in front of me, and the three of them are holding the wake. I nick a photo at the funeral and offer it up as a prayer, so it rises again.