Next Wednesday is the 43rd anniversary of the release of “Never mind the bollocks, here’s the Sex Pistols”. If you wander about city centres in the UK (when there’s not a lockdown) you can still occasionally see old geezers my age in punk gear. The full dyed Mohawk might be gone, along with the homemade safety pin face piercings, but the multi-zipped safety pinned leather jacket and Doc Martens have survived. But, what does Punk mean, when as far back as 2008 we were treated to the sight of Johnny Rotten sorry John Lydon advertising Country Life butter on TV? “You’ll never put a better bit of butter on your knife” indeed. I wonder if Sid and Nancy would have appreciated the irony. What punk meant to me in 1977, as a budding guitar player, was that we could all stop learning to play like our favourite guitarist, and start just making a noise like one. Which, looking back, was a lot of fun, although maybe not for the audiences, many of whom were gobbing instead of standing about or dancing. It was definitely two years of potential musical education time wasted, when I had way more spare time than I’ve ever had since.