Ring those bells, break out the cheap fizz, for I have been reunited with my original punk leather jacket which I thought I’d lost in various house-moves.
Clearing out the Vault Of Horror that is the hall cupboard, I finally mustered the courage to trawl through the crud and found a bag containing said item. It weighs a ton. Partially customised by Vivienne Westwood back in the days of Sex when kids could walk in and ask and receive individual styling tips from the Grande Dame of Punk Couture, she looped yards of heavy chain through the epaulettes and made me feel a million dollars, even though we were rejecting that sort of materialism back then. Or so I was told. I was young. I was wet behind the ears. My brain hadn’t fully growed.
Emboldened by watching the Master do her thing, I then went to town and finished the job.
Here’s a pic of Keith Moon wearing the early version before The Who’s gig at Celtic FC. (Note photographer Chalkie Davies in suburban knitwear.)
First outing for the punk jacket since being reunited with it here