They only did it because of fame

Early afternoon on Thursday, I'm on the 31 bus and as we turn the corner past Chalk Farm the streets are looking disappointingly normal. Have I missed it? The bus continues along the street and up ahead there's a huge crowd of people beyond Camden bridge. That's nothing new, Camden's always packed, but if my eyes aren't deceiving me these people are waiting. I press the bell and head downstairs to get off the bus.

I cross the road in front of a Hearse. Wait a minute - a hearse - could it be? Oh yes. In the window is the wreath that boasts 'Cash for Chaos'. Behind it is a horse drawn carriage carrying the coffin of Malcolm McLaren, with 'too fast to live too young to die' written on the coffin. Hugh lensed photographers run alongside the carriage. I join them snapping professionally with my phone.

I remember watching 'The Filth and the Fury' and coming out the cinema despising Mclaren. But come on, you've got to have respect for the guy. Without him, you'd never have seen Lydon's sneer on the TV. There'd have been no recording of 'Pretty Vacant'. Lydon couldn't even clean his teeth for fuck's sake. I remember seeing Malcolm Mclaren on a programme about Creation records, where he sat in a velvet smoking jacket proclaiming that, 'Alan (Mcgee) has had a life of benign success whereas I've walked the path of glorious failure'. This man had the words. He was like Lydon in that respect. Other choice Mclaren moments include his claim that Madonna stole Vogue from him, and then his congratulating her for stealing because that was precisely what it was all about. I also remember reading (possibly untrue - but I'm sure Mclaren would have appreciated it) that Mclaren banned the Pistols from playing minor chords because they were strictly for muso snobs.

Behind the horse drawn carriage is a green bus with 'nowhere' written as its destination, belting out the Sid Vicious version of 'My Way'. Eddie Tempole sticks his head out the back of the bus. The bus is being followed by a load of punks drinking and dancing, some jumping on the back of the bus. I loved those punk records, I remember being seventeen and me and Mike Sutherland walking drunk through the streets of Horsham singing 'EMI'. Every Friday night.

I follow the bus. On the pavement is Paul Cook. I look back to double check. Yes it's him, the drummer of the Sex Pistols looking thin in a suit and shades with short sticking up hair. He says something like: 'They told us to get off the bus 'ere. 'e must still be on it', to the two tall attractive women he's with. As the bus turns off of Chalk Farm road, the rest of the mourners get off the back of the bus. They all look punky and mid-forties to fifties but I don't recognise any of them. A woman walks past with a veil and tears in her eyes and I'm reminded that this is actually a funeral.

Here's to Malcolm Mclaren.