The punk part of Johnny Anderson's Autobiography

Below is another part of my autobiography. This portion deals with the punk era that was a strong part of my life back there from 82 to 86. There's still a lot I could go into in this subject alone, but for now here's a brief insight into that part of my life. For those of you who haven't checked out my main site, I've posted over 70 photos of the punk era (which I was part of).

On that site you will also find another part of my book. That's a story of when I was in South Western Australia.

After fifteen years it was finally completed in the autumn of 2005. The story can be purchased (and of course is in pdf format which is much easier to read. There is a 571 page version or another which has about 550 photographs along with the story to read as you go through it. There is another sample chapter can be read at the following link on my website:

Johnny's book


Read and enjoy.

My own SeX pIsToLs STORY

[Copyright © Johnny Anderson. TX 636 995 Washington DC. 1995]

So, after numerous conflicts with my elders, I concluded that the rift between the generations was too vast a chasm for me to bridge. It was now time for me to live on my own. I was sixteen. My parting shot was the long procession of punks tramping up and down the street on moving day. I’m sure it provided new material for neighborly gossip for weeks to come.

I moved about a mile away from my grandmothers. Aside from the five weeks that I resided in my mother’s new home, I’d basically lived my whole life thus far within a one-mile square radius.

By the time I moved I’d been dating Helen for a quite a while. She was a good friend of mine from school and she was also into the punk scene (but she liked a lot of Goth too). She was two years younger than me but we got on great. Helen lived in Eastwood, Essex, which was about a mile away from my uncle’s home. Where she resided was about the same distance (from my grandmothers) as what my school had been actually. So it didn’t take me too long to get there on my motorbike. She had the most amazing parents called Alan and Carole. They were so giving and friendly and I never felt unwelcome. Her brother, Matt was about four at the time and he was really cool too.

On the day of the move, Saturday, April 14th, 1984 my girlfriend, Helen, and some of her friends helped me transition to my new abode. They even offered to clean the bedsit for me as well. It was a good start to a life that only got better from this point on.

A bedsit is England is quite common. It’s a self contained room within a house. More often than not there are other bedsits within the same building. In some cases there’s an electric oven within the room but I mainly came across communal kitchens in the many that I visited. In my case the landlord lived on the property but most of the time they resided elsewhere.

By now, my attire was one of the most noticeable in town. I wore a ‘1977 Sex Pistols cheesecloth Destroy shirt.’ My dirty red tartan bondage trousers were stained with patchouli oil and led down to my fourteen-hole Dr. Marten boots. (I had to pour a small bottle of this scent over my clothes every other week because they were never washed.)

Chains that wrapped around the soles held on my leather and metal bootstraps. I hung tatters of dirty rags from my waist. The special addition was my ‘bum flap,’ which was a loose piece of tartan material that covered my rear and this was attached with dog clips and chains.

My new bedsit was a couple of blocks away from our very own radioactive beach. It was a small room, but I made it special. I plastered every wall and the whole bay window with posters and photographs creating a huge collage of unfolded faces that stared blankly into the room. I made sure that images of the Sex Pistols dominated the visual experience, as they were the original U.K. punk band that started in London in 1975.

Many of the occupants to this house were even viler than me, washing less frequently. My room was next to the communal bathroom used by seven residents and their guests. The stink seeped into my room continually, but for me it was just another detail that confirmed my initiation into the irreverence of anarchistic rebellion. To me, independence meant constant companionship, middle of the night tripping with friends crowded into my smoky room, and life without hassle.

The only threat to my peace of mind was my landlord, who periodically flew to the front door sporting an axe. This was how he unleashed his true psychopathic tendencies. Unfortunately, his targets were my poor friends whose only crime was in not knowing that I had a separate doorbell. Often, into the early hours, my floor would bring me the sounds rising from the apartment below that my landlord shared with his wife. I would hear pots and pans fly from one side of the room to the other, sometimes missing a wall and breaking the glass that was part of the door.





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