Boys Don't Cry

If an author takes ten years to write a follow-up to his debut novel, even one as stunning as “The Virgin Suicides”, then the most devoted of fans might be concerned that he had lost his way. However, rest assured that Jeffrey Eugenides’ “Middlesex” was well worth the wait, in the same way that Jonathan Franzen’s “The Corrections” and Donna Tartt’s “The Little Friend” rewarded their readers’ patience. Published in 2002, “Middlesex” is a fabulously exuberant book that deservedly won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Rich in character, history and humour, this larger-than-life tale of the Stephanides family will haunt you long after the dénouement.

The story grabs you right off the bat with an intriguing opening line:

I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974.

Yes, that’s right, the book’s protagonist and narrator, Calliope Stephanides is not like other girls: she’s a hermaphrodite. Raised as a girl, Callie discovers that she’s actually a boy during her teenage years – at least from the perspective of her chromosomes. What’s in her jeans is affected by her genes - the "Jean Genie" of her times. Unlike Gore Vidal’s abrasive gender bender in “Myra Breckinridge and Myron”, Callie is a sweet girl who just happens to grow up to become Cal, a 41-year-old bearded man. Although the condition is, to say the least, confusing for our hero/heroine, it’s nothing new under the sun:

There have been hermaphrodites around forever, Cal. Forever. Plato said that the original human being was a hermaphrodite. Did you know that? The original person was two halves, one male, one female. Then these got separated. That's why everybody's always searching for their other half. Except for us. We've got both halves already.

"Men who stare at goatees"

Although the book’s title is a reference to the Stephanides’ family address in the Detroit suburb of Grosse Pointe, it is more to do with what it means to occupy the middle ground, not just the complex state of mind (and body) between male and female, but also Greek and American, and even past and present. Callie’s attempts to find the balance between her female and male halves is matched by her family’s efforts to reconcile their Greek heritage with their adopted American culture. In this sense, “Middlesex” is two books in one: a coming of age novel and a (Big Fat Greek) family saga. In fact, it’s also something of a detective novel, as Cal explores his past to explain how he came to be this way (no, that way), so much so that Cal’s over-active imagination allows him to be a witness to his own conception, just like Laurence Sterne’s “Tristram Shandy”.

However, there’s nothing fair to middling about this book. No, it’s an ambitious novel that spans three generations and two continents, managing to blend the many different family affairs into a captivating whole. It may be an epic, but it’s also a set of intensely personal memoirs, as Callie delves deeply into the sprawling history of her relatives to understand who she is.

"On your bike"

The investigation takes us all the way back to the war between Greece and Turkey in 1922, when we first meet Callie’s (incestuous) paternal grandparents. Lefty Stephanides and his sister Desdemona were orphaned during the conflict and only escaped the Great Fire of Smyrna by emigrating to America. Their village had been so ravaged by the hostilities that only two women remained as marriage candidates for Lefty, neither of which appealed to him, so he decided to follow his heart and marry his sister Desdemona after an amusing courtship on the sea journey, when the siblings pretended to be strangers who had just met.

They eventually reach the United States and move to Detroit, where they stay at the home of their cousin Lina and her husband Jimmy. By an incredible coincidence, the two women become pregnant on the same night, Desdemona giving birth to a son, Milton, while Lina has a little girl, Tessie. In another twist in the Stephanides’ family fortunes, Milton marries Tessie, his second cousin – a union that would prove fateful for the gene pool when they had two children of their own. First on the scene was a boy, curiously named Chapter Eleven, so Tessie was desperate for a daughter for the second child, timing her love making to produce the desired result. In 1960 they got what they wanted when Calliope was born, the half-blind family doctor failing to spot any anomaly. Equally amazing was the parents’ inability to notice anything different about their beautiful baby girl, though Callie later finds it hard to believe that Milton and Tessie were ever capable of anything:

Is there anything as incredible as the love story of your own parents? Anything as hard to grasp as the fact that these two over-the-hill players, permanently on the disabled list, were once in the starting lineup?

"On me head, son"

Thus, the rogue gene began its journey with the unnatural coupling of Callie’s grandparents in a village on Mount Olympus, the mythological home of the Greek gods, and eventually flowered in her unfortunate body nearly forty years later, when the shameful secret hidden in the family’s past caught up with her. A loser in the Greek version of “The Generation Game”, you can imagine poor Callie saying, “Not nice to see you, to see you … not nice!”

In this way, Callie is born with a rare genetic anomaly called 5-alpha-reductase deficiency, an affliction that usually only affects inbred communities. Although some may shy away from a person that is not “normal”, Callie is portrayed as a highly sympathetic individual – a character that is achingly, recognizably human who manages to overcome her own Greek tragedy with humour and sang-froid, as she gains your acceptance and wins your affection. Eugenides tenderly describes her plight without being overly sentimental, so you don’t just feel sorry for her, but actively want her to overcome her challenges.

"A class act"

From certain angles, “Middlesex” could be considered as an addition to the many stories of adolescent angst, albeit one of the strangest (less coming of age, more coming into her own), as it taps into the usual anxieties and uncertainties of the teenage years, when nervous excitement at new experiences combines with a dread of humiliation. During this most awkward phase of her life, Callie’s youthful fear of being different is exacerbated when she fails to develop into womanhood at the same rate as her classmates, remaining flat chested and waiting in vain for her first period. She first begins to question her sexuality when she falls for her best friend, the magnificently named Obscure Object of Desire (shades of the mysterious teenage attractions in “The Virgin Suicides”), but it is only when she sneaks a peek at a doctor’s report that she discovers that she has the genes of a male. Worse still, although she’s genetically a boy, as she has been brought up as a girl, the medical advice is to perform a “procedure” (effectively a castration) to definitively make her female.

In fact, transformation is Eugenides’ central conceit, a belief that everything – and everyone – is on the point of turning into something else. Girls become women, boys become girls, Greeks become Americans and even silkworms become silk (as part of Desdemona’s sericulture). Although “Middlesex” owes a great deal to the ancient Greek poets, it has been influenced at least as much by the Romans (particularly Ovid’s “Metamorphoses”), as acknowledged by the author: “Latin literature, Ovid and Virgil, was the first writing I studied line by line. These were epics, sometimes epics of transformation, and when I look at my work I realise that influenced me enormously”. You can see this with the parallels drawn between Callie’s double identity and the relationship of her grandparents, who transform themselves from siblings to lovers after they leave the Greek islands.

"Aaah, we fade to grey"

One of Eugenides’ great strengths is his ability to find a voice that is “capable of telling epic events in the third person and psychosexual events in the first person. It had to render the experience of a teenage girl and an adult man, or an adult male-identified hermaphrodite”. He elegantly achieves this, managing to switch between Callie and Cal without disrupting the balance of the narrative, by giving both sides of the coin some qualities that are easily transferable between genders, such as intelligence, insight and humour.

In Greek mythology, Calliope was the muse of heroic poetry, but the protagonist’s name is not the only way that Eugenides incorporates the Greek imprint into his modern tale. Apart from generally viewing America’s growing pains through the eyes of the Greek Orthodox community, there are references to the failed presidential campaign by Michael Dukakis (the Greek-American JFK), while the aunt who prefers the company of women is coyly described within the family as “one of those women they named the island after”. You might think that it’s all Greek to Eugenides, as the Greek-American writer was also raised in Detroit and then moved to Berlin, just like his hero, but obviously it’s only autobiographical up to a point …

"Behind bars"

Detroit is almost a character in the book, as its native son captures the Motor City’s sad beauty and sense of danger with all the loving attention that James Joyce bestowed on Dublin in “Ulysses”. Callie’s struggles somehow become a metaphor for the city, as Eugenides paints an affectionate, but exasperated look at what has become of urban America and its ambitious dreams:

Planning is for the world's great cities, for Paris, London, and Rome, for cities dedicated, at some level, to culture. Detroit, on the other hand, was an American city and therefore dedicated to money, and so design had given way to expediency.

The chase for the mighty Dollar is epitomised by the description of Lefty’s dehumanising job on the Ford production line, which also reflects the theme of transformation running through the book:

At first, workers rebelled. They quit in droves, unable to accustom their bodies to the new pace of the age. Since then, however, the adaptation has passed down: we've all inherited it to some degree, so that we plug right into joysticks and remotes, to repetitive motions of 100 kinds.

"A Detroit Piston"

The book is full of such clever insights, but it is not afraid of sentiment, so Eugenides regards the most ridiculous members of the Stephanides family with unreserved sympathy. The character development is superb with each of the many people we encounter in this multi-generational saga forging a unique personality that encourages the reader to really empathise with them. It’s a broad church, featuring entrepreneurs, charlatans, hippies, lesbians, corrupt priests, burlesque performers and even housewives, but Eugenides’ gift is taking characters on the edge of society and making us see ourselves in them. There is an abundance of warmth and humour in these eccentrics, but as with all Greek classics, tragedy often waits around the corner, though there is one twist that very few will anticipate.

The book is set against the turbulent history of 20th century America, which not only perfectly captures the confusion and emotions of the time, but also beautifully fills out the features of the locations and their communities. There is a wealth of detail here, as Eugenides observes the key changes affecting the American Dream: Prohibition, the Great Depression, the Second World War, the Civil Rights movement, race riots and the Vietnam War. This solid foundation of historical fact incorporates so much period detail that it helps make the core story believable, despite all the absurdities and the numerous flights of fancy, including a keen ear for the dialogue of the time, such as when Chapter Eleven explains his refusal to use deodorant during his hippie phase: “I’m a human. This is what humans smell like”.

"Meet the new Geography teacher"

As well as tragedy, Eugenides is proficient at finding a gently ironic humour in situations or even names, such as Callie’s brother Chapter Eleven, which refers to his subsequent bankruptcy. The combination of dry, dark comedy with a shimmering nostalgia is reminiscent of his first book “The Virgin Suicides”, which also managed to find some laughs in the blackest of subjects, namely five girls from the same family all committing suicide. Of course, Eugenides could have taken the easy option of making cheap jokes about sexual identity in “Middlesex”, but he avoids any temptation to deal with the subject in a voyeuristic fashion, instead handling the material (sorry) with great delicacy. He opts for a sweetly comic – and ultimately more persuasive – approach, which tries “not to make something mundane strange, but rather, something that is somewhat more freaky, more normal”.

The point is that every human being, not just Callie, is subject to the whims and caprices of fate. However unique each of us may be, in reality we are the culmination of a random journey through social history and genetics; the product of other people’s decisions, desires and destinies. The archaic Greek notion of fate has been supplanted by the fashionable theme of genetics, but the song remains the same, as Callie well understands:

But in the end it wasn't up to me. The big things never are. Birth, I mean, and death. And love. And what love bequeaths to us before we're born.

She understood that her heart operated on its own instructions, that she had no control over it or, indeed, anything else.

"Lean on me"

Other members of her family are less aware of this important truth. In their pursuit of love and success, they too often forget the lessons of their Greek forbears. Time and again, these loveable characters attempt to cheat fate with predictable, sometimes tragic, but always engaging results.

Ultimately, I think that the book’s essential message is the importance of finding your own identity and learning to become comfortable with that, as Cal does when he first escapes to San Francisco and then Berlin. In a poignant moment of self-realisation, he refuses to be something that he isn’t:

I live my own life and nurse my own wounds. It's not the best way to live. But it's the way I am. It's amazing what you can get used to.

Can you see me? All of me? Probably not. No one ever really has. We're all made up of many parts, other halves. Not just me.

Identity is something that everyone struggles with, so Cal’s struggle is not only tender and honest, but is also relevant to all of us. Eugenides has taken the greatest mystery of all (Who are we? Where do we come from?) and crafted an answer of sorts that is both illuminating and imaginative. Funnier, more compassionate and even more educational than the Hilary Swank vehicle “Boys Don’t Cry”, which tackled a similar subject, “Middlesex” is a triumphant affirmation of love, the human spirit and the right of everyone to lead the life of their own choosing, even if that means having it both ways.

The Boy Looked At Johnny

Following his appearances in “I’m A Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here!” and the advertising campaign for Country Life butter, some people were eager to label John Lydon (Johnny Rotten that was) as a sell-out. The Sex Pistols’ reputation was further tarnished when the original members reunited in 1996 for the aptly named Filthy Lucre tour, an obvious money making exercise. It would be easy for latter day music fans to dismiss the Pistols as just another band and wonder what all the fuss was about during the punk era.

Fair enough, but nobody who was around at the time will ever forget the intoxicating moment when they first heard “Anarchy in the UK” or “God Save the Queen”. These exhilarating punk classics sounded a ferocious blast through the musty halls of the establishment, blowing away the boundaries of what had previously been considered socially acceptable, as they embraced controversy with a rebel yell.

"Champagne Supernova"

“Anarchy” might be considered the first punk hit single, one of the greatest rallying cries in music history, a perfect anthem for teenage youth at the time. The music journalist John Robb described the impact of the record, “From Steve Jones’ opening salvo of descending chords, to Johnny Rotten’s fantastic sneering vocals, this song is the perfect statement … a stunningly powerful piece of punk politics … a lifestyle choice, a manifesto that heralds a new era”. This record immediately established the Pistols’ potent dance stance – aggrieved, euphoric and nihilistic. Rotten’s manic cackle at the beginning of the song sets the tone for the derisive lyrics: “Right! Now! Ha ha ha ha ha/I am an anti-christ/I am an anarchist/Don't know what I want/But I know how to get it”.

This heady mix of punk rock and a highly politicised attitude was maybe even surpassed in “God Save the Queen” with its virulent anti-monarchy message. Although the single’s release was timed to coincide with Queen Elizabeth’s Silver Jubilee celebrations, the band always claimed that it had not been written specifically for this event. Whatever the motives, the effect was sensational, as the Pistols famously performed the song on a boat sailing down the River Thames, passing Westminster Pier and the Houses of Parliament: “God save the Queen/Her fascist regime/They made you a moron/Potential H-bomb”. Without any radio airplay, the song reached number two on the BBC charts – and many believed that it was only kept off the top spot by a conspiracy. Either way, for the impact the song made on the public consciousness, this was arguably punk’s crowning glory.

"Flag day"

It was sorely needed. The rock world had settled for the bland, safe music purveyed by the likes of Abba, ELO, Foreigner and the Bee Gees. The bloated arrogance and complacency of these old farts was utterly irrelevant to the younger generation, as they had few aspirations to changing things. Instead, these groups were happy to maintain a middle of the road state of affairs, while a few wealthy superstars like Elton John haughtily wore the gaudy trappings of the nouveau riche rock aristocracy, as opposed to writing any decent songs.

Then there was the social context in which the Sex Pistols came together, which Lydon eloquently described: “Early Seventies Britain was a very depressing place. It was completely run-down. There was trash on the streets, mass unemployment, just about everybody was on strike. Everybody was brought up with an education system that told you point blank that if you came from the wrong side of the tracks, then you had no hope in hell and no career prospects at all”. Throw in the high taxes, power cuts and feeble music and it became clear that disillusioned youngsters had almost nothing to look forward to. The optimism of the 60s was just a distant memory. It was in this atmosphere that punk was conceived – to channel the anger of dole queue Britain.

"Johnny B. Goode"

At the forefront of the uprising were the Sex Pistols, featuring Johnny Rotten – a frontman, lyricist and vocalist like no other. Visually, he was ideal with spiky green hair, a permanent sneer on his face and a ripped “I hate Pink Floyd” t-shirt, but he also possessed a fierce intelligence and astonishing onstage charisma. The truth was that Rotten was far cleverer than people appreciated, as the most cursory listen to the provocative, anti-establishment lyrics that so successfully skewered Britain’s disintegrating society would have revealed.

His bitterly sarcastic attacks on pretentious affectation were deliberately carried out in the most confrontational, challenging manner imaginable. Nobody could miss the frustration, rage and venom in Rotten’s startlingly original rabid delivery. Few moments in popular music can match his guttural cry of “No future for you”. Every word was spat out with contempt as he dissected the moribund social order, using inflammatory language and profanity that was downright shocking at the time, but somehow his message was still uplifting.

"Twist and Shout"

Rotten’s genius is one of the reasons why the Sex Pistols’ only studio album “Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols” is just about the most exciting rock’n’roll record of the 70s – a truly inspirational work that is powerful, angry and not afraid of anything. Although some die-hard zealots foolishly believed that the Pistols releasing an album somehow damaged the punk mythology, the rest of us gloried in its sustained excellence, as the brilliance of the quartet of early singles was matched by the other tracks. Yes, there was a hint of “greatest hits” about the disc, as it included “Pretty Vacant” and “Holidays in the Sun”, as well as the first two masterpieces, but it does mean that the album stands as an exemplary tribute to the band’s vision.

Anybody seeking a generational anthem for the period needs look no further than “Pretty Vacant”, which was even shown on “Top of the Pops”, highlighting what it was like to be young, just hanging around: “I don't believe illusions/Cause too much is real/So stop your cheap comment/Cause we know what we feel/Oh, we're so pretty/Oh so pretty/We're vacant”. The last authentic Pistols hit was the apocalyptic “Holidays in the Sun”, which was inspired by the Pistols’ trip to Berlin to escape the constant threat of violence in the UK. Opening to the sound of crunching Nazi jackboots, the uncompromising lyrics painted a sobering image with the first line, “A cheap holiday in other people’s misery”, and followed this with a search for the “new Belsen”. Nasty stuff, but the history they were describing was indubitably evil, so they justifiably gave it both barrels.

"Oh you silly thing"

The Sex Pistols are rightly regarded as one of the most influential groups in the history of popular music and the impact of “Never Mind the Bollocks” cannot be over-stated. This was an album that altered the face of rock music forever. Although there had been plenty of protest records before, there had never been anything that felt as remotely dangerous or anarchic and there’s probably never been anything quite like it since. It was punk’s great wake-up call, a new beginning that brutally erased all that went before, when, just for a moment, music seemed capable of changing everything, such was the hysteria in the air.

In the context of today’s world where any limits of taste and decency have been all but forgotten, much of the Sex Pistols’ shock value looks tame, but everything about them was controversial back in the 70s. They sparked intense outrage with lyrics that took no prisoners, as well as Jamie Reid’s iconic cover art. Everything was designed to shock, from the garish pink and yellow colours on the album cover, to the track listing in a typeface reminiscent of anonymous ransom demands, to the ripped up Union flag held together by safety pins.

"Razor sharp"

Of course, the album’s title was not just considered to be provocative, but, incredible as it might seem now, was actually accused of being obscene, leading to it being banned by major chains like WH Smith, Boots and Woolworths and even the prosecution of a Virgin record shop owner for displaying it in the window. However, eminent QC (and wonderful author) John Mortimer successfully argued that “bollocks” was a legitimate Old English term, originally used to refer to priests, now meaning “nonsense”, which forced the chairman of the hearing to grudgingly conclude: “Much as my colleagues and I wholeheartedly deplore the vulgar exploitation of the worst instincts of human nature for the purchases of commercial profits by both you and your company, we must reluctantly find you not guilty of each of the four charges”.

For the Pistols, nothing was sacred and no target was spared, as they attacked the monarchy, British society, its institutions, social order and (some believed) public morality and common decency. It’s difficult to deny that they raged, maybe not against the dying of the light, but certainly against conservative attitudes. Lydon’s Catholic upbringing emerged with a scathing condemnation of abortion in the harrowing “Bodies”, inspired by the infamous Pauline from Birmingham, one of the many lunatics following the band around: “She was an animal/She was a bloody disgrace/Body, I'm not an animal/Mummy, I’m not an abortion”. Equally filled with loathing was the criticism of “E.M.I.”, their former record label who dropped them only days after signing the band: “And you thought that we were faking/That we were all just money making”.

"Usual tabloid under-reaction"

Britain had no idea how to handle the Sex Pistols phenomenon, with intensely disapproving press coverage leading to many gigs being cancelled. The exotically named London Councillor, Bernard Brook Partridge, typified the common reaction of local governments: ”Most of these groups would be vastly improved by sudden death. The worst of the punk groups I suppose currently are the Sex Pistols. They are unbelievably nauseating. They are the antithesis of humankind. I would like to see somebody dig a very, very large, exceedingly deep hole and drop the whole bloody lot down it”.

Debatably, what made the authorities so nervous was that underneath the shock tactics and rampant negativity, there were forceful social critiques carefully designed for maximum impact. The Sex Pistols spoke to a new generation of kids, perfectly articulating their unhappiness with an intensity that few other bands could capture. Although they sang about not caring, it was clear that Lydon was far from apathetic: “If we had an aim, it was to force our own, working class opinions into the mainstream, which was unheard of in pop music at the time. You don’t write God Save the Queen because you hate the English race. You write it because you’re sick of the way they are being treated”.

"Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon"

Their sense of despair came through in “Problems”, which targeted the humdrum, “Eat your heart out on a plastic tray/You don't do what you want/Then you'll fade away” and the terrace chant of “Seventeen”, which described young people giving up before they had even really begun their lives. Guitarist Steve Jones said, “Everybody goes through that period. Unfortunately, most English people stay there”.

Loud, raucous and irreverent, “Never Mind the Bollocks” was punk at its very best, when it was still a force for change, before it became fashionable and even acceptable. The gusto of their performance is too convincing for it to be an act and you really believe Rotten, when he screams, “We mean it, man”, but the man himself would later be contemptuous about what punk had become: “The term's been applied to a genre of music and it's been transformed into a uniform and a list of rules, regulations and rigid attitudes. It's humorless, bland outright copying. It's fake, and I don't like it. It's the enemy”.

"The Scream"

In a funny way, the Sex Pistols gave comfort to both sides on the question of social decline. Their fans thought that their music reflected the gloom and doom around them, while their critics saw their presence as further evidence of the downward spiral. “Shot by Both Sides”, if you will. The group offered no particular alternatives to the prevailing system, only attacking the status quo (in both senses) as vehemently as possible. In the end, the only thing they destroyed was themselves – in the case of Sid Vicious, quite literally – and it was hardly their fault that they only cleared the way for the rise of Thatcherism, though they had spookily predicted it in “No Feelings”, with its “Looking After Number One” attitude: “I got no emotion for anybody else/Better understand I'm in love with myself”.

Ironically, the band’s unsavoury reputation turned out to be advantageous in the world of commerce, especially when they came to the public’s attention with a bout of swearing during Bill Grundy’s televised interview on the “Today” programme. As Virgin’s Richard Branson commented, “They generated more newspaper cuttings than anything else in 1977 apart from the Silver Jubilee itself. Their notoriety was practically a tangible asset”. This resulted in the album selling extremely well, proving that as well as challenging existing values, it was also something that people would want to buy – despite the apparent contradictions with the punk philosophy. As The Clash would later sing, “turning rebellion into money”.

"Take a chance on me"

Since the early demise of the Pistols, their former manager Malcolm McLaren has lost no opportunity to tell the world that he was the mastermind behind their seditious approach, a master manipulator, a crafty Svengali. While there is little disagreement about his marketing talent or his ability to improvise a media circus, my own view is that he was actually a chancer who got lucky, who initially was more interested in selling his punk clothes. The band ridiculed him in their songs with the self-explanatory “Liar” and “New York”, which mocked McLaren’s stories about his role in the punk scene in the Big Apple. The always-quotable Lydon dismissed McLaren’s influence, "We made our own scandal just by being ourselves. Maybe it was that he knew he was redundant, so he overcompensated”. Even the laid-back drummer, Paul Cook agreed, “Malcolm milked situations. He didn’t instigate them; that was always our doing”.

Nor was this just the story of Johnny Rotten (as Neil Young might have you believe). The music has a raw energy, producing a tight, abrasive sound that complements the biting lyrics with simple, effective chords. Steve Jones’ multi-layered guitars created a veritable wall of noise with retro riffs that were straightforward, but devastatingly effective, like the spine-tingling intro to “Pretty Vacant”. The other half of the engine room was his mate Paul Cook, whose no-nonsense drumming style provided a pounding beat. Although in many ways the album sounded like a rejection of everything that rock music had to offer, it’s deep, rich sound was also surprisingly traditional, thanks to experienced producer Chris Thomas and there were echoes of rock dinosaurs like The Doors, The Who and The Kinks on tracks like “Submission”.

"Some band before Rich Kids"

Some accused the Pistols of being influenced by The Ramones, but Lydon dismissed this accusation in his own unique manner, “They were all long-haired and of no interest to me. I didn’t like their image, what they stood for or anything about them. They were hilarious, but you can only go so far with duh-dur-duh-dur. I’ve heard it. Next. Move on”. What is undeniable is the influence that the Sex Pistols had on other bands. Within a year of “Anarchy”, countless other teenagers had picked up guitars, mastered three chords and formed punk bands, while legends like The Clash, Buzzcocks and Siouxsie and the Banshees have all cited the Pistols as their inspiration. Members of Joy Division, The Fall and The Smiths remember seeing the Pistols play the Manchester Free Trade Hall back in 1976, while even later the likes of Nirvana and Oasis acknowledged their debt to punk’s originals. Morrissey put it best, “I think they changed the world and I’m very grateful for that”.

While Rotten clearly had plenty to say for himself, the music was largely written by the original bassist, Glen Matlock and his creative input was badly missed, after he was thrown out of the band for “liking The Beatles”. His replacement, Sid Vicious, may have had the look and reputation on the punk scene, but he couldn’t play a note and his arrival marked the beginning of the end. Vicious (or Mr. Ferocious, as Freddie Mercury once called him) went on to become punk’s cartoon figurehead, but in reality he was little more than a gigantic dickhead, finally overdosing on heroin in 1979. As Marco Pirroni, later to come to fame with Adam and the Ants, said, after Matlock’s departure, “it was nothing to do with music anymore. It would just be for the sensationalism and scandal of it all”.

"The Thin White Duke"

In many ways, “Never Mind the Bollocks” signalled the beginning of the end for the Sex Pistols, as they broke up only three months after its release, when Johnny Rotten famously finished the 1978 San Francisco gig by asking the audience, “Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?” The Sex Pistols were great and then they were gone. After all the mischief and mayhem is stripped away, this is an utterly magnificent album, one of the most influential ever. In “Sound of the Suburbs”, The Members ironically sang, “They play too fast, they play out of tune/And I … can't hear the words”. And that was the point: if you didn’t get the Sex Pistols, they weren’t meant for you.

Big Fat Idiot

How quickly things can become stale. Take the annual panel show (comedy is too strong a word) “The Big Fat Quiz of the Year”, which was first broadcast only five years ago in December 2004. It now seems incredible that viewers once considered this programme original, anarchic or even faintly amusing, as it has now morphed into a tired collection of in-jokes and tried and trusted anecdotes. At its inception, this was edgy, funny television, but it’s time to kill it off, as it has now become a pathetic parody of itself and is clearly only an excuse to feed the insatiable egos of some of the guests. Yes, I am looking at you, Jonathan Ross.

For anyone who has enjoyed the good fortune of never watching this annual bore-fest, it is a bit like a pub quiz, only without the ambience and wit of your local. Three teams of two publicity seekers (sorry, celebrities) have to answer questions relating to events of the past year, presumably in a witty and engaging manner. Not that you would necessarily guess, as the over-riding objective seems to be to massage the vanity of the contestants.

"Act your age"

The lofty ambitions of the enterprise are established “early doors” (as Big Ron would have said), when the celebrities are invited to demonstrate their rapier-like wit by naming their teams. Hence, Rob Brydon and Claudia Winkleman opted for “The Newlyweds”, because one is a man and one is a woman. Yes, I know – it didn’t make me smile either. Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand went for the immensely self-serving “The Moral Minority” in the first of countless tedious references to the Sachsgate affair, which they appeared to have forgotten took place not in 2009, but in October 2008. Why not go the whole hog and call themselves the “Sex Pistols”? After all, isn’t Brand some sort of sex god? And I suppose that Ross might consider himself a bit of a pistol, a son of a gun, though on this performance others might prefer son of a b… (I think you get the message).

David Mitchell and Charlie Brooker advertised their intellectual, uncompromising stance with “Ignorance and Want”, the ghastly children in Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol”. Not a bad effort, which, of course, went straight over the head of the imbeciles in the audience, who were primed to laugh at every single inane, headline grabbing remark, but managed to miss anything that was genuinely funny. So, every time Brand tossed his ludicrously coiffured locks, he was given an ovation by the adoring crowds, but the one time he exhibited some genuine wit, it took the audience ages to catch on:

Ross: I spent three months looking at cats on the Internet.

Brand: I did a similar thing.

"Can I be your best friend?"

Brand’s tiresome obsession with sex meant that he had the ideal partner in Ross, because he was up his backside for the duration of the show. In fact, if they had blended this programme with the “Apprentice” spoof about a loathsome boss televised a few years back, they could have re-branded (geddit) it as “My Big Fat Obnoxious Ross”, as he was easily the worst thing about the show – against some pretty stiff opposition.

There has been a lot of public outrage over Ross's exorbitant BBC salary and some recent talk about this being reduced by at least 50%, but I think that his managers are missing the point here. It’s not so much that people are unhappy with the amount of money he earns, but more that they don’t think he’s worth any money at all. Or, put more bluntly, isn’t it time that Ross’s twelve-week suspension for leaving a series of obscene messages on the 79-year-old actor Andrew Sachs’ answerphone was given a rather more permanent status? At least his partner-in-crime Brand did the decent thing and resigned from the BBC, while Ross treated his punishment as an extended holiday before once again poking his snout into the trough.

"Mutton dressed as lamb"

You would have thought that he would have learned his lesson, but you can’t keep a good playground bully down, as we saw with his puerile hectoring of David Mitchell during the quiz. This was because Mitchell quite correctly refused to be the performing monkey to Ross’s organ grinder, when Wossy berated him for not dancing to Lady Gaga’s dreadful “Poker Face”. This was a deeply embarrassing display from Ross, as he “busted a few moves” (to quote the man himself) in a desperate attempt to show that he is “down with the kids” (again, a direct quote from Mr. Ego). You felt like you’d gatecrashed the party of your nightmares where a fat old man had totally nailed the charade for “a dad dancing at a wedding”. Here we had a 49-year-old chubster trying to pretend that he was still somehow young and hip, while teasing another middle-aged man about his inability to dance. I feel sorry for Ross’s children, who no doubt were squirming in mortification at their father’s exhibition.

Ross seemed blissfully unaware that the more he tried to humiliate Mitchell, apparently for the crime of being more intelligent and witty than Mr. Showbiz, the more he showed himself up as a narcissistic buffoon. As he became more childish, I wondered whether Ross had persecuted his mates at school in a similar way and fervently hoped that one of them had punched him in the face – after all, they could hardly miss. However, I fear that in the same way he hangs around the likes of Russell Brand like a bad smell today, he would probably have also hung on the coat tails of the cool kids at school, so coming under their protection. Oops, bit of a double meaning there, which I’m sure that Ross as a master of smutty innuendo would appreciate.

"Never mind the quality, feel the salary"

In another wretched attempt to appear trendy, Ross decided to diss Twitter as being full of banal contributions. WTF? This is a man whose contributions to the latest social network are hardly going to trouble Oscar Wilde’s memory. Yesterday’s highlight was “I am off for a post-minestrone nap. See you later”. Oh no you won’t, sunshine. Talk about having your cake and eating it – lots in his case. To be fair, he did use Twitter to slam the quality of TV over Christmas, which few would argue with, though they might counsel him to leave the glass house before starting to throw rocks.

Surely I am not the only one who is sick to death of seeing Ross’s smug visage all over the aptly named idiot box? I would again blame the BBC for his ubiquitous, oily presence, as whenever they think they have an asset they certainly know how to sweat it. Take David Tennant, whose spiky-haired, astonished expression could be seen absolutely everywhere over the festive period, like the beer of the same name on the streets of Glasgow, making the most of the incredible success of Doctor Who – though this is the same corporation who suspended production of the show in 1989 for fifteen years, so I suppose that they can’t even take much credit for that.

"When will I, will I be famous?"

At least Tennant does not have a sibling in the world of show business, unlike Jonathan, whose older brother Paul is even more vomit-inducing than the chat show king. He’s an awful movie critic, whose work is barely good enough for those august journals “News of the World" and “Daily Star Sunday”. His acidic comments are left far behind when he (frequently) attempts to scramble upon the celebrity bandwagon, appearing on “Comic Relief Does Fame Academy”, “Celebrity Mastermind”, “Celebrity Weakest Link” and, most embarrassingly, “Celebrity Stars in Their Eyes” as Tommy Steele. The only humorous thing about Paul Ross is an Internet campaign to take the mickey out of a portrait of the great man on Amazon, which has attracted nearly 300 ironic comments, e.g. “If you only buy one 20 inch canvas print of Paul Ross this year, this is the one to get”.

Jonathan, a man that the great Frankie Boyle described as “a £500 haircut on top of a melting mound of ice cream”, was paired with Russell Brand, most probably in a deliberate attempt to get publicity from the permanently outraged hacks at the “Daily Mail”, but the only result as far as I could see was a relatively subdued exhibition from perhaps the country’s biggest exhibitionist. His constant references to last year’s belittling of Manuel only emphasised how tired and irritating his routine has become. Apart from an absolutely abysmal piece of “acting” in the eminently forgettable “Forgetting Sarah Marshall”, what else has he done in 2009? His feeble efforts at getting a laugh on the “Big Fat Quiz” were encapsulated by his child-like drawing of a plane to illustrate the story of the pilot landing on the Hudson in New York. He clearly missed last year’s partner, Noel Fielding, who’s also not particularly funny, but was a vast improvement on the shouty “Rosser” sitting next to him this time round.

"What do you mean, I'm Welsh?"

Serial Welshman, Rob Brydon, also appears to have lost his mojo, probably in the enormously over-rated “Gavin and Stacey”, which now seems to be more of a soap opera than a comedy. Brydon’s little man trapped in a box is admittedly very good, but is there anyone that hasn’t seen this routine by now? I’ve personally heard it on at least five different shows in the last fortnight alone. Of course, he’s very good at impressions, but they’re usually of people who left the limelight 30 years ago like Ronnie Corbett, so why not just get Mike Yarwood? To be honest, impressions just aren’t funny anyway, as anybody who saw Alistair McGowan’s execrable performance on last week’s “Live at the Apollo”, when he was effortlessly outshone by the emerging talents of Kevin Bridges and Reginald D Hunter, would undoubtedly agree. At least Uncle Bryn got into the spirit of this year’s “Big Fat Quiz”, when he bullied host Jimmy Carr by constantly mimicking his laugh (like a “molested seal” according to the genuinely witty Carr) – not funny the first time, it certainly got no funnier each time he repeated the “joke”.

"Are you sitting comfortably?"

As Charlie Brooker observed, at this point the over-long (two hours!) show had been reduced to “just a series of noises”, which prompted the useless Claudia Winkleman to give us the benefit of her horse impersonation. There’s no foal like an old foal, I suppose. Although this was an incisive contribution, Brooker is rapidly turning out to be a right Charlie. So brilliantly acerbic in print, he struggles to deliver in person and appeared in awe of his fellow panelists. You can see why he took the writing route, as he’s not very quick on his feet, only once demonstrating the verbal dexterity that his readers in the “Guardian” know so well, when he described his own dancing as “like a frightened horse on a frozen lake”. Usually on such shows, he goes for a cheap laugh by using the word “shit” as his pejorative adjective of choice. Unfortunately, like a PR man turning into the story, he is a writer famous for eviscerating rubbish television who now appears all too often on sub-par nonsense like the “Big Fat Quiz”. How can he now critically review terrible TV shows with a clean conscience when he features in so many of them himself?

"Put on your dancing shoes"

Winkleman gormlessly played the part of the token woman, which is annoying on at least two levels. First, she is spectacularly unfunny, invariably using some totally inappropriate street slang (“hello?”, “whatever”) in the place of anything resembling humour in a bid to become this year’s Davina McCall (the undisputed queen of the inane, wide-mouthed comment). Secondly, her presence prevents authentic female talents, such as Lucy Porter, Sarah Millican or even Josie Long taking her place. Or how about Victoria Coren, who would definitely have the balls to stand up to the sexist insinuation that Ross loves so much. Instead, we have to suffer Winkleman, who contributes precisely nothing, except maybe a deep orange glow on a cold, dark night.

"The Day The World Turned Day-Glo"

The only contestant that made me laugh consistently was David Mitchell, whose intelligent wit stood out like a diamond in a dustbin. He managed to rise above Ross’s increasingly awkward efforts to induce him to dance, e.g. renaming Mitchell’s team “The Dancing Queens” – oh stop it, my aching sides. Mitchell is the real deal, a comedian who can speak well and amusingly on whatever topic is thrown at him. Brand and Ross should look and learn from a master at work, someone who long ago realised that you don’t need to scream and yell to be funny (even in 2010).

Nor do you have to abuse others for a cheap laugh. Speaking of which, where was Ricky Gervais, given that he’s Jonathan Ross’s great mate? His absence can only mean that he has nothing to plug at the moment, no awful film like “The Invention of Lying”, crappy children’s book like “Flanimals” or dreary stand-up like “Politics”. OK, his seminal comedy “The Office”, based on an idea by his writing partner Stephen Merchant, was absolutely superb, but increasingly Gervais resembles a one-trick pony, as his later ventures pale in comparison. To be fair, let’s call him a two-trick pony, as the podcasts with Merchant and Karl Pilkington are also hilarious.

"The Producers - Mr & Mrs Ross"

The comedy world feels just a bit too incestuous at the moment. Even the genial host, Jimmy Carr, is at least as famous for being the tennis buddy of Jonathan Ross as he is for his one-liners. If “The Big Fat Quiz of the Year” really aims to feature the hottest comedy talent around, then Ross surely should be nowhere near the show. In fact, he has appeared every year since it started, except 2008 when he gave it a miss due to the public outrage after his infamous phone call to Sachs. Maybe we should ask the show’s producer why Ross always has a seat at the table? She’s called Jane Goldman – better known as Mrs. Jonathan Ross.