The usual edicts of the pop world were there for the serious punks and boy did they want them. Fame and fortune, forever lurking round the corner from the Marquee, WAG Club or Students' Union. In the same way 'Rock and Rollll, Hey!' minced out of the transistor radio from Gary Glitter, the heart sank at the punk sound. What was the point anymore? Any arsehole was shitting - that was the anarchic attraction.

But in hindsight the punk rocker was the precursor of the High Street McD*n*lds syndrome. Most of  those who partook now consign their teenage activities to natural development, something they grew out of.  Those that remain fortysomething punks are looked upon suspiciously as retro retards receiving the same curious side-glance afforded to Elvis lookalikes. After twenty five years, cars are awarded 'vintage' status. You too now, guys. Jubilee time.

I was there, yet I wasn't. My Bromley associates were looking for the very things their parents probably wished upon them.  It was apparent that their movement was as shallow as the aural adverts they threw together. And as impetuosity begat revenue, it was a.o.k. Yes, you screamed, fuck the folkies, fuck the boring rock stars and fuck everyone over thirty... Your sound was the soundtrack for a generation that consequently knew little about craftsmanship, aural perception, patience or study, let alone musical and performance skill.

It seems perfectly fitting that a generation who presumed adrenalin meant artistry now sires little bastards who thrive on computer games and have little understanding or appreciation of muscianship at all.

Yes, you really fucked us all.