God Save Johnny Rotten

Johnny Rotten is all alone.

He must be, in his way, mourning Queen Elizabeth II, who performed the great unintended service of giving the Sex Pistols a symbol worth sneering at — something the United Kingdom did not have a great store of in 1977. Johnny — he’s been just John Lydon for many years now — lives a quiet life in his comfortable, respectable retirement in California, caring for Nora, his wife of almost 50 years, who has Alzheimer’s. The most famous of his bandmates, Sid Vicious, has been dead for 43 years. Some of the others are still making music, but they could walk into a record store (there are still some) and stand in front of a case of Sex Pistols records without anybody’s noticing them — they are just a few of the remaining children of the 1950s in a world that has moved on.

About the Author

Kevin D. Williamson

Kevin D. Williamson is a former fellow at National Review Institute and a former roving correspondent for National Review.

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Johnny Rotten is all alone.

He must be, in his way, mourning Queen Elizabeth II, who performed the great unintended service of giving the Sex Pistols a symbol worth sneering at — something the United Kingdom did not have a great store of in 1977. Johnny — he’s been just John Lydon for many years now — lives a quiet life in his comfortable, respectable retirement in California, caring for Nora, his wife of almost 50 years, who has Alzheimer’s. The most famous of his bandmates, Sid Vicious, has been dead for 43 years. Some of the others are still making music, but they could walk into a record store (there are still some) and stand in front of a case of Sex Pistols records without anybody’s noticing them — they are just a few of the remaining children of the 1950s in a world that has moved on.