(...) It's not the truth of it. It's hell, it's hard, it's horrible. It's enjoyable to a small degree but if you know what you're doing it for, you'll tolerate all that because the work, at the end of the day, is what matters. We managed to offend all the people we were fucking fed up with.
The Labour Party, who'd promised so much after the war had done so little for the working class that the working class were confused about even themselves and didn't even understand what working class meant anymore. It was cold and miserable. No one had any jobs. You couldn't get a job. Everyone was on the dole. If you weren't born into money, then you might as well have kissed your fucking life goodbye, you weren't gonna amount to anything. The germ, the seed of the Sex Pistols generated from that. England was in a state of social upheaval. It was a very, very different time. Total social chaos. There was rioting all over the place. There were strikes on every kind of amenity you could think of. Pound power. The TV channels would go on and off randomly. People were fed up with the old way. The old way was clearly not working. You're told at school, you're told at the job center, you're told by everyone that you don't stand a chance. And you should just accept your lot, and get on with it. That's where you're gonna get the social strife. Hate and war... and race hate. When you feel powerless you will grab any power you can to retain some kind of self-respect.