John and Nora

I am sitting here on a lonely Friday writing about the passing of Nora Forster, the wife of John Lydon (aka Johnny Rotten). She succumbed to Alzheimer's at the age of eighty after at least five years of suffering with the disease while her husband took care of her.

And I am wondering what to write about this. I wonder if I should be writing about this.

Listen: I am as cynical as anyone else out there. I am following certain events in the news with disdain and contempt; my summer period looks like I will be struggling for work once again; recent weather conditions have left over a million people here without power, excluding my neighbourhood (why did I miss that one?). I should be depressed by many of the things I see out there, especially when I am dealing the passing of the wife of a man that I have always admired.

However, I am also sitting here with a copy of John Lydon's Rotten: No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs, a book that I have read many times over and still admire (not sure if I will look at the follow up one day). Even my mom surprised me one day when she admitted to have read it and loved it. I still wonder if she was turned by the chapter of his memoir where he describes the moment when he met her.

She was the daughter of a very wealthy German businessman and living in London with another man and working as a music promoter. It was her daughter, Ariana (later to be known as Ari Up), who opened the door to their relationship:

In 1977, Ariana...ran up to John, and said, ''You are the greatest,'' and kissed him.

She was only fourteen and it was on stage at a concert; a Sex Pistols concert when the band was being attacked on the streets and in the media. To jump on stage and be that brazen must have appealed to Mr. Rotten. What kind of a family did this dreadlocked German girl belong to? He wanted to know more.

Not that the feeling was mutual.

I thought they were awful... It was so bang-bang, rock 'n' roll.

To be fair to Nora, one of the bands she was promoting at the time was Wishbone Ash, so her fair ears were probably not ready for the Sex Pistols (most people's were not). But something must have clicked.

(She had l)ong blonde hair. Padded shoulders. That forties femme fatale look - which I was a complete ham for... I was the filthiest thing on earth to her.

Ah, the course of true love... She was also fifteen years older than John, not attracted to him, and could not bear his attitude, going so far at one point as to abandon him in front of a club.

It took hours to get home. She left a lasting impression on my feet.

There would many noisy parties, misunderstandings and general mayhem (even Ariana did not want them to be together at first) before she would admit to an attraction to him.

I fell in love with John because he surprised me. He was pictured really bad, but he had a really sweet attitude... I started to like him, so I seduced him.

How very sweet... The punk and the femme fatale facing a hostile world that wanted them apart, and yet they kept it together.

It was not surprising to me to learn that he took care of her in all those years post-diagnosis, or that he is very heartbroken and feels as though he cannot go on without her. But as I said, I am a cynic when it comes to love. I really did not want to believe that the beloved monster of British punk would be that nice and considerate.

But then I heard that song (a Eurovision entry and tribute to the love of his life):

And I heard one last word on his great love:

We are all here for you, John, even one little cynic wondering where his love is...

Thank you for reading!

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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