The Goy Looked at Johnny – John Lydon Cavan Town Hall Thurs 11 September

Arguably the chippiest of a rag-tag assemblage of first generation Irish working-class immigrants whose prominent members include Kevin Rowland and Shane McGowan (not to mention lesser though by no means less chippy luminaries like YT), JL has never been one to “back down.” It’s a mantra he will repeatedly use throughout this evening’s show when explaining the upbringing in London’s Irish diaspora that shaped both him and his take-no-prisoners attitude in later life.

Given the horrors inflicted on the country by first Cromwell and later the various UK governments and landowners during the potato famine of the mid-1840s, Ireland and its people have always been quick and vociferous in calling out injustices, both real and perceived.

The 20 or so Pro-Palestinian demonstrators gathered outside Cavan Town Hall the night the John Lydon Circus when its spoken word iteration rolled into town were no less galvanized. Ever the iconoclast, the Rotten One had doubtless clocked many of the same faces occupying the seats inside the smallish (244-pax) venue when he took to the stage and girded his loins accordingly.

Proceedings kicked off with the AITUHM bounding onstage to Bowie’s John I’m Only Dancing. Spanning everything from Cliff to Joe Meek, his pre-show and interval music was he argued – rather convincingly it must be said – as good overview of the true wellspring of punk in the UK as one might find. “We’d never heard of the fucking Ramones” and “the New York Dolls were just a rip off of The Sweet”, he sneered.

Hostilities commence in earnest with JL”s equal parts harrowing, funny and moving retelling of his experience as the child of Irish emigrants (“legal immigrants” he reminds us more than once) to the UK. Soon the shouts of ‘what about Gaza?” are flying thick and fast. In mounting an uncompromising defence of Israel and condemnation of Hamas, Lydon cites his late wife Nora’s Jewish family’s experience during the Holocaust.

Outrage being meat and drink to JL, he dismisses early hecklers by pointing out his own – it must be said impeccable – free speech credentials. The more persistent of the demonstrators are dismissed for having no understanding of “the working classes they claim to speak for”. Having paid between E35 (cattle class) and E95 for VIP seats, the bulk of the audience – many of them, like me, presumably anti-Israeli aggression themselves are rather less happy about the way their evening was being hijacked.

Other targets for Johnny’s ire included erstwhile bandmate, Steve “QT” Jones, whose recent broken wrist was the cause of much schadenfreude-driven merriment. Politicians – be they mealy-mouthed mainstreamers like Keir Starmer (“that small mouth!”), or cynical populist chancers like Nigel Farage “If Niggle Farago gets in, we’re all fucked!” received similarly short shrift. Arguing that his “admiration” for Trump had been mistaken for “support”, JL posited that rather than a politician, the Orange One was in fact “the world’s greatest stand up comedian”.

In the midst of all the trademark invective came some surprisingly tender and moving moments. While anger is indeed an energy that fuelled several of Lydon’s/Rotten’s greatest songs, other more personal classics – (Hawaii and Bodies) were born of pain and heartbreak.

Very real and very raw, JL’s detailing of how Alzheimer’s had robbed his late wife “Babby” of first her identity and eventually her life itself came from a kinder, gentler place and was easily the most moving part of the show. His account of having to clean up the remnants the two abortions economic circumstances forced his mother to endure during his childhood was even more harrowing. (“The tiny hand that I saw sticking out of the bloody mess in the bucket could have been my brother or sister”)

The evening’s second audience participation section got underway with JL hitting the boards to Middle of The Road’s Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep (hum a snatch of the chorus and you’ll understand why).

Amidst the raft of predictable queries that must fill his onstage question box every night – what’s your fondest memory of Sid? What was Vivienne Westwood really like? – one query towered head and shoulders above the rest. “What are your abiding memories of your time in MountJoy Prison?” asked a brighter and better read member of the audience whose identity modesty forbids me from revealing here.

The answer given – key elements of which included being forced to wear “a disgusting uniform comprising a bum-freezer jacket and elephant-striped flares” – was the longest and funniest of the night.

The demonstrators – those that hadn’t either walked or been asked to shut up or leave earlier – were still yelling out “What about Gaza? and “Shame on you, Johnny!” as the show drew to a close.

Clad in an absurdly jaunty plaid jacket and doing that weird seal-like clapping thing he does with his hands, John/Johnny was plainly as pleased as punch with the chaos he had wrought in this sleepy corner of rural Ireland.

“I’m the one with the microphone who’s up on stage and who the audience here have paid to see”, crowed the former Sex Pistol. “If you’d like to lecture us about Gaza, I suggest you hire the hall and come back tomorrow night”, he taunted his would be tormentors.

Perhaps they took Johnny up his challenge but by that stage, the circus and its mohawk-haired ringmaster had packed up their tents and moved on to another town.

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