Soft butter, hard nut?

Johnny Rotten is going to be the new face of Dairy Crest butter, according to Trendhunter. I can imagine the chortling of other commentators at the marriage of the ambassador of anarchy to this harmless, homely brand.
Well, good luck to Dairy Crest, but in my mind, the whole punk movement provokes an unsavoury Pavlovian response. Punk, a catalyst for youth-driven change during a period of social entropy etc etc., yeah, yeah, ok bollocks, I get it, thank you and fuck off.
I was a teenager in the time of the Sex Pistols. At the time, punk was a minority craze. Most other teens I knew didn’t care one way or another. I was a working class kid in a middle class London grammar school who observed that those (middle class) kids who were drawn to punk were snotty little waster tosser wankers with an overdeveloped sense of personal hardness.
Pogo-dancing, spitting, and getting into fights was what they thought it was all about. In fact, most “punks” were part-time punks because they wouldn’t dare violate their school dress code by dyeing their hair or growing it long enough for mohicans.
I’d have loved to have seen these wankers try their luck in my Northern home town. A deprived backwater of Liverpool, this was one of those places that truly represented the neglect felt by the working classes during Thatcher’s years. I don’t think I ever saw a punk, alive, up there.
You know why?
Punks were middle class wankers.