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Malcolm McLaren wasn’t avant garde—he was a quaint dandy whose passing has filled me with yearning for old-school bollocks

By Sam Leith   May 2010

Pulp fiction: a vanished genre

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Great Ignored. I don’t mean the hard-working, child-rearing, tax-paying, law-abiding middle-class folk that, as David Cameron so rightly points out, are this country’s dirty little secret. Who speaks for them—except politicians hoping for a clear majority? Who fights their corner—but those few samizdat newspapers with the word “Daily” in their names, and the crackling transmissions of Radio Four?

No. They’re not the Great Ignored I’m thinking of. If I’m honest I’m ignoring them, and it feels great—whence, presumably, the name. No. I’m thinking about the stuff we really…

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