Less haste...more tweed.

A pair of horn-rimmed brogues in a black polo-neck once squinted ironically at me from behind a reptilian slither of blue Gauloises smoke to ask me “how would I like to die?”

I mulled it through.

“Er, no thanks,” was my apprehensive response I believe.

But the centre-parted one got me thinking. The well worn cardiganed cliché of “peacefully in my sleep surrounded my loved ones” has ne’er been a particularly snugsome fit. Too paranoid me, y’see. If I’m peacefully asleep, saliva and pillowcase frozen in their nocturnal embrace, what are my loved ones doing surrounding me? What do they know? What have they heard? Hmmm. No, I want Bergman’s best-boy coming for me either via a dirty knife-in-the-gizzard during a tattooed barroom brawl, in 70mmm balck n white slo-mo dans la Cadillac off the Grand Canyon a la Ridley Scott or otherwise, alone – naked save a Marlboro stub – undiscovered, unloved and unhygienic in a trailer-park, somewhere in the weary Yank Midwest. Because , and here starteth the lesson, a gentle death is just far too Richie Cunningham for a guy who always dreamt of the Fonz.

The Brylcreem of the Brylcrop when it cam eot leathery defiance, his Harleyness Pope Fonzarelli and everything he slouched for is today forgotten. We stand at this late stage of the 1990s rebelless. To don a pair of all-terrain leather hiking spectacles for a trawl through the artistic altitudes of the past ten years hunting for social subversion, moral mutiny or personal provocation would be the largest futile exercise since the Reebok Step. Everyone’s so bleedin’ contented. Our father’s frustrations have filtered and flitted. We are the first generation to believe that “breaking of moulds” is another term for crumbling diced Quorn into pasta. Matt black pasta. From IKEA, presumably.

For the mitigated most, rebellion’s scowling summit (The Fonz’s heyyy-day, if you must) was the ‘50s – Kerouac was preceding the Green Cross Code man with his own road safety tips, East Of Eden was one of a short string of pearls from Dean, 289 of its weeks hosted a lip-curling, hip-whirling quiffmiester, hit-parade-wise and teenagers spent Lunch digging Burroughs.

It was a time for upsetting the oldies. While Aron P. rocked and leather jackets shocked, generations mocked those ideas and ideals that had put their fathers in Spitfires and audiences flocked to fill eyes and ids with Benedek’s brooding bikers. It was a desire to be different, to conformity, along with the Cockburns and Cubans, to the cupboard.

Dishearteningly, today it would seem, like roller-skating and rationing, rebellion – the sense of frustration, the need for change or even just getting cotton-pickingly nail-spitting mad dangnabit is resolutely and dismally absent. Ground breaking revolutionary self-expression has become simply the quirky wearing of baseball caps the right way round.. Angry rock music has been privatised into the odious “Bad Boys Inc.” – for Chrissakes, a name just short of “Moody Teenagers Plc” let’s face it. And the most dangerous, the most inspiring cultural guru currently holding court is Rolf arseing Harris. Oh dear. We can just make out the distinct cound of John Lydon not phoning his lawyer.

It would appear, at a blue-rinsed, sling-backed first glance, today’s tousled teens are totally trouble free, completely satisfied with their lives, futures and prospects. Bloody hell, I don’t like that at all. Bit scary to be honest. But there is a more comforting, warm, velveteen explanation that I’ll be snuggling up to in the winter of content.

And it’s that the social bombs that were our dad’s, their anarchic arsenal, have upon inheritance, been quietly diffused. While in 1953 sporting creaking leathers instantly set one apart, the biker and denim combo is not such a mainstay of the national wardrobe it’s a symbol of conformity. And it didn’t take long for the itchy plaid grunge-tank of Seattlism to become as much a part of Esquire’s new-look autumn pullout as a button down Jermyn St. Oxford. You can’t even slouch in a moody alleyway in a gang of five without being arrested for loitering with intent to record a pop video.

Traditional old fashioned reliable rebellious images and exploits - the beer, bikes and boots have been stripped of all connotation and secondary symbolism. It’s possible we have a nation ready to explode with dissatisfied rage into a riot of carnal experimentation and anarchic subversive ness. We can’t tell. If, guys and gals, you’re going to attempt to express angry prostration by dressing like James Dean, how are we supposed to know?

I mean, my dad dresses like James Dean.

Just stop with the nose-piercing already. If you want to do it, do it properly. Let there be a new order. Let conformity be rebellion. Shock your parents, make that anti-reactionary statement, go the whole hog – wear green corduroy. Bring down the government with shameless cravat sporting. Kick down social barriers in Clarks Air Comfort Soles. Show your individuality, not at your barbers, but with your Barbours.

Kurt Cobain is dead – long live Dunn & Co.

And the next time you’re asked how you want to go, shock them all. Say it. “Peacefully in my sleep surrounded by loved ones.”

Cool.

cactus. Or those sideburns. Maverick Shmaverick, he looked like an extra from “The Sweeney.”

We don’t need it. There should be too much respect for the Western to use it, as is currently vogue, as just another alternative vehicle for a Hollywood megastar. In 1964, no-one saw “A Fistful Of Dollars” for Eastwood, he was a cinematic nobody – the timeless appeal that makes the cowboy so consistently popular is that, stripped of the clichéd stage-coaches, Stetsons and composers saving money on expensive orchestras by simply finding a good tune and whistling the bloody thing, they are basic morality tales. Good versus evil in the most childlike sense. Bad guys wear black and spit a lot, good guys wear white and exercise a little more phlegm restraint. We know rootin’ tootin’ varmints from Van Cleef to Van Peebles will get their comeuppance in the third reel and therein lies the satisfaction. It would be a tragedy if such glossy, image lead drivel as “Posse” or the misguided breast-fest “Bad Girls” soured Joe Cinemagoer’s taste for the old cowboys through cinematic satiety. (incidentally, I say Joe, rather than Joanne, with no apology. The western is a male genre. Like lager, electric guitars and limericks with the word ‘Venus’ in them, they’re a guy thing. Women wanting a does of Kevin Costner will always rather sit through “The Bodyguard” than three hours of “Dances With Wolves.” Although that may be due to his moustache making him look like a member of the Village People).

Cowboys for me will always be as old and dusty as Sister Sarah’s mules. No-one should still be cutting anyone off at the pass. Let us remember them as great. I know, I know – fat chance. In another generation Channel 4 will undoubtably be premiering ‘Young Guns VII’ and eight year olds all over Britain will be machinating methods to stay up and watch it. As regards my future son, I’m going to leave him to it.

I’ll be having an early night, thanks.