Sylvia Patterson on ageing rebels

Between the years of 1980 and 1985 four albums were released into the musical universe that defined, back then, what the teenage idealists knew as The Revolution: Closer by Joy Division; Power, Corruption And Lies by New Order; Ocean Rain by Echo And The Bunnymen and Psychocandy by the Jesus and Mary Chain.

The sonic blueprints of the post-punk era, none of these radical soundscapes, by definition, would've existed were it not for punk and therefore the punk rock masterpiece itself, the Sex Pistols' Never Mind The Bollocks, released in October 1977.

Exactly 31 years later, this week, all four of those post-punk albums were given away free with the Times newspaper, the newspaper most closely associated with middle England and bowler hats.

John Lydon himself is currently cavorting through the middle English countryside wearing a bowler hat, atop a tweed suit, on a TV advert for Country Life butter like some impish Lord Snooty buttering up his daily bread for a day out fox hunting with his best new pal Prince Charles.

Elsewhere in the ad there's a walking cane, a bow tie, Morris dancers, sheep, cows, businessmen in suits smoking fat-cat cigars while being served by a lowly butler, much cheering in the streets with the British flag aloft. John Lydon hasn't had this much fun since stalking out of the Australian jungle during I'm A Celebrity in 2004 appalled by the apparition of Jordan, "that inflated page three bag".

Weird, isn't it, how the flicker-book of your very own life begins to fade into history and nowhere do you feel it more keenly than in the sacred vale of music, tied as it always will be to the long-withered tendrils of your own caustic youth when you shouted at the telly, indeed, about power, corruption and lies.

When we get over the fact "our" music (and music in general) is now so literally worthless it's falling out of newspapers for free, alongside leaflets about bonny conservatories, it shouldn't be so surprising that Joy Division fans grew up to be judges, politicians or Paul Morley going on about his love for Kylie Minogue. The post-punk lot, if they were anything at all, were always chip-shouldered weirdos forever destined to turn rebellion into money.

John Lydon, meanwhile, is doing exactly what he's always done: annoy people. His latest ruse, then - pretending to be a toff while undoubtedly pocketing a nice fat fee for doing so - is the only rebellious place he had left to go, like the child of the bohemian attic dwelling artist who grows up to be a stock broker.

"People know I only do things that I want to do or that I believe in," he's chirped, roguishly. "I've never done anything like this before but this Country Life ad was made for me and I couldn't resist the opportunity."

Which he means seemingly literally; that the ad was created for him, an ad which rips the fulsome backside from traditionally "Great" Britain while celebrating the very same heritage.

"Do I buy Country Life buttah because it's British?" he sneers, while removing his perky bowler. "Do I buy Country Life because I yearn for the British countryside? Or because it's made only from British milk? Neh! I buy Country Life because I think it tastes the best. It's not about Great Britain, it's about great buttaaah!" before slathering up a slice in his kitchen dressed in a tartan dressing gown.

Lydon has, of course, been a cartoon buffoon for years, made endless statements about coining in the cash (since the Filthy Lucre comeback tour in 1996) and this advert may just be, in fact, the best thing he's done in years, a great deal more "punk" than the Pistols' pantomime tours, a proper send-up from a proper arch wit and a glorious old-school V sign to whatever we think he should be at the age of 52, a man who's long lived in America and describes modern Britain as "a bland menagerie of pomp and idiocy". (And it is surely, the best butter advert ever invented, dominated as they normally are by smiley "amusing" cows.) It arrives, too, as Lydon is in the public Dog House, this year seeing him reportedly involved in a series of violent incidents including a supposedly racist attack on post-punk impressionist Kele Okereke from Bloc Party which Lydon refutes as an "atrocious" lie. (Your instinct, meanwhile, says obnoxious violence, probably, incoherent racism, doubtful.) The old post-punks, meanwhile, can only serenade, surely, his latest audacious wheeze, a man who's contributed more to the sum of human happiness, spirit, mirth and mischief than the considerable majority of the human race put together and if he wants to swing on a hammock in the Californian sunshine for all eternity, counting the millions in his pension plan, reading The Times newspaper while pocketing free CDs of his ungrateful spiritual rock 'n' roll offspring, more power to his arthritic elbow. "I'm not thriving off a career slagging off The Queen," he said earlier this year. "She's probably a lovely old dear. I'm not anti-monarchy at all. That's always been misconceived. It's the spoilt-brat side of it that I resented. It's made them a load of inbred, daft tw**s."

Altogether now: Never mind the crumpets! God Save The Cream! Get pissed, eat toast