[As Bill Cosby and to a lesser extent, Kermit the Frog have proven: too many institutes of higher learning hand out too many honorary degrees. While this may seem to be a uniquely American tradition, which follows our political pattern for rewarding a variety of people with distinguishment (officially now a word, thanks to my adding it to WordPress’ dictionary) and money for something they didn’t do, it appears that our friends across the pond have caught the “Bullshit BS” bug.
Dublin’s Trinity College is the latest to bestow a means-nothing title on a do-nothing person of dubious fame. Jack White, late of the White Stripes, Raconteurs and various Jack White-related solo endeavors has been awarded Honorary Patronage, joining such luminaries as John McCain, Bob Geldof, Newt Gingrich, the Edge, Oscar Wilde and OH FUCK YES, Pete Doherty.
Presented here is the transcript of his impromptu lecture/commencement speech, which was not presented during commencement or in a lecture hall, much to the confusion of Dubliners and John McCain, who was spotted slipping a couple of $20s to a redundantly pasty “Pistol” Pete Doherty.]
First of all, I want to thank Trinity College for the enormous honor. As the only graduate of the Detroit public school system, I have to say this vindicates their committment to adequacy. As I take my place beside McCain, Wilde, Geldof and others while wondering exactly who the hell they are, I realize that this is first and foremost an opportunity to grow a new fan base.
As I gaze out into this crowd of privileged faces, I am reminded that I have not worked a day in my life. As a child, my parents recognized my blossoming musical talent. When I was five they gave me a drum set, which I soon passed on to my sister Meg, whom I later married.
While I am well-respected as the founding member of Detroit’s only rock and roll group, the White Stripes [wild applause], I have kept my ear to the cultural ground. As the White Stripes [slightly milder wild applause] grind their way to eventual irrelevance, I have never stopped seeking outlets for my outsized ego.
I have continued to lay the groundwork for a new millenium of rock with my side projects the Raconteurs [scattered polite applause], the Dead Weather [tepid polite applause, somewhat forced] and my latest venture, a series of DJ gigs. [Jack White attempts to fill sudden sucking noise by applauding himself wildly.]
When I look out at the future of this uncertain country, I see the promise of new and better things. New thoughts that are suspiciously like the old thoughts, but with young, naive faces attached to them.
If anyone is living proof that dreams can become reality, I am. I spent many long hours planning my revenge on the Von Bondies, who have ired me constantly with their attempts to perform rock and roll in my home city. That plan finally culminated in a series of poorly lit sucker punches, which served notice to the old guard that there was a new mustachioed sheriff in town and that he would not be given “the business.”
So to all of you I say: Stand up for your beliefs, no matter how obsessional or delusional. Nothing should stand between you and your feverish dreams: not reason, not logic, not even the Detroit legal system.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Jean Luc Godard, Mortification, Toronto Film Festival
[This first submission to the Blow by Blow pantheon comes to us courtesy of the proprietor of the apparently defunct …And Another Thing blog, which hosts a fair amount of fine rants and a lovely piece of Alice Cooper worship, wherein our scribe succumbs to “temporary insanity” when face-to-face with the effervescent golfer, Vincent Furnier.
Unlike that particular event, this anecdote deals with unworshipped celebrities and unlike everything else to date at this site, actually happened. This also deals with acclaimed film directors (another first), namely one Jean-Luc Godard, who is not this guy or this guy.
When you think film festivals and Canadians, you generally think of well-behaved people applauding politely and furthering the film community in general. You won’t find any of this in here. Enjoy.]
I’ve been a regular attendee at the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) since 1989, yet given my geeky ways I’m more interested in the films than the celebrity hoopla. There have been a number of garden variety star sightings over the years, yet all that changed at the 1996 festival. A friend and I had tickets to see French director Claire Denis’s film, Nenette et Boni, and we arrived about 30 minutes before the screening was to begin.
The theatre was already quite crowded, so we chose seats in a row behind a roped-off VIP section. We assumed the roped-off seats would be occupied by Ms. Denis and her entourage, yet 15 minutes before the film was scheduled to begin our jaws dropped when Jean Luc-Godard strolled into the theatre. He was accompanied by at least half a dozen attractive and impossibly chic women, and the boisterous group were talking a mile-a-minute in loud voices. My friend David, who worshipped Godard, managed to find out that the famous French director was there as a special guest of Claire Denis. She arrived shortly thereafter, and after much cheek-kissing and even more excited chatter Ms. Denis bid adieu to Jean-Luc and company and moved to the front of the theatre.
It should be noted that the screening was sold-out, yet minutes before the designated start time a dribble of rush-line ticket holders were admitted. A middle-aged couple took the two empty seats beside me, and they thanked us in a thick Gallic accent for shifting our bags out of the way. They were thrilled to have nabbed rush seats, and we were about to tell them about our famous neighbour in the row ahead of us when the festival handlers brought Ms. Denis up front for her introduction.
A few minutes later the film began, and almost immediately Monsieur Godard and his bevy of blondes and brunettes started chattering to each other. Shortly thereafter a couple of the women stood up and moved to the aisle to continue their conversation. David and I looked at each other in shock, as film festival audiences were usually painfully polite. One of the women in the aisle came over and tapped Godard on the shoulder, and he stood up and joined their conversation on the sidelines. A few minutes later he and one of the women returned to their seats, and they continued their conversation in fits and starts. The man beside me was becoming increasingly agitated about this behaviour, and the normally vigilant festival volunteers were no doubt hesitant to intervene.
After what seemed like ten minutes the group in front of us finally fell silent, and we were able to concentrate on the film again. This respite was short-lived, as the missing member of Jean-Luc’s group returned and noisily made her way down the aisle and sat down beside him. My seat neighbour to the left moved forward in his seat, looking like he was going to make a comment. His companion put a hand on his shoulder and he shrugged in resignation and sat back in his chair.
Godard spoke to the woman for a few minutes, and then they stood up and left the theatre. I felt terrible for Claire Denis, yet perhaps Mr. Godard was off dealing with a personal emergency. A few people in the group changed seats and chatted quietly for a few minutes, and to our great relief they all fell silent.
Much to our amazement Godard returned and took one of the empty seats approximately ten minutes before the film was scheduled to end. I was shocked, as he’d already missed most of the film. When the film ended and the credits started rolling, Godard began talking to his companions again.
The man seated beside me could contain himself no longer, and he tapped Jean-Luc on the shoulder and said in a loud voice, “Monsieur, you are a very rude man!”. Godard avoided making eye contact, and he and his stunned companions quickly gathered their belongings and exited the theatre. David and I grinned broadly at each other, and the brave gentleman looked very pleased with himself.
When the credits ended my friend and I thanked this courageous fellow for taking a stand, and I asked him if he knew the identity of the loutish man. Both he and his female companion shrugged their shoulders. David grinned devilishly and said, “This story is going to get you into a lot of dinner parties. The man you just told off was Jean-Luc Godard.” The man and his companion looked stunned, and she started laughing. She then said in thickly accented English, “He loves Godard. How perfect!” The poor man put his head in his hands, and softly repeated, “Non. Non.” He looked mortified, and we quickly assured him that Godard had been extremely rude, particularly given the fact that he was a special guest of the director. He finally smiled, and both of them laughed softly for several minutes.
I’m sure everyone out there has at least one celebrity story packed with humiliation and stupidity. Don’t let the lack of a URL to call your own stop you from telling that story.
You’ve got a brawl on your hands? A misunderstanding-turned-fatal/arrestable? Pete Doherty saying anything at all? A “discussion” with Sean Penn about your photography skills and how you “liked his early work”?
If you’ve got something you’d like to see sprawled across these developing pages, just send your submission (and any other info, preferred intro, pictures,etc.) to:
At this point, I won’t add all kinds of legal mumbo-jumbo because I don’t think I’ll be needing it. Your submissions will be credited to you and if you ever want the post altered or deleted, I’m your man.
Thanks for reading (and writing),
Filed under: Pete Doherty | Tags: Beer, Blow, Cocaine, Coke, Germany, Nose Candy, Paranoia, Pint Glass Hurling, Powder, Rails, Snow
Pete Doherty’s taking a much-needed vacation in Germany and spreading his worldview as only a drunken coke fiend can: by protesting Germany’s shortage of coke dealers through a combination of sweary words and pint glass hurling.
(Pete is drunk again and looking to score. [Note: author reserves right to quote Offspring lyrics parenthetically.] But who will provide the youngish tosser with the much-needed blow? What follows will bear an eerie resemblance to the heart-breaking narrative of P.D. Eastman’s classic “Are You My Mother?”)
Pardon me, good sir. Could you perhaps hook a brother up by recommending the nearest location at which to purchase and perhaps imbibe some high quality nose candy?
(Hurls pint glass to demonstrate sincerity.)
I say, good chap, my friends and I were looking to ride the rails, if thou catcheth my drift. Wouldst thou happen to know if anyone in this establishment art holding?
(Verily, said pint glass is hurled with the strength of ten drunken men.)
Far be it from me to presume, but would you or your lovely friend care to dance? While the DJ spins our request, I will gently grind on you and inquire furtively as to your stance on unisex restroom blowjobs and how much cocaine you might have on your person.
(Hurls pint glass into fireplace.)
Hey Joe/Where you goin’ with that glassine envelope in your hand?
(Hurls pint glass to free up both hands for “shooting his old lady now,” which I imagine is slang for heroin abuse.)
Hi. I’m “Pistol” Pete Doherty. You might remember me from such hits as “Up the Bracket” and “Wot a Waster.” I’m here today as part of a plea bargain with the British judicial system to speak to you about my current lack of cocaine.
(Hurls pint glass as a metaphor for demolishing the “old” drunken and fiending Peter Doherty.)
Ich bin ein Berliner in serious need of some fucking blow. I’d even settle for its ugly stepsister, crack.
(Hurls pint glass across former East/West Berlin checkpoint.)
Say, brother: can you spare a bump?
(Drops pint glass accidentally; recovers by making a lame “throwing” motion.)
Filed under: Liam Gallagher, Pete Doherty | Tags: Liam Gallagher, NME, Noel Gallagher, Oasis, Seaward
Pete Doherty, out of rehab (again) and feeling well-rested and inspired, seeks out the Oasis brothers for a possible collaboration. After several calls to his local drug dealer (stupid muscle memory!) Doherty finally reaches the Gallagher compound…
(After what feels like interminable ringing, a disgruntled and barely sober Liam Gallagher answers.)
Pete: ‘Ey, Pete here. How’s things?
Liam: Whom? Pete, you said?
Pete: Er, yes. Pete. Pete Doherty. Libertines? Babyshambles?
Liam: Dunno no “Pete.” Are you a musician?
Pete: Yes, yes. Libertines and et cetera. Bit of a druggie.
Liam: Oy, you fancy yerself a druggie, eh?
Pete: A bit, a bit. Several rehab visits. Nothing’s really “taken,” though…
Liam: Pete… Pete…
Pete: Oh, and I’m banging Kate Moss.
Liam: Pete! Oy, I thought you was dead!
Pete: No such luck. Doctors are doing amazing things with hypos and electric paddle-things and whatnot. Couldn’t be relatively healthier, actually.
Liam: Ah. The doctors. They have their ways, those daft bastards.
Pete: I was wondering if you’d like to pop out to the studio and have a go at a couple of tracks…
Liam: For what? Some Oasis thing?
Pete: No, this would be for a Babyshambles track. I’m looking for some guest vocals.
Liam: Fook that! All music is cunts! Why should I play on your Baby thing when I am all of the Beatles here in Oasis?
Pete: Are you serious? When the fuck did you last put out something good?
Liam: It’s not about the fooking records. It’s about the music. You’ll never get cos yer not in Oasis.
Pete: I believe NME just listed me in the top 5 artists—
Liam: Fook NME! All press are cunts! I shit ’em! Aaaarghhhhh!
(A pause while Liam rants and growls…)
Pete: Wait a minute… is this Liam?
Liam: Of course it’s fooking Liam. Who the fook did—
Pete: I was trying to get ahold of Noel. You know, the one who can actually write music?
Liam: Wot? Oy, you bastard! Have at you! Cunt!
(Lots of cursing and sounds of a struggle as Liam viciously attacks the phone.)
Pete: Hello? HELLO?
Liam: Cunts!… Oasis!… Fookin’ Beatles!!!
(Noel arrives to find his brother breathlessly swearing at the phone, which he has pinned to the ground.)
Noel: What’s all this then?
Liam: Some cunt is bad-mouthing Oasis.
Noel: Wot??!! Let me at ‘im!!!
(More sounds of a struggle as Noel aids Liam in viciously pummelling the receiver. Pete hangs up.)
Liam: Fook! Hit ‘im again!
Noel: Arsing cunthole!
(Phone continues to receive beating until the Gallagher brothers tire of this activity and opt to beat each other instead.)
Filed under: Jack White, Phone Calls | Tags: Detroit Rock City, Jack White, Meg White, Von Bondies, White Stripes
Late evening in Detroit. Jack White is seated in front of a roaring fire with two mastiffs at his. He fires up his favorite hand-carved pipe and dials up a familiar number. On a rotary phone.
Jason Stollsteimer: Hello?
Jack White: Hello. Is this Mr. Von Bondie?
Jason: (Pause.) This is Jason Stollsteimer.
Jack: Of the Detroit Von Bondies?
Jason: Of course, Jack. The “Detroit Von Bondies.”
Jack: Mr. Jason Von Bondie: I, Jack White of the Detroit White Stripes would like to formally challenge you to a duel.
Jason: Uh huh. A duel.
(Jason begins flipping through an old issue of Alternative Press.)
Jack: I did, indeed, Mr. Von Bondie, sir. I expect you will meet my challenge?
Jason: By “meet your challenge,” do you mean “receive a sucker punch in a darkened club?”
Jack: Let me assure you of my complete sincerity. I am a gentleman. But a gentleman of action! I would expect that you will accept this honorably challenge and meet me at The Magic Stick in a fortnight. Will 9 PM do?
Jason: Let me pretend to check my calendar…
Jack: Excellent! Acceptable weapons are muzzle-loading pistols or Civil War-era sabers. Will this be a problem?
Jason: No. I’m sure I can pick something up at the nearest pawn shop.
Jack: I wouldn’t worry too much. You have several days to prepare. I shall meet you outside the Magic Stick at 9PM promptly. I shall be wearing my finest red-and-white jumpsuit and my most ridiculous moustache. I may also accessorize with a dandy cane.
(Jason tosses his magazine on table and begins checking what he has TiVo’d.)
Jack: My sister and wife, Meg White, will be present to document your tragic comeuppance. Since the unpleasantness, this is the only way to arouse her. In the unlikely event that you should defeat me in this duel, she will become your property. But methinks you shan’t.
Jason: Jack, can I talk you out of this?
Jack: Too late, sirrah! We have an appointment with destiny! Meg will accompany our epic battle with extraneous fills and off-tempo kickdrum. It shall truly be a night for the ages!
Jason: Right on. Thanks for the heads up. I’ll plan on being elsewhere that night…
Jack: I think you will find it near-impossible to deny your primal urges! My blood is surging through my loins even as we speak! I must take my leave now and speak tenderly to my sister and wife, Meg White. To revenge!
Jason: What the fucking fuck…
(Jack hangs up the phone with an unneeded flourish while Meg accompanies his affected pipe-smoking with some extraneous drum fills.)
Filed under: Pete Doherty, Phone Calls | Tags: 999, Kate Moss, Octopus, Pete Doherty
[Below lies the inspiration for this site. Coming from the unlikeliest of places: an emailed response. The light bulbs went on and here we are…]
Evening. 999 call centre.
Dispatcher looks at call ID display, sees name “Pete Doherty” and sighs heavily.
999: Well… It is a quiet night. Oh man, I know I’m gonna hate myself for this… (picks up) Yes, Pete?
Pete Doherty: What? Fuck. Kate? Uh. Wait. Who is this?
999: What is it now, Pete?
Pete: There’s a fucking giant octopus in me bloody loo. And me fucking bloody loo is covered in blood.
999: Okay, Pete. Sounds like you’re mixing your barbs with your amps again. Go to the fridge and get a beer. Maybe two. Knock them back, try and relax. Close your eyes. Remember that giant octopus tend to avoid bathrooms. They prefer the ocean. That should help you come down. It’s all cool, Pete.
Pete: What? Who the fuck is this??? How did you get my fucking number? (Slams down phone.)
999: Wait for it…
Phone rings. Pete’s name comes up on call display. Dispatcher picks up.
Pete: Where am I? I need help.
999: Sorry, Pete. I’m on my break.
Dispatcher hangs up. Lights cigarette.
submitted by Alan Truitt