Filed under: Pete Doherty
This blog is now on semi-permanent hiatus, much like Pete Doherty’s better judgement and sense of restraint. I say “semi-permanent” (despite the fact that it very much leans toward “permanent”) for two reasons:
1. I like to have my options open. Like Jason Vorhees. Or James Patterson. Sometimes things just keep coming back and proving the theory of diminishing returns correct.
2. It annoys Scott when I modify words with adjectives that completely undo them. Like “nearly anonymous.” And “almost pregnant.”
My apologies to those who may have checked in here periodically and wrote “Please write me” on the dusty windows. I thought this blog would write itself, what with the unlimited potential of Pete Doherty to make every day a spectacular trainwreck, each one more spectacular than the last.
However, as much as I gave it free rein to speculate on Pistol Pete’s whereabouts (the gym? mum’s house? mum’s house and then the pawnshop?) or insult Clive Cussler’s massive car/watch collection, this blog has refused to write itself and the 50 or so monkeys I picked up at the bodega have done nothing more than cram my hard drive full of misspelled missives and MS-Paint drawings of bananas and the men who love them.
So it is with a heavy heart and an overly-worded goodbye that I say “goodbye.” Thanks for reading, and to those of you who contributed, thanks for writing.
Filed under: Pete Doherty, Phone Calls | Tags: Gangrenous, Kate Moss, Pin Money (if by "Pin" You Mean Drugs), Sex Drugs & Illicit Photos, Willowy
[As you may well be aware, Mssr. Doherty has financed various drug purchases via the sale of compromising photos. Of course, said photos are usually sold by a “manager” or “engineer,” rather than by Doherty himself. This is due to the fact that Doherty is rarely in any condition to negotiate prices or purchase drugs without losing half the stash on the stumble home.
The following incident bears all the hallmarks of a Pete Doherty “Hail Mary” pass, but with the tragic twist of “Pistol” Pete himself trying to operate as his own middleman.
All names other than Pete Doherty’s and Kate Moss’ have been changed to protect our inside source.]
Mort: Mirror Tipline, this is Mort.
Pete: Morty! Petey here. I just emailed some photos to you. Think you might find them interesting.
Mort: I might at that. Let me pull them up.
[Some appropriately clicky and keyboardy noises.]
Mort: Hmmm. [Pause.] What am I looking at?
Petey: [Tries, but fails pathetically to suppress a giggle.] It’s Kate! She’s getting all schnookered on nose candy and all and sundry.
Mort: [Another pause.] Well. Hmmm. [Clicking.] Let me tell you what I see: looks like a thumb… part of someone’s thigh… maybe an upper arm… no track marks, though… I’m going with thigh… some bedding catching on fire… Whoa! Looks like a shot of “Little Petey” here! That might be worth something… a monogrammed mirror with a powdery, white “substance” on it… that might have some value as well…
Petey: Wot? Are you having me on?
Mort: That’s what I’ve got. I’d say we’re looking at about 200 pounds for the whole lot.
Petey: Shite. I was hoping to do a bit better—
[Puts hand over earpiece in a completely-off attempt at privacy; speaks to someone off-camera.*]
*So to speak.
Petey: Oy, Kate. I’ll fix another for ye. Let me just get the lights up again.
[Sound of something falling and shattering.]
Petey: Bollocks. [Pause.] Back in ‘ere, Katey. I’ve think I’ve got a handle on the pictomajig now.
Mort: Petey? She knows you’re taking pictures?
Petey: Yeh, Mort. She’d like to be described as “willowy.”
Mort: The fuck does that mean?
Petey: Oy, Kate! What the fuck does “willowy” mean?
[Inaudible from off-camera.]
Petey: “Healthy enough.”
Mort: Ha! Any preference for you?
Petey: I’m no good at parsing. What do you suggest?
Mort: “Loutish.” “Deplorable.” “Gangrenous.”
Petey: Oooh! Let’s go with the last one. Sounds pirate-y!
Mort: Fine, fine. I’ll send a man over to drop of the check in about an hour.
Petey: Could you have him swing by Jimmy the Sleeve? He’s got a bag of… um… er… well… [longish pause] … drugs for me.
Mort: Absolutely not.
Petey: Oh, c’mon Morty! I don’t want to have to make two trips.
Mort: You’re not even making one now.
Petey: Fine. I’ll be here.
Mort: That’s a lad. Cheers!
Filed under: Jack White, Pete Doherty | Tags: Affectations, Cokehound, Sobrierty:What Is It Good For?, Trinity College
[As was noted earlier, the esteemed Jack White (of the equally esteemed Detroit Jack White Stripes) was awarded an honorary degree from Dublin’s Trinity College, which he accepted with affected Southern grace and a ridiculous moustache. He joined the likes of Newt Gingrich, guitarist The Edge of The U2 and of course, infamous cokehound, Pete Doherty.
Here is the attempted transcript of “Pistol” Pete Doherty’s acceptance speech.]
Pete: Thank you. Thank you.
(Waits for applause to die down, which it does surprisingly quickly, which in turns surprises Doherty, who stands silently for another couple of minutes like a smack-addled deer in the headlights. A nudge from a decorated Trinity alumni puts him back on task…)
Pete: Um… Well… It’s an honor to be nominated, of course… in of all categories “Heavy Metal.” Sorry to take the Mercury Prize from Jethro and his Tulls, but they are no more “metal” than my Aunt Fanny, innit?
(Briefly displays fanny, which means something completely different over in the U.K. Finding himself underequipped for a fanny display, Pete reverses course and briefly moons the crowd.)
Pete: Fuck Michael Jackson! Rule Britannia!
(As a smattering of restrained and academic boos rain down on Pete’s bowler, he staggers off stage right, only to be accosted by Trinity staffers, who indicate that he is supposed to stagger off stage left. He inquires as to whether they might have some cocaine. The crowd breaks into an a cappella rendition of “What a Waster”…)
[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: 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: 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