Blow by Blow


Pete Doherty vs. the Mirror

Why, they look as healthy as crack-addicted horses!

[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! 

-CLT

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Pete Doherty vs. 999
December 1, 2009, 3:31 am
Filed under: Pete Doherty, Phone Calls | Tags: , , ,
[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.)

Dispatcher sighs.

999: Wait for it…

Phone rings. Pete’s name comes up on call displayDispatcher 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