Why is Pete Doherty stalking me?
I constantly keep walking past him in the street. I often see him outside Whitechapel’s urchin drug music hole The Rhythm Factory – he is usually playing a residency in this bleak East End bar. I have seen him with his band Babyshambles, enjoying a drink on the grotty pavement. Now this is a band that could really do with a wash.
I have also seen him on my doorstep in the early morning, smoking a spitty fag and swigging from a can of White Diamond. You can always recognise Doherty because he wears the same hat. He is taller than you would imagine and has a really big lolling head, placed on a scrawny little stick neck. Oh, and he stinks of tabasco.
Yesterday, I was doing my usual lunch time walk down Fleet Street when I decided to be crazy and take a right turn down Fetter Lane. As I walked past the book shop on the corner, narrowly being knocked down by a black cab, I noticed a film crew. Stooped in a doorway, cowering from the drizzle, was stood Doherty, surrounded by a small film crew and a number of dirty lackeys.
He was wearing his usual hat and looked greasy and dirty. As I walked past, avoiding some dog mess, he took a deep drag on his little spitty fag and nodded at me in comradely recognition. I smiled back and strode on towards Holborn. How does he recognise me without the make up?
4 Comments
Maybe you met him in one of those funny clubs you go to and can’t remember it. Perhaps you were comparing muscles.
I think I compared a portion of muscles in white wine source with Doherty in the Dorchester once. But I was so drunk I may have imagined it all.
You’ll get written about in the newspapers if you keep comparing portions in London hotels with singers from Babyshambles.
I hope so, it’ll be better for him. Make a change to the usual injecting heroin in a toilet type story. I am doing him a favour, the big-headed git.