Alas, all natural highs must wear off and a rapid comedown was precipitated by the news that a west London “space” is exhibiting 14 paintings by Pete Doherty, the Bejam Byron. What makes the Bankrobber Gallery’s show deserving of the attentions of heavy artillery is the fact that the works, if we can be hysterically flattering to them for a minute, are largely drawn in Pete’s blood.
Would you pay 45k for one of Pete’s bloody paintings? from Guardian Unlimited: Lost in Showbiz.
Why is it that I nurse such a pet antipathy towards Pete Doherty? I’m not the only one.
Am I jealous of his lifestyle?
Well, no. Being a rock star might be an attractive proposition to some, but his particular brand of rock stardom centers around the production of mediocre music, and the consumption of class A drugs through every orifice and every vein.
Am I jealous of his looks?
For crying out loud, look at him.
Am I jealous of his relationship with Kate Moss?
Well, ‘they’ say she is one of the greatest supermodels ever, blessed with amazing bone structure and the ability to make any outfit look good. I say that I saw ten girls on the way in the work this morning that were more attractive than Kate, and if she has been anywhere near Pete, chances are she’s caught something nasty.
So why do I hate the jumped-up, drug-addled, scruffy, dirty looking, overrated little twat so?
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