Pete Doherty, bless his pickled little heart, kept a journal, a diary during his brief lockup for possession of heroin, crack, etc. Turns out he’s a poet is what he is. Frankly, better and more readable than Kerouac, Burroughs, and Bukowsky. If that music gig doesn’t work out… We smell a book.
I’ll do my hair a-while, and even make my bed. Top bunk, yellow fire blankets aplenty coz I’ve been on the lookout see. Even nabbed a rare old prison shirt off a passing trolley, a boiled egg and a nice blue prison vest. To say nothing of the many packets of Butler I just found on the side. Baccy down me sock, someone says something a little out of sway, a stranger in all dark non-prison clobber is opposite my open cell door flashing his watch in my direction he was. Later that day … Felt like freak show with a host of people at my cell door screaming and whooping like apes. DOHERTY! It’s him! DOHERTY! DOHERTY! Oi!