Lifting myself up from the threadbare mat on my bathroom floor, I attempt to wipe away the clot of earwax, dribble and blood that is clogging up my breathing apparatus, and survey the fourteen Tuborg cans, three and a half bottles of rose wine and two bottles of gin surrounding me. Slowly the events of the previous evening, where one of my doctor ‘clients’ invited me for a brandy and to discuss a lung transit to Armenia, come into befuddled memory.
Arriving at his office skyscraper in Şişli, I took my hound Abdurrahman out onto the balcony for some fresh Istanbul air and a quick cigar. Waking just a couple of minutes later, choking on insulation smoke and flames licking my ankles, we made our excuses and left in a bit of a hurry.
Kicking the alcoholic detritus around me away, I manage to go online to peruse the internet portal of the New Musical Express, wherein I find that Pete O’Doherty, of some groups from the seventies apparently called The Libertines and Babyshambles, has been kicked out of a Rehabilitation Centre in Thailand for the umpteenth time. For fuck’s sake, you pointless, tuneless, unglamorous, pretend-working-class, narcissistic tosser, are you an addict or not? And why the fuck should anyone care? Everyone’s waiting for your ‘untimely death’ already, and your bloody overpaid PR company, in the absence of anything new or saleable, are just adding fuel to the cuntfire!
You are a rubbish singer/’songwriter’ already, a complete walking lie of a human being, blatantly far more in love with fashion shoots and displaying your horrible, withered body than your unbelievably overrated music, and if getting evicted from a far east health prison is how you get your jollies, your trust-fund parents should send you to a windowless solitary in Siberia. At least we wouldn’t have to hear about any more fucking Libertines reunions.
