A Snort of Derison

Please fuck off

I gather, from my morning's cyber-wanderings, that the snortastic poster boy Pete Doherty  - oh,and alleged musician - is 33 today. Well, fuck me. 
Outside of the entire Tory party, is there really anyone in the UK today who is more likely to make you want to kick to death the nearest puppy? Jesus, there's something about Doherty, the man with more lives than a big cat enclosure, that sends me so far over the edge that I'm in grave danger of never making it back to shore.
Perhaps it's his stupendous ability to avoid doing porridge even though he's paying rent on some on London's busiest courts. Or perhaps it's his pork pie hat-garnished doughball of a face which more often than not looks so vacant that I expect him to have the word 'toilet' tattooed on his forehead. Or it could be the way in which his 33 years has been sprinkled  with a light covering of dead fellow junkies.
More likely, though, is the baseless glory that some people chuck at him. As I alleged above, he's a musician but that's just what I've been told. Whenever I've heard his vocal outpourings for myself I've mistaken them for the dying squeals of rats after indulging in a saucerful of poison. I'll be fucked if there's anything remotely musical about the bloke, let alone any reason to bang on about just how fabulous he is. But then again, such burbling usually comes from the type of people who'd leap on a bandwagon even if it had two loose wheels and the Grim Reaper at the wheel.
So I'd wish Doherty many happy returns but I must dash. He's reminded me that I have to clean out the slime from the bottom of my frog pond. Then again, he's probably too busy holding a shaking lighter underneath a spoon of something restorative to notice. The overrated twat.