Back To Crack

Unless you have been living under a rock somewhere, you will no doubt know that the mercurial talent known as Amy Winehouse is dead. Stop the clocks etc. Always prolific, Amy Winehouse released a massive 2 albums over an 8-year period, one of which was a dreadful pastiche of modern jazz, which featured lots of songs of her going 'da-be dee-dooh-da' rather too many times than is necessary. The second album she launched was a change in direction to an all-encompassing plagiarism-fest of soul records from the '60's which unfortunately opened the door for numerous bandwagon-jumping copycats to pick over the bones of what had been a respected genre, Including 'talents' such as Joss Stone and Duffy.

But Winehouse ensured her longevity over her contemporaries when 'Back To Black' was released; with 'Rehab' being the stand out single that truly made her a star to both scabby, dirty-fingernailed ingrates and winebar-frequenting fuckwits alike. 'Rehab' was a cynical attempt to cash in on her by then well-documented struggle with the booze and various narcotics, which was apparent in her losing half her bodyweight between the 2 albums she made, and also the daily newspaper articles which were run about her, of which I'm sure her record company had nothing to do with whatsoever. Ironically, she would go to rehab several times, spunking money at the Priory to get help which other addicts could only dream of, and singularly failing to sort her bloody life out on each occasion.

No doubt buoyed by her new-found success, Amy started hanging out with other 'tortured' people with mush for brains, smoking crack and injecting heroin into their genitals whilst pretending to eat mice. Holed up for weeks at a time with the equally filthy and bedraggled Pete Doherty, Winehouse would only be pictured sporadically going to newsagents, almost tottering over as her enormous beehive threatened to drag her emaciated body to the floor. Then came along Mark Ronson, a man with a talent for systematically destroying any old record he touches by re-imagining them with lots of horns and an accursed jazzy rhythm, and then getting a bunch of detestable cunts to sing over them. And so it was that 'Valerie' was born - the only track Winehouse has featured on in any shape or form that does not make me want to perforate my eardrums with giant rubber cocks.

After this brief success which included winning several awards, Winehouse spent the best part of 5 years ostensibly writing new material, which involved being off her by-now-inflated tits, booed off stage for being mashed off her face with the occasional good gig thrown in to keep the wolf from the door. And when you have a laundry-list of addictions as long as Amy's, the wolf is around quite a lot. She also spent about a year in the Caribbean doing bugger all and found time to get married to a nutter and then divorced said nutter when she realised that he was too mad even for her. I suppose her tale is tragic in an entirely self-indulgent way, but not unexpected. When you plough the equivalent of Luxembourg's GDP in drugs and booze into your system, death is inevitable, unless you are Keith Richards.

What bothers me most about her passing is the blanket coverage and outpouring of grief that her death has inspired. What was that phone hacking hoo-hah about again? Someone died you say? Mysterious circumstances? Whistleblower? Who cares now. There was also the small matter of nearly 100 Norwegians dying at the hands of a gun-toting lunatic, but of course that is relegated to fish and chip-fodder in the wake of such a tragic event. Oh and thousands of people in East Africa are probably dying as I write this, as the result of one of the worst famines in living memory. But it is for Amy Winehouse that the grief of the sycophantic idiots is reserved for. For some reason, a self-inflicted and inevitable death inspires more pathos than huge swathes of people who are dead or dying through no fault of their own. And rather than donating a small sum to charity to help the lives of people who do not have the luxury of choice, Amy's retarded fanbase are instead re-buying her album in a morbid attempt to have it top the charts, which I have no doubt it will do; since if Adele is the best we can do, we are in serious trouble. And maybe that is the biggest tragedy of all.

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