And I know we've mentioned Pete Doherty before, but much like William Blake, I've just had this vision -
You're sitting in a flat somewhere in chillin party mode with a few chums. Wine it doth flow all is blowing through the jasmine in your mind.
Suddenly a shambling, squashy faced bum in a deeply, deeply cunty trilby hat enters, sits down surrounded by a gaggle of Camden gimp fawning acolytes hanging onto his every mumble. He produces, possibly from his anus, a battered acoustic guitar and proceeds to disspate the reverie with an out of tune and flatter than a pancake sung example of his exemplary street poetry.
"Uhn...Lights in Walthemstowe below, an angel at islington and so it goes
Smokey salmon salmonella, I gibbed a stash offa the local fella,
Into albion we ride, broken hearts and mothers pride,
Lovely London I am prince of your alleeeeewaaaaaays" (or something)
Calmy, quietly, you rise, approach the caterwauling skag monkey, draw back your fist and with thunderous but controlled force, plant it square into his squashy face. A Peckinpahesque spume of slow mo blood and teeth showers the air. Satisfied you resume your place. The squashy face before you bubbles blood from its mouth and blurbles "uh?"
Slowly, a ripple of applause resounds from around the nation. You have served us well.