I suppose you've heard by now luv.  It looks like my nose is going to fall off -- soon.

Who'd have thought that when I started Hoovering up line after line of cocaine every day that it would have an adverse effect on me health? There was no warning on the side of the baggie, or whatever it came in.

Now, I'm reduced to mixing cocaine into cotton candy with a handy machine me friends surprised me with! If we run out of coke, we can still make loads of money at kids' birthday parties and bar/bat mitzvahs!

But the important thing I want you--my adoring fans--to know, is that even if--I mean when--I lose me nose, it won't mean the end of a glorious singing career.

I'll still have my mouth. It will just look a little--different.

Underneath the gaping hole above.

Us girls, we gotta look after each other, yeah? I see a sister in trouble ‘n I want to reach out, get her a beer. I know my girls would do the same for me if there ever comes a time in my life when I need help. So maybe one of you sisters in the states can lend a hand to Sarah Palin. Girlfriend needs help.

Sarah, if you’s readin’ this, don’t get mad – I got nothing but respect for anyone who can play the nerd from 90210 and still go around winning beauty contests.

Yesterday starts like any other day: I get up, put on me underwear, and go lookin’ for fags on the side of the highway. If there’s enough butt, I’ll smoke ‘em. By the way, to you yanks – I’m talking ‘bout cigarettes, not homosexuals… although in this case either works, yeah?

 So while I’m on me search, this car stuck in traffic is tuned to BBC Radio One, and what do I hear on there but cuntfaced Noel Gallagher going on about how Amy Winehouse is a dusty toon horse! Now I’m a lot of things, but one thing I know for sure is that I’m no dusty toon horse; I hate them buggers!

Christ on toast. I'm not given to hysterical-like behaviour, but when I saw this in the news I screamed so loud I had to go back on oxygen. 

I've turned into wax. Look at this thing. Don't you find it scary?

No, you wouldn't, would you, cuz it ain't your perfect replicant up there for people to stare at and poke. The whole idea of wax works is scary, yeah? Like, you're a museum skeleton, but they can't wait til you're dead.

One thing: do they make them anatomically correct? Coz you know some little shit is going to yank me skirt up and check, and then pose for a disgusting picture with me hoo-ha. Or is there a blank space where the hoo-ha should be? Great, there'll be a lawsuit when me frightening, empty crotch turns kids gay or something.

Alright, so I’ve been a bit under the weather, right, I know that. I haven’t been at my finest. And then, yeah, alright, I fell over last week and coughed up some nasty black blood and nearly died a bit. I keep telling them there's nothing wrong with me - I just miss my Blake, is all - and they keep saying, "Alright, but you've got these marks in your arms and your test results are coming back positive for drugs and your lungs have closed up due to crack smoke." And I say, yeah, whatever, fine: you make those assumptions, whatever, but I know the real problem. This is hereditary.

Not a lot of people know this, but in the 19th century there was this thing in England called the Factory Acts. That was when they passed a law that stopped the kiddies working in the factories, doing manual labour, that sort of thing. They’s lungs was getting all clogged from the pipe smoke. They had trouble breathing, and people was all going, "Hang on! Them kids should be in school, not working looms!" But you know what? It put something in us, as a nation, as working class people: Efysima. I probably caught it from my dads, because he’s all London and that. Or I caught it from my Blake. He’s proper London.

Me family’s a bunch of nervous Nellies, isn’t they? Keeping me holed up in the hospital just ‘cause the ticker’s not beating regular-like. But then, who’s they to say me heartbeat is irregular? Maybe I say a heart that can go a few minutes without beating while I pass out is as regular as cigarettes on pizza. Also, I like cigarettes on me pizza.

If they knew some other things about me body, they might not think me heartbeat was so irregular. It’s all relative, is what I’m saying. Like, did you know that if I stand too close to the telly, my stomach makes them beeping noises? Yeah, it sounds like a bomb’s ‘bout to go off. ‘N then other times, my skin starts turnin’ grey and all I can smell is meatloaf, but I think that’s just me body’s way of saying it’s time to get shitfaced, isn’t it?

In case anyone got a crazy idea in their brains that I'm a racialist, I've decided to let you in on me average routine over one average day:

9AM: Radio gently wakes me up with music by me favourite African artists. Most of them are friends of mine. Friends with senses of humour.
 

9.30:  A lovely breakfast of halwa puri cholay, prepared by me Pakistani cook, who I love like a dear sister. She makes the puris extra crispy. 
 

10.30:  A visit to me favourite gay Japanese florist. Sometimes he invites me in back for sake and tells me how persecuted he is. Makes me cry. His delivery boy is also gay. I hugged him on his birthday.
 

So the other night, I'm hanging out with a few friends and me phone rings. Like, me own personal cell. I don't (soberly) give that number to any old bloke. I even had it changed the last time Blake called me to cry about prison food. Anyway, I didn't recognize the number. Looked American.

"Amy? Hey, this is Charlie Sheen."

Total blank. I ask around and somebody sez he's that troubled actor. So I tell him I loved him in Iron Man.

All of you who ain't bought the re-issue of me breakthrough album Frank? You got some shopping to do. Stop whatever you think is giving your life meaning—you're wrong. Only Frank has meaning.  Why should you drop 13 quid on the new Frank?

Royalties go to a worthy cause: I got mice that need food. I got cats that'll eat the mice if they don't get food. I got turtles that tried to chomp off Doherty's toe when I forgot to feed them.

Authenticity:  Play the album in front of those "idol" singers from the telly and their ears will actually catch fire and their skin will melt. Yay!

Hidden "I'm No Good" outtake: Okay, most of this is me and a backup singer playing vodka tag (don't ask... seriously, I don't remember the rules) and then I start playing some drums with me feet, but somewhere in there, I tell the band to drop the song into a minor key. Blew the fucker wide open! Musical history being made, wasn't it?