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?

Babies, I couldn't be happier winning an award for songwriting. "Love Is a Losing Game" was a deeply personal song, even if it was kind of dictated by the ghost of Big Mama Thornton. I share this songwriting honour with her.

Speaking of awards, it's time to announce the winner of the "Name Amy's Turtles" contest. Wasn't much judging involved, really. Only one entry. Thanks, "fans." Anyway, big ups to big winner "Cris Inns" who came up with Drunky, Skunky, Skanky and Wanky. I don't get it, but that sounds cute enough.

Now, I promised you a wicked prize, yeah? You will receive ... me award statuette that I just won! Thing is, Cris, I need you to deliver it to a close, personal friend of mine. After he gets it from you, my friend will take it in his repair shed and then you'll get it back. Probably a bit heavier.

Life just ain't fair. Well, really, science ain't fair.

I don't ask much of science. Keep finding new ways to stimulate me brain, keep stuffing caramel in chocolate, and cure a disease for a bald kid now and then. I give support where I can - the blokes at Pfizer send me a gift basket every year. So I was a little hurt to see this: myrmekiaphilia neilyoungi.

Jesus, Neil Young gets a spider named after him and I don't? Me? An animal lover nonpareil? Neil's goddaughter-in-toke? There's tons of new species out there to hang my name on. It don't have to be some preening, priggish lemur or anything. Give the cute critters to the debutantes; I'll take this little guy:

Today's guest bloggers: Amy's mice

Hewwo! It's vewwy nice to be here! We're having ever so much fun pwancing about Amy's keyboard! Whee!

We hope you wiked our widdle message. But we hope you wealize that we were just pwaying micey games. We don't weawy mind if Bwake divowces Amy. If he did, we would have more time to pway with her! Tee hee hee! We were only one day old when we made our scween debut. We were in no condition to make impowtant domestic decisions for Amy.

ADDENDUM - 2 HOURS LATER

Amy here. Just woke up. Don't know what that was all about. Anyway, people, don't hate on this video. This is the most wholesome thing Doherty and I ever done. BY FAR. And I kind of like how we managed to get the Japan horror movie look. Scary. Seven days after seeing this vid, you will send me a bottle of Chivas. LOL!

God. Me Bond song gets flushed down the pisser…marriage all to shit…cops looming every which way…and two of me baby turtles have some kind of skin disease. Days like this, only one thing brings me sunshine: a wicked one-nighter. Maybe you're wondering: what's me standards for a meangingless shag? Time to play Who Would Amy Do:

Stevie Wonder?

I would, and it'd be epic for us both. See, there's this old blues tradition of a woman who can make the blind man see. Three rounds with AJW and Steveland's eyes would turn into bloody x-ray specs.

Leonard Cohen?