You ever seen a bones-only, pinch-faced drug addict get the last 10p that means another hit? It’s like Popeye just gulped a can of spinach. A hand dives down, a blanket is snatched up, and they’re off, knees clicking, up the road and round the back of Woolworth’s to their dealer’s flat faster than Dwain Chambers. The lesson, as my grandmother used to say, is this: never underestimate the hot-spoon, no-muscle determination of a self-destructive crack whore. I refer in this instance to the human formerly known as Amy Winehouse. She never fails to astonish, with her straggly, spit-dried, superhero despair. Just when you thought she’d sunk so low there was no more low to sink to, she goes and does this. Gets her face replaced with a tattoo of a robot geisha:

“I’m just off out to self-destruct a little more with this bag of laundry.” Poor lady. You just want to hold her up by the back legs, clasp your other hand round the back of her neck, jerk the legs up and whip back with the head. Snap. Bliss. Or is that rabbits?

Either way, I think whatever half-blind drunk with sick on his jeans and the DTs who painted that robot did a good job. I think her grandmother would be proud.

Sienna Miller “popped out” of her bikini on holiday in Malibu.

Well, I say “popped”…

“Slid” maybe.

It’s basic physics. What’s to hold it? The dozen or so molecules in her breasts just don’t give her the purchase.

It must have been tough for Miller, having to frolic in the waves like that. She spent the best part of 200 calories, which means no more food now until October.

Take another look at that torso. Jesus, that ribcage scares me. The last time I saw a ribcage like that, UN inspectors were scraping the soil off a pit with a bulldozer.

It must be hard for a high rolling, ho loving, Death Row, gold jacuzzi, West Coast rap gangsta legend to come out as gay-friendly, but last night Snoop Dogg did it in style:

That’s class. And it gets better. At the CMT Music Awards - in the after show party - tha Doggfather spotted LeAnn Rimes, slid over and offered her husband $5,000 for the pleasure of nailing her. I’m guessing that’s $4,995 for the sex, $5 for the pillowcase. It’s been reported that when Dogg saw her across the room he barked out: “Wow - damn! Who is that?” - a reasonable question, even when you’re not blind from weed. Then he pressed a roll of fifties into the smooth hands of her beard husband, the dancer Dean Sheremet. Damn, it must have killed him to give back the cash. He can’t be on more than $40,000 a year from LeAnn to play married.

I’m in love, and I’m hurting. I’m in love with reality show celebritisn’t, Omarosa Manigault-Stallworth. And I’m hurting because she’s no way famous enough for my needs. I need to see those wondrous gravity-slapping cha-chas more often. They’re enough to turn me straight.

I need to seem them squished up into my computer screen, whumping across my magazines, thwudding around my TV. But face it, she’s never going to punch her way up from D-list to C-list, even with that weight advantage. Not with that name. Omarosa Manigault-Stallworth? Give me a fucking break. She needs to start calling herself Ooma Gazooma, then I’d vote for her.

Amy was seen out yesterday, test driving her new crack pipe. She liked the heft of it, but felt the draw was a little sluggish:

Now I don’t know if she’s been spending time in front of a mirror, rather than hunched over it on a lavatory cistern, but it turns out Winehouse is sore afraid of losing her stunning good looks. She says:

“I’ve been told I’ll lose my looks over this—but I can’t give it up! I’m told my scars might never heal. My dermatologist says it’s a result of the drugs and it could spread to other parts of my body if I don’t quit. What will I do if I lose my looks? Blake will never love me like that.”

Trust me, Amy, Blake is getting plenty enough loving in the Big House. You think you’ve got scars? You should see the junkie 12-stretch tooth marks on his shoulder blades.

Oh for the love of Vicodin, could her life be any more of a car crash?

Stupid question.

I don’t know who thought this was a good idea, but last night Britney took her Mercedes out for a quick spin, and to the surprise of absolutely nobody whammed it straight into another car. The cops arrived, Britney was breathalized, but the machine must have not been working because she was released without charge.

I’m surprised she managed to back it out of the garage without killing someone.

Oh God - of course - that’s what’s next: she’s going to run someone down. They might as well arrest her for it now. Get a head start on the paperwork.

Kat DeLuna has been discharged from hospital after a nasty pile-up at a BK drive thru. Her lawyers say that there could have been many more casualities if the driver, Bruno Iglesias, hadn’t been so quick with his responses, swerving his Lamborghini into the intercom terminal, and then running off to fetch help 6 hours later when the police arrived at his appartment. No other cars were involved in the incident.

Although unhurt, Kat did seem to still be wearing an emergency airbag to the Billboard Latin Music Awards this week:

I’ve got a soft spot for Kat. She’s the girl with the best ever middle name - “Emperatriz” - how come I didn’t get called shit like that? Damn my Uncle Steve for not being called Emperatriz.

Doctors think it might be a baby, although of course it’s still too early to say. The hospital says it’s being carefully monitored. Mainly by MTV.

Kerry has named it Max because that’s where it was conceived: behind a pile of 3 pound jeans in TK Max. The Warrington branch. (She should have called it “Max Warrington” - that sounds quite posh - rather than Max Silk Cut X-Box Britney Fish Finger Katona, or whatever she’s plumped for).

The News of the World today gives us exclusive first pictures of the infant:

Aaaah. Its first tab.

Dr Phil (first name unknown) has just bought himself a new play toy. The talk show host has posted $33,000 bail for one of eight teenagers arrested for severely beating another teen in Florida. It’s so Victorian. “Just going to pop to jail and buy myself a nice young deliquent… have her scrubbed and sent to my room… her clothes? burn them.”

But I reckon Phil is going to have his hands full with this one. She’s a firecracker, all nails and elbows. I guess he must go in for rough sex. Which is odd, because I always had him down for adult diapers, rocking in a cot and weeping until the nice lady in the nurse’s outfit hushed him to sleep.

It’s ever since jail. Since she began playing the “reformed character” card. Maybe it’s all the Sunday School classes she’s been attending, early nights she’s been getting, or maybe she’s changed her hair.

Maybe its the drug-withered muscles in her neck, they can’t keep her great fat melon head from lolling. I don’t know, but I’m going to keep on watching. Nothing gets by me.

And maybe the bruises on her knees are from praying. Let’s not forget what Paris said on Larry King:

PARIS: I’ve always had a sense of spirituality, but even more so now after being in jail.
LARRY: Did you read the Bible in jail?
PARIS: Yes.

She read the Bible in jail. That’s right. She didn’t just tear it up for blunts. She read it. “In the begi…. begi…. begi… in the something God made hea… hea… something and earth.”