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.

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.

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.”

No one in the history of teenage alcoholism and sunbed abuse has ever aged as badly as Lindsay Lohan. Poor girl. She’s only 21 and already she’s nudging 50. She’s got crow’s feet the size of chicken drummers.

Bigger glasses! Get me bigger glasses!

Ironically, the feeling you get when you see her is “she looks good for her age”, then you realise she’s a third of the age you were reckoning. She’s so badly preserved that she looks “well preserved”. Sharon Stone must look at her and think: there but for the grace of God.

She’s strapped herself to the age bull and she’s not letting go. In a bored moment (between naps) I plotted her plummet into disrepair:

That graph makes for sad reading unless you don’t care about Lindsay Lohan in which case that would be all of us.

Here is Lindsay coming out of a door behind someone else who also thinks black leggings are slimming:

“You too can go straight from aerobics to a funeral! Just $2.99 for a pack of 6.”