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.