"I don't know what I'm doing" says Amy in the infamous Winemouse video, "but I know what love is." Little is certain in the singer's twisted twighlight world, but half of this statement is certainly true. Few would argue that Amy Winehouse knows what she's doing. Amy's world is a troubled one, but it's hard to imagine what she was thinking, or whether she was thinking at all, when she lined herself up alongside a cast of 30 supporting mice and a media-whore junkie co-star to send a message to Blake pleading with him not to divorce her.. It's hard to know whether he will have been impressed or not, seeing as they're both mad as a box of badgers. My own feeling is he's probably well out of it.

It's equally hard to know whether the second part of the statement is true. Does Amy really know what love is? Not if we are to judge by her choice of friends. She needs Pete Doherty in her life like Sid needed Nancy. Her troubled life has been compressed beyond all recognition. Pete's too. To describe this bizarrely-matched pair as unfulfilled talents is to overstate the case drastically. As artists they barely got out of nappies before imploding. Billie Holiday destroyed herself over a 25 year career littered with classic performances and recordings. Amy looks set to self-destruct in five, judging by the difficulty she's had holding a microphone recently. Likewise, Pete Doherty's natural ancestors Keith Richards and Motorhead's Lemmy have managed almost a century of sparkling, creative self-destruction between them. Pete's career amounts to a couple of Libertines albums that barely hint at the possibilities, followed by a rapid descent into incoherence.

It doesn't take much staying power to turn yourself into a legend these days.