The scene: the VIP room at the Priory clinic, yesterday. In one corner, Pete Doherty, scribbles convoluted thoughts in a small notebook. In another, The Darkness' Justin Hawkins, mutters blackly as he contemplates the straining seams of his jumpsuit. The bouncer holds aside the velvet rope to admit Tom Chaplin of Keane, who bounces in, then halts in astonishment.
Chaplin: I say! What are you chaps doing here?
Doherty: Christ, there goes the neighbourhood.
Hawkins: More to the point, what are YOU doing here?
Chaplin: I've done something awfully silly, I'm afraid. I seem to have a bit of a problem with cocaine. Mummy is so cross, because she always said I'd come to no good in a rock group, but I told her, "We're not proper rock, Mummy, we don't even have a guitarist." But here I seem to be!
Doherty: I thought cocaine was supposed to keep your weight DOWN?
Chaplin: [Misses the jibe] Well then, chaps. What do we do all day around here?
Doherty: I'm working on my diary. Random House has just given me £150,000 to publish my poetry...
Chaplin: Damned exciting for you. Go on, old man, give us a quick burst of your stanzas.
Hawkins: Is it time for lunch yet? It's brown rice tikka today.
Doherty: Brown? I really fancy a bit of brown.
[He flicks through the notebook and lights a cigarette]
Here we are. I started this one this morning, so it's not quite there yet. But, artistic licence, and all that... I'm waiting for my man, 26 dollars in my hand, up to Lexington 125... [pause] I might change that to "up to the Elephant on the Northern Line", actually.
Chaplin: Jolly catchy.
Doherty: And then it goes: Golden brown, texture like sun, lays me down, with my mind she runs... And that's as far as I've got.
Hawkins: Do you know, I reckon there's a hit in that.
Chaplin: Cripes, you're right! Fellows - let's make some music and have a good old singsong! And when we get out of here, let's relaunch as, gosh - how about the Three Musicateers? Get it?
Chaps?
