Smack, Crackle & Pop

One of the dumbest things I've ever seen on a stage was when Pete Docherty picked up a tie that a fan had thrown towards him. He wrapped it around his bicep and went through a pretend ritual of tying up and mainlining heroin. The crowd cheered of course. They'd been given their very own moment of waster mythology.

Music culture has given us a load of poster boys for heroin use. Charlie Parker and Keith Richards are top of the list. Johnny Thunders was known for little else. When Phil Lynott died, the veins in his feet were scored with track marks, testimony of his sad, furtive demise. Even Primal Scream had to part with a few of their team when the lifestyle damaged the operation.

It's not terribly cool. Neither was last night's documentary, Mum, Heroin And Me. It was made in the old school, liberal style, Even though Hannah McKenzie was a rather wretched figure and her 21st birthday was doused in junk and bad comedy, were were urged to look for the humanity. Her childhood was messy and her addictions had come early. But still her mother Kate was pulling for her and controversially, helping her to score. Her ethos was that if you give your child an aura of projected love, then something has been achieved.

You were hoping for deliverance but the reprieve was too recent to document - a trip to a rehab clinic in South Africa. Arguably a rather middle class solution, but you suppose it's hard-earned family money and you wish them the result they're looking for.