I wonder what Pete Doherty will be doing for Christmas? I know you’re wondering, too. It is a poser. While it’s difficult enough being a wild-eyed loner at the Gate of Oblivion during the average week, the holidays make things so much trickier.

Those who were teenage punks, Goths or ravers will recall how difficult it was to remain hardcore on a beach in Devon (“Have a little paddle? In thick pancake foundation and mutoid S&M bastard boots? Are you joking?”) or at an Easter lunch populated by aunts (“No, I’m not going to a funeral. No, I haven’t got a chill on my kidneys. Yes, I am a boy. Oh, how I wish you were dead.”)

So it must be for Doherty. For how does a man once proclaimed “The Coolest Man in Britain” relax during a time devoted primarily to gammon, tipping the bin men and playing Hungry Hippo with a child who has, despite all proper advice, eaten some tinsel? I fear that the differing expectations might clash. It’s hard to merge the average family Christmas with a lifestyle that centres around “gue rrilla gigs”, studying the writings of Thomas de Quincey and making paintings out of your own blood.

Especially the “guerrilla gigs” bit. I know all mums have an emergency tin of salmon in the cupboard, in case unexpected guests should pop by, but if Doherty should suddenly summon 200 fans to watch an impromptu gig in the living room, it’s just not going to stretch — even if it is “padded out” with vinegar.

I can’t remember whether Doherty is currently taking drugs or not. Given both his fame and his many visits to drug rehabilitation centres, it’s disappointing to discover that CNN is not, as yet, broadcasting a rolling ticker-tape of his current state of consciousness across the bottom of the screen. Perhaps the network could even make it look like stock market information, and run the amounts he’s consuming: “Quadrise Fuels Intl, down 16 to 266. Pete Doherty, up up and away on 3 grams.” But even if he isn’t shooting crack into his eyeballs, Christmas is going to be difficult. Indeed, if he is sober, Christmas is going to be even more difficult. Let’s be honest here. Although no Times reader is a user of Class A drugs, there does come a point on Boxing Day — round about 4pm, when it’s too late for a walk, too early for a bath, and 40 years too soon for death — where any of us might consider it. If there were such a thing, one could easily take a Crack Montélimar from a tin of Quality Street and sit in the coat-cupboard for an hour or two, having some “Quiet Mummy Time”.

And we — sober, upright citizens — are just imagining how good it is. Doherty knows how good it is — and has, while on it, had sex with the supermodel Kate Moss. In a posh hotel. While being at No 1 in the charts. That’s going to be a hard memory to shake, while watching Nanny McPhee and eating piccalilli in a Christmas jumper.

And where is Doherty going to go for the big day? His mother wrote a warts and all book about him this year, so I guess home isn’t an option. Moss is presumably going to be with her daughter and her daughter’s father, which leaves Doherty with — well, scanning his social circle, it appears to leave Doherty spending Christmas Day with the resonantly named “Wolfman”, with whom he recorded the No 2 hit For Lovers. Wolfman doesn’t look like the type to deck the halls with boughs of holly. Wolfman doesn’t look as though he’s been down to Iceland, getting 2-4-1 on mini sausage rolls. To be honest, Wolfman looks the type who is likely to serve up a tin of HP “Full Monty” baked beans for Christmas dinner, before throwing an interior door on the fire, then smoking a fag. I guess this is one of the problems with being a freelance troubadour and opiated visionary — you just don’t know anyone who can make gravy.

And as if Doherty’s frankly scrappy Christmas dinner weren’t enough, there is of course, all the reflection. Christmas is a prime time for reflection — whether about your deeds, in the year just gone, or just your face, all huge and red in a bauble.

Doherty has more than most to ponder on, during the enforced hours of reflection in which all the shops are shut. Obviously he’ll need to consider the role he has played in a whole generation of men starting to wear pork-pie hats — a truly lamentable retrograde step, which makes the average supermarket queue look like the 1985 line-up of Madness.

And, most pressingly of all, he might want to attend to writing some catchy tunes. After all, despite his current notoriety, I very much doubt that many of us could whistle a single song he’s written. And as a true rock legend pointed out to me a couple of weeks ago: “What song of his are they going to play on the Six O’Clock News if he ODs? His biggest hit is called F*** Forever. No newsreader is going to be able to do a back-announcement over that.

“The thing is, Pete Doherty has to stay clean this time, because if he dies now, the poignant montage of his life and career will be soundtracked by Heroin by the Velvet Underground instead.”

My Olympic dream: no strain, lots of gain

I note that the 2012 London Olympics are currently estimated to be costing us £15 billion. Presumably Londoners are going to have to “go Dutch” on the extra £7 billion, which means no loft conversion for Johnny Cockney in this decade.

Given that stupendous budget over-runs always occur with these big events, can’t we — bearing this in mind — introduce a new global event? It would be called the Making Your City Halfway Decent Olympics, and cities from all over the world would compete to host it. The winner would still get £7 billion but instead of using the money to host a month of leaping and sweating, the city would get a wholly new transport system, updated municipal buildings, across-the-board disabled access, new parks, revamped schools and a free glass of champagne for everyone. I bet loads of people would be into sport after that.

No cover for No 1

Ah, you’ve got to love NME. Every year the magazine publishes a wholly spurious “Cool List” of rock. This year the person in the No 1 slot is Beth Ditto, a 15st lesbian activist from Arkansas and lead singer in the Gossip. The only problem is that — despite Ditto apparently being the coolest person in the world this year — NME has, mysteriously, chosen not to put a 15st lesbian activist on the cover, and has gone for the white, male, middle-class Muse instead.

The question is, if topping NME’s Cool List isn’t an important enough accolade to get you on the cover of the magazine that invented it, why is NME bothering with it in the first place?

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