Don't do rehab, Amy. You know it's not the place to write a decent

Bad news this week for Amy Winehouse, arguably the nation's brightest young musical talent, as it was revealed that the 23-year- old pop star has succumbed to that most classic of rock'n'roll indulgences.

It's the scourge of modern-day celebrity, luring so many stars away from their talent; it promises them an expensive high, then leaves them crashing down in want of more. Yes, it is thought that La Winehouse has been toying with - dare we say it - rehab. Ugh.

It's especially disappointing given that her biggest hit to date is the single "Rehab", in which she explains perfectly eloquently why she won't be going there, no no no.

Now it seems she has mouthed the words yes yes yes, after staggering derangedly around a London hospital before apparently having her stomach pumped. She's already known for her love of a drink or 12, but well-informed whisperers suggest that her trip to casualty was the result of harder substance abuse, and that she is considering a long-term recovery plan to fight her drug addictions.

Problem is, it's all very well these pop stars doing their bit for the public good by getting off the waiting lists for a liver transplant, but what about our ears? Rehab itself never produced a good pop song, and Winehouse's oeuvre is so gloriously dark and dirty that a cleaned-up version is hard to imagine. She has sung about crying her heart out on the kitchen floor over her lost love (the man she is now not only reconciled with but also married to) and about finding her solace in booze.

What now for future material? A comeback album about marital bliss and the 12-step programme? Spare us. It was boring enough when rappers used to brag about doing time in the penitentiary, but even that's preferable to hearing pop stars prattle on about the penuries of the Priory.

Look at Mike Skinner of The Streets, who recorded two great albums about his mischievous ways, then got rich and famous and released a boring third effort called The Hardest Way to Make an Easy Living, in which he was to be found behaving awkwardly in posh clinics after getting addicted to nasty dwugs and, erm, betting on the gee-gees.

The celebrity gossip website Holy Moly sums it up best with its spoof secret diary of Pete Doherty, in which the drug-addled fool, writing strangely like Molesworth, says the way to get out of rehab quickly is to tell the nice therapists what they want to hear. He recommends a confession of: "O yes mi pater was incomunicativ, mater smoather me with luv i was buleyed and o yes the budgie used to peck me somthing teribel."

Clearly, Amy Winehouse is far too entertaining to witter on about budgies. Recently, when asked on a television show, if the monstrous bird's nest sitting aloft her own head could really be her own hair, she insisted that it was. Really, asked the incredulous presenter - that hair is all yours? "Yeah," came her happy reply, "I paid for it."

Watching her fall by the wayside brings to mind that Frank O'Hara poem "Lana Turner Has Collapsed", in which the poet is strolling around 1960s New York and sees a newspaper headline about his favourite movie star ending up in a bad way. He muses, "I have been to lots of parties / and acted perfectly disgraceful / but I never actually collapsed / oh Lana Turner we love you get up."

Oh Amy Winehouse we love you. Get up.

Sophie Heawood

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