We've all got our own ideas of how we could straighten out Amy

Tag : cartoon slippers

I don't know when exactly it was, but at some point in the past fewmonths, I forgot that Amy Winehouse was a real, 24-year-old girlfrom South London - and started to think she was a cartoon. She'sjoined some notional Public Figures Cartoon Network in my head -along with Boris Johnson, Hunter S. Thompson and Keith Richards.You know what I mean, don't you? When Keith Richards fell out ofthat coconut tree, we didn't think “Dear God. A 64-year-oldman has fallen 20ft from a tree, possibly injuring his brain, on anisland with primitive medical resources. That's terrible.”
Instead, we went: “Keef! You gravity-bothering legend! Whatare you going to fall out of next, eh? Your own mind? Hehehe!Siiiigh.”
And so it is with Winehouse. Back in 2006, the news that she had 1)contracted emphysema, 2) discharged herself from hospital, 3) goneto Glastonbury and 4) punched a fan in the face, would have beenmet with some genuine distress. “This is a life of terriblechaos and misery,” we would have thought. “Pray God ourchildren's lives never go this way.”
In 2008, however - after umpteen such incidents - the response isdifferent. It is, “Winehouse! Sounds like Darth Vader, swingslike Rocky Balboa! She's a Flump-haired, one-woman Ragnarok!Amazing!”
Winehouse's life doesn't upset me any more. This is because, in mymind, every one of her days ends with the credits“©Hanna-Barbera 2008”. Crack, hospital, violence,husband in jail - you might as well try to make me worry about themisadventures of Top Cat. From what I can make out, she exists onone meal a day - Nik-Naks and Soleros, purchased from a petrolstation at 5am - wears ballet slippers in winter, and lives in abin in Camden. You see. Not real. She's Pippi Bongstocking. LittleOrphan Gram-ie.
Last week, the papers pictured Mitch Winehouse, Amy's father,locking Winehouse in her flat. Of course, because Amy is a cartoon,she jumped out of a window and escaped in a friend's sports car,while wearing a dress a little too small for her - just like WileE. Coyote.
Clearly, trying to stop Amy Winehouse from dying under a giganticweight with “Crackme” written on the side of it is nowtotally beyond the Winehouse family. Just as it takes a village toraise a child, so it will now take this whole nation to save AmyWinehouse from her surreal nightmare and turn her back to flesh andblood again. I'm sure we've all got our own ideas of how we couldstraighten out Winehouse. Here are mine:
1)Get that woman an orphan. Although it is a theory that appears inno official literature on treating addiction, personalitydisorders, depression, hypermania or gigantic hair, popular cultureteaches us that the best way to make the headstrong reassess theirpriorities is to land them with an orphan. Baby Boom, Annie,Pollyanna, Three Men and a Baby, My Two Dads - give a curmudgeon akid and they'll be baking muffins and sighing within hours.
Of course, there is a matter of scale to address here. In BabyBoom, Diane Keaton had a single, winsome orphan's-worth of issuesto address. Winehouse, by comparison, would probably need around100 orphans. Indeed, we may need to look at procuring a secondbatch, at some point - should the initial village-full start to diefrom exposure/neglect/choking on black hairballs, etc.
There is an outside risk that Winehouse might be tempted to becomesome manner of beehived Fagin to the children. Sending them out topick the pockets of the gentry to fund a limitless supply of heroinpies, crack sandwiches, etc. We'd need to keep an eye on that, andpossibly consider:
Option 2) Sending Winehouse into space. Across all records on whatit is like to go into orbit, there is the recurrent theme ofhumility, and perspective. “I put up my thumb and I blottedout the Earth. I didn't feel like a giant. I felt tiny,” saidNeil Armstrong. “It's hard to hold on to your problems whenyou're 150 miles up,” Buzz Aldrin added.
That's the kind of thoughts we need Winehouse to be having! Someonesuch as the Lord Mayor of London would be in charge of tuggingWinehouse's rope twice a day, and shouting “Are you normalyet?” at her, until she replied in the affirmative. Then we'dbring her back down again.
I imagine the whole process would take no more than a week. Andwhile the process was ongoing, I quite like the idea of us lookingup and seeing Winehouse floating above us, like a giant strayfairground balloon - her faint mating cry of“Blaaaaaaaaaake!” softly carolling across the midsummerevenings.
3)Make her the new Doctor in Doctor Who. As debate rages as to whoshould be the new Doctor, the obvious answer stares us in the eye.Winehouse. Who knows what current combination of uppers, downersand lizard-drops she imbibes, but if you made her walk out of theTardis on to the set of a hostile, alien planet, Winehouse wouldbelieve it to be totally real. No acting would be necessary as shefended off flying hordes of pig-faced bats of the planet Rac.
As the weeks went by, and Winehouse had to save the Earth from aseries of formidable enemies, she would, surely, get her acttogether. By the end she'd be jogging, doing Su Doku, eating saladand wearing her hair in a neat bob. Or, maybe:
4)Something to do with the Third World. Not really sure what itshould be - but going to the Third World always seems to sortpeople out. They come back with ratty friendship bracelets andtheir heads “in the right place”. You'd have to makesure it was one of those bits of the Third World that doesn't havegigantic fields of heroin growing in it, of course. That would messthings up a bit.