When it comes to tabloid fodder Pete Doherty is up there with the Big-Bro shit-list and cerebrally challenged Wag List, a one man media whirlwind that craves exposure and designs addiction for the teens. It’s not hard to wonder why he splits opinions, touted as the coolest rock-star since the age of Keith Moon, Doherty is king of the adolescent dream, a man in touch with his fan-base yet dogged by Dickensian ideals, a pure thorough-bred dick.

Tonight’ s Apollo crowd, half-cut between Johnny star spotter and the Albion are surprisingly astute, welcoming Manchester Stalwarts ‘I Am Kloot’ with a resounding chant of “Who the f*ck are you” cant be far from the truth, in-fact the chant should ensue nationally. Battling against an apathetic crowd Bramwell and crew plod on with nothing short of MOR crud.

The drugs, persistent non-shows and late starts undoubtedly fuel Doherty’s mystique and celebrity status, but when it comes to tabloid material it’s his link with fashion icon Moss (who appears to lend vocals to one track tonight) that transcends all. Music plays no part, and rightly so as Doherty’s output is both pretentious and moronic, and tonight is no exception. Bumbling through a set littered with Libertines classics (to maintain morale) and Babyshamblings is enough to incite an already hysterical crowd. And to be honest they should be joyous if it’s the music they want, Doherty, sober, on-time, coherent, yet it’s not what everyone wants. We want a riot, a stage invasion ending in Doherty’s inevitable cathartic breakdown, we want anarchy. What we get is a perpetual drone, a display of what is truly wrong with music and its new found celebrity status, a celebration of a pretend drugged up tw*t pretending at music. It’s baffling the attraction to their music, its baffling their attraction to the man, but for whatever their reason they will flock around Doherty.