3/16/2024 0 Comments Amy winehouse teeth![]() ![]() ![]() On the day Amy Winehouse died, my whole body caved in. My sister whose addictions and self-loathing would snowball to such an extent that she would be hospitalised, become homeless and give her only child – such a child – over to me and my family. My sister the heroin addict, the methadone user, the crack dabbler, the erstwhile alcoholic. My talented, funny, kind, shy, much-nicer-than-me sister. While Amy catastrophically pinballed from the streets of Camden to the stage of the Grammys and managed to keep singing, or just breathing, I held out hope that my sister would make it, too. I made a pact, a ridiculously unutterable pact, that Amy Winehouse being alive meant that my addict sister Siobhain would be OK. After I persuaded my feet to move, I ran back to the car, thinking: “If she can’t make it then, my God, we’re all fucking fucked.” Because somehow, and it’s odd to admit it even now, during those years when Amy Winehouse’s life came undone in pixellated Technicolor, I used her as a yardstick. ![]()
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