This from Piers Morgan, a UK entertainment insider:
I’ve never quite got the Kate Moss thing. How this stroppy, pinch-faced little coke-snorter from Croydon ever made it to become the world’s No. 1 supermodel is quite beyond me. But even that is not as incomprehensible as her obsession with that filthy, talentless junkie Pete Doherty.
‘Kate Moss? She’s a paranoid drunk with spots’
So when I found I was at the same party as them tonight, I was intrigued. It was a stunningly glamorous masked ball in an extraordinary gothic villa in Twickenham, attended by the most beautiful crowd imaginable, and I spent a happy hour flitting around various themed rooms.
Then a jittery PR woman marched up and demanded: "Could you move? Kate and Pete want to come through here, but they’re terrified of you."
"Kate and Pete who?" ‘You know who." Of course, silly me. But why so ‘terrified’? Perhaps they think I’m still editing the Mirror, which exposed Kate’s drug problem last year.
A photographer told me they were in the karaoke room and I headed down there, sporting my Phantom-Of-The-Opera-style face mask, and found Kate, Pete and their ten-strong entourage sprawled across some leather sofas.
Kate was curled up into a little ball, writhing and shaking and guzzling greedily from a bottle of champagne. She looked tiny, pimply, wide-eyed, and had a nose like Danniella Westbrook’s.
Pete was not much bigger, wearing black goggles and a coat in the hot room, and swaying from side to side as the entourage guffawed at every word he slurred.
This was supposed to be the personification of crazy, fun-loving, rock ‘n’ roll, A-list cool, but instead I observed a joyless, pathetic scene of self-absorbed artificiality.
Then, with wonderful irony, Itchycoo Park by the Small Faces - chorus: "It’s all too beautiful" - started playing on the karaoke machine.
Pete grabbed the microphone and started singing. Well, when I say singing, I mean he began emitting a tuneless, whining noise more akin to a live lobster being brought to the boil.
I assumed it was a wind-up and laughed, but it wasn’t. Kate flashed me an angry stare: there was a nonworshipper in the room.
Pete was shambling around like a hyena on acid. He looked dirty, sweaty and puffy-cheeked, and he was murdering the song with every agonising groan he made. Yet Kate and the entourage cooed and drooled as if they were having a collective orgasm.
Then Pete bumped into a wall and I laughed louder, provoking another ferocious stare from Kate, which made me laugh even louder. And if you laugh that loudly while wearing a mask then eventually you need air. I dropped the mask.
Kate saw my face and gasped in horror. "Oh f***king hell, what is he doing in ‘ere?" she snarled in a rough South London twang. "Just get ‘im out," she shrieked.
A security man ran to my side: "I’m sorry, Mr Morgan, but you must leave the party."
"Er, why?" "Because there have been complaints about you."
"But I haven’t said or done anything, this is not a private room, and it’s not their party, is it?"
"No, sir, but you’re still going to have to leave."
I left the masked ball, frogmarched out, to the cheers and jeers of the entourage.
But I’m glad I’ve finally met Kate Moss, because at least now, when people ask me what she’s really like, I can answer with some authority: "Well, just as I thought, she’s a drunken, foul-mouthed, ill-mannered, paranoid Croydon girl with a cocaine-desecrated hooter and spots.
"And Pete’s a filthy, talentless junkie who can’t sing."
As for me, well I learned once again that there is no greater truism than, "If you lie down with dogs, you get fleas."