And so Pete Doherty is sprung from chokey after 29 days, 69 days early, and contemporary indie-pop’s most spectacular loser shuffles off into his future of continuing to take drugs for a living and wasting not only the faintest scintilla of talent left in his increasingly dwindled creative psyche but actual years of metropolitan police time.

Where he’ll actually live, meanwhile, is currently a mystery, having reportedly been evicted from the nine-bedroom mansion he rented in Wiltshire after the landlord was curiously shocked to discover Britain’s best-known Celebrity Drug Addict had splattered the walls in blood and left nine mangy cats to use his beloved homestead as a toilet, like some audacious Trainspotting sequel with To The Manor Born pretensions. Wherever he ends up, we can almost guarantee life will continue in exactly the same way for our most doggedly persistent reality-dodger and as someone who has been inside one of Pete Doherty’s lovely homes, here’s a glimpse of the forthcoming domestic arrangements we can expect of the 29-year-old alleged poet as he plays his greatest “get out of jail free” card yet...

Creaking open the boarded-up front door to Pete Doherty’s flat in Hackney, east London, in April 2006 and you were confronted by a corridor which appeared to be doing an impersonation of an outdoor alley without the bins: a bicycle strewn among discarded instruction manuals for electrical equipment, an unfurled poster of a bottle of Southern Comfort, plastic medical packaging (empty), graffiti all over the walls (‘QPR’ ‘2006’) and a pile of visitors’ shoes because the only rule in Pete Doherty’s two-bedroom flat was “no shoes, because I always wanted to live in a house where the rule was no shoes”.

Up a stairway and his living room was the sort of pandemonium-based obstacle course last seen in a particularly musical episode of The Young Ones: a huge, second-hand amplifier dominating a windowless room surrounded by microphones, tripods, guitars, banjos, drums, a lap-top, flight-cases, cans, bottles, mugs, ash-trays and empty mobile phone boxes while a sunken black couch housed two 20-year-old girls silently smoking cigarettes. At the back, the open-plan kitchen area was littered with spoons, saucers as ashtrays, empty cigarette packets and discarded, empty drug-wraps. A door opened onto a roof terrace. And so you found yourself, in your socks, stepping out onto a wooden decking area and placing a foot literally two inches away from a discarded, bloodied, hypodermic needle.

In the graffitied bathroom (with no hot water), another bloodied hypodermic needle perched on top of a sanitary bin. On the once-white walls in every room were Pete’s infamous drawings, in his own blood, long turned rusty-brown, scratchy doodles made with the tip of a full hypodermic needle, his most recurring image a long, thin, dripping love-heart while canvas paintings propped against walls, including one of a scratchy match-stick couple sitting on a bench. He pointed to some words in a corner. “It’s the nicest text message she ever sent me,” he said, speaking about Kate Moss. “Don’t you think that’s romantic? I think that’s really romantic.” The message read: “YOUR IN MY BLOOD, YOU FUCK”.

In the bedroom, meanwhile, a junk-bestrewn affair with a blood-daubed etch of George Best on the wall, sat a small, wooden double bed with purple bedding, a bed Kate Moss has since been photographed in (surreptitiously, via someone’s mobile phone). Here, Pete sat on the bed, produced his crack pipe (a sawn-off miniature bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream) and began to smoke crack, his eyes closed, eyeballs clearly moving from side to side, as his voice evaporated into an incomprehensible wisp. It didn’t look like much fun – or anything to do with rock ‘n’ roll.

This week, Doherty has already told us he’s celebrating his freedom with “a rum and coke” as the nation, once again, rolls its collective eyes. Novelty jail sentences can do nothing for Pete Doherty, only extensive rehab might but the trouble is he’s not interested, preferring narcotic illusion to what he clearly feels is dreary daily reality, just one more catastrophically romantic dreamer in the artist’s tradition and just another junkie who loves the drugs more than he loves anything else. “Is this the rock ‘n’ roll dream?” he wondered that day in Hackney, fondling his beloved pipe. “It’s a dream.”