In the run-up to Christmas, Pete Doherty scheduled a trio of solo gigs at the pocket-sized Rhythm Factory, his old Whitechapel stamping ground, as a seasonal thank-you to his fans. Surely he wouldn’t turn these into one of his infamous no-show fiascos? That would be like Santa not delivering presents. Incredibly however, Dockers cancelled at the eleventh hour due to “injury”.

He offered no explanation when he swanned on stage for the re-arranged first night at the Tube-unfriendly hour of 1.55am with neither a bandage nor a plaster cast in sight. His apology took the form of leaving the acoustic guitar and bar stool at home, and bringing his esteemed backing combo for a full-blown Babyshambles fandango.

As he led off into a jubilant version of F*** Forever, the front rows turned into a seething mass of arm-waving devotion, and you began to understand why this elevated star keeps returning to play in such humble and — let’s be frank here —smelly circumstances. After that initial rush of energy, the pace slackened considerably. The question of Pete’s match-fitness arose not from any possible fractured limb, but from whether he was too off his head to perform. He, and particularly lead guitarist Mick Whitnall, seemed to be on a different planet to the more wholesome-living rhythm section.

Perhaps sensing this, Doherty wound up a chaotic Killamangiro and led the band off stage for a breather, returning at around 3.10am looking and sounding healthier. The new songs, some possibly from Pete’s imminent solo album, had a downbeat, jazzy feel, and the contrast with big-hitters like Delivery made a lurching but highly agreeable dynamic. Doherty, with or without a supermodel missus, remains a compelling talent.