Amy's ex and the sad truth about his toxic life: How hard has Blake Fielder-Civil fought to battle his drug demons?

Blake Fielder-Civil has long battled his drug demons. The question is, how hard did he fight? Not very, not much, sometimes desperately, only when forced to, now and again, half-heartedly? The truth lies buried somewhere in there, amid all the heartache and broken promises and squalor. Despite any endeavours by himself or by others to get clean, his life appears to have been one long druggy blast-off; a rocket ride of narcotic-fuelled narcissism and selfish behaviour patterns that took him to this terrible moment. Earlier this week, the former husband of Amy Winehouse was put on a life support machine in a Dewsbury hospital. Fielder–Civil was only two weeks out of prison and still wearing a tag. Soon, he was back in the old routine. He appears to have taken a cocktail of drink and drugs and was found choking in bed by Sarah Aspin, the girlfriend he met in rehab three years ago. The couple have a 15-month-old son, Jack. ‘I’m praying he’ll survive, but I’m having to prepare myself that he may never wake up,’ she said of Blake. Here we go again. Another young woman with a baby whose life is now in bits; another son whose future has already been fractured by his father’s selfish behaviour. To ADD to the agony, Mitch Winehouse, Amy’s father, has asked fans to pray for Fielder-Civil. ‘Remember Amy loved him. Pray for his recovery,’ he tweeted. Very generous-spirited of him, considering the devastating effect his former son-in-law had on his daughter’s life. And while we all hope that he manages to somehow salvage his health and his prospects, I confess to a certain exasperation about the way Blake Fielder-Civil gets treated. Almost as if he was some noble war hero, rather than a career junkie who is in charge of his own destiny and repeatedly chooses, all by himself, to become a worse man rather than a better one. It is awful that he had to go to hospital. It is terrible he became so ill. But he can’t blame anyone except himself. A former grammar school boy, he married Amy Winehouse in 2007, after they met in a pub in Camden, North London. Troubled: Blake Fielder-Civil, the former husband of Amy Winehouse was put on a life support machine in a Dewsbury hospital earlier this week Troubled: Blake Fielder-Civil, the former husband of Amy Winehouse was put on a life support machine in a Dewsbury hospital earlier this week To paraphrase Adele, they could have had it all. She was incredibly talented, he had a rackety allure she found irresistible. Yet their relationship and marriage were ruined by drug abuse. Heroin, not love, was the glue that held them together. There were frightful photographs of the pair of them at the height of their addiction; blood spattered, wild-eyed, lost to the world. They divorced and she tried to live a healthier life — and the tragedy is that she almost made it, too. Yet Amy died alone, a year ago this summer, poisoned with alcohol. And somewhere in his addled heart, Fielder-Civil must know that he had a part to play in that death. Yet addicts like him can think only of themselves. Their appetite for drugs is matched by a reckless determination to self-destruct. In this, they are encouraged by those in academic circles or at the forefront of the liberal elite who support the modish opinion that addiction is a disease. Addicts like this notion a lot, because saying they have a disease absolves them of responsibility. They’re not making a straightforward lifestyle choice — they’ve got an illness, a sickness that is out of their control. Tragedy: Amy Winehouse tried to live a healthier life after divorcing Blake Fielder-Civil Tragedy: Amy Winehouse tried to live a healthier life after divorcing Blake Fielder-Civil Hardly. Taking heroin is a complicated process. Every time you have got to locate a source, get the money, arrange a handover, prepare your batterie de cuisine, inject it and so on. Heroin doesn’t leap into your veins all by itself. There are many stages in the process where people like Fielder-Civil could say no, but choose not to. And claiming that drug addiction is a disease does a disservice to those who really do have a disease through no fault of their own, with no say in the matter. Yet drugs clinics are full of addicts claiming that it is not their fault and health workers vigorously agreeing with them. They are coddled in sympathy and benevolence. Rather than pander to this no-fault notion, wouldn’t it be better to apply the big poultice of tough love instead? For in the long run, it would be much better for addicts to accept that they have control and choices. Yes, some choices are harder, some people do not have the luck and good fortune that others have, but it is still a choice. And it is important to remember that lots of people have hardships, difficulties and problems in life, but manage to survive without drugs. Addicts like Fielder-Civil need help and support — but sometimes these things are hard to give when he won’t even help himself. Rehab, drug programmes — so far nothing has worked. The path he has taken can lead only to more dead ends. Let’s hope that he makes a full recovery and a final bid to leave all the bad stuff behind him. And if he can’t or won’t, the honest truth is that he isn’t worthy of his family’s continued love. Why can't we bottle this Olympic spirit? Hail the wonderful she-Olympians. Bow down to Jessica Ennis, Victoria Pendleton, Lizzie Armitstead, pig-tailed Laura Trott, the rowers Helen Glover and Heather Stanning, Rebecca Adlington, Nicola Adams, all those chicks doing the horse-ballet thing, the road racers, the wild swimmers, the lady medallists too many to mention, we salute you all. Because of your efforts, a generation of British girls have been supplied with enough excellent role models to keep them motivated for decades. One hopes they really will be inspired by the achievements and triumphs of these Olympians, whose dedication, discipline and talent have served their country so well over the past few weeks. Forget the reality stars and the Rihannas of this world, why not be the best that you can be through the medium of sport and fitness? Why not, indeed? Pure gold: Heptathlete Jessica Ennis is an Olympic champion and an excellent role model for young British girls Pure gold: Heptathlete Jessica Ennis is an Olympic champion and an excellent role model for young British girls No sooner were the Olympic women being hailed as the best thing since sliced feminism than they were out on the town, falling out of nightclubs, binge-partying at Chinawhite, snogging secret boyfriends at the beach volleyball and clambering over each like eels in a bid to sit next to Ryan Lochte in the back of a cab. Girls, I am so proud of you all. Especially those contestants who won gold in the Lochte pole vault. Way. To. Go. Eric Idle could appear in the Closing Ceremony Well, why not? This was their moment. After all the years of slog and training, the 4am starts, the rain and the pain, the lactic acid and the disappointments along the way, you can hardly blame them for letting their hair down to celebrate. And their achievements really have been amazing. Some news just in. Apparently China and the U.S. are at the top of the medals table — who knew? In the UK we’ve been too busy watching re-runs of Jess and the rest to bother with anyone else. And the problem is, after all this dizzy glory, how will Great Britain ever cope with mediocrity again? What happens on Monday morning when we must revert to our default positions on the international league table: failed to qualify, losing or last? Is it too much to hope that the Olympic spirit will drag us out of the doldrums and usher in a new era of sportsmanship and good cheer? Perhaps not. Golden postboxes painted by Royal Mail to celebrate the victories of Andy Murray, Kat Copeland and Jessica Ennis in their respective home towns have already been vandalised. Don’t let the dream die already! Rod, you still wear it well Should teak-hued rocker Rod Stewart really be behaving like a beach bum? On balance, yes. Rod may have a black mark — not to mention a burn mark — for all that Spandex in the Eighties, but his uncomplicated good cheer has barely dimmed since the days of Maggie May. From newspaper delivery boy to grave digger to rocker to crooner is quite a journey — but has anyone ever enjoyed his celebrity more? Our Rod is really good at being a rock star. Sailing: Rod Stewart is good at being a rock star Sailing: Rod Stewart is good at being a rock star He remains a lover of leggy blondes, a football fanatic, an embracer of life. Three wives, eight children, one grandchild. Yes, it’s a complicated score sheet for the old boy, but to his credit, he provides for and remains on good terms with all his wives, past and present. Now here he is, on a beach in the sunshine, giddy as a young goat. Where did it all go right? Farewell to a polished gem I was saddened by the death last month of Angharad Rees, one of those British character actresses whose modesty belied her quiet excellence. My favourite story about her was that she and her husband Sir David McAlpine were much-loved regulars at Racine, the lovely French restaurant near her jewellery shop in Knightsbridge, West London. Angharad was a vegetarian — but once a year she would make an exception to her own rule and order Racine’s roast grouse. Cooked by chef Henry Harris in the traditional manner, it has long had a reputation as among the best in London. The proof? Even Angharad was powerless to resist. When this year’s grouse season starts on August 12 I’ll be thinking of her. In the nicest possible way. I'm applying for Rio now Here are the six jobs I’d like to do at the next Olympics: •  Long jump decider. Person who sits at edge of sandpit, holds up red or white flag to denote whether jumper has fouled or not. Easy! •  Motorised bike rider for the keirin race in the Velodrome. Must wear silly helmet and maintain dignity at all times, even while looking like a Smurf. Not so easy! • Manicurist to all the women’s teams. Must specialise in flag art. •  Triathlon supervisor. Oversees the first transition stage at the triathlon to make sure dozens of grown men put their wet sports gear neatly in the laundry box provided. Penalising them if they fail. Hold me back. • Painting the numbers on the triathletes’ biceps. Someone’s gotta do it. • Shutting the tiny gate in the tiny fence at the dressage event after the horses step through.