Snigger if you will, but I used to be one of those foolishly plucky, pathetically deluded teens that feverishly defended Pete Doherty. "He's a poet", I would stoically insist, as countless adults (sorry, mum), naturally out of touch, would scoff at his disheveled chops, splashed across yet another tabloid front page.

Somewhat inevitably, you grow out of being an arrogant, juvenile prick, but your idols, particularly in Pete's case, do not. I grit my teeth through the vicious capitulation of The Libertines, a shabby scrum of guerrilla gigs, matching blazers and rockstar excess that effortlessly encapsulated boyish camaraderie and the unruly right hooks of teen angst, no doubt destined to crumble due to Pete's love affair no longer with Carl Barat, but with himself. I even clung on during the sickeningly self-indulgent Grace/Wastelands years. By the time Doherty churned out a recent Babyshambles LP, a half-arsed stab at listenable fodder, to further bleed his unwitting fans dry, I remained unmoved.

It was only a matter of time before the rumour mill rumbled back into life because, well, drug money doesn't last forever, kids (even when you sink to the lowly depths of flogging your contemporaries' fag butts for shrapnel). Hyde Park apparently beckons, a lifeless shell that bares no significance to the grubby crevices of the capital that are considered so vital in their history, a band that captured an unpredictable snapshot of alienation for Britain's youth, yet have never appeared so excruciatingly irrelevant.

The Reading & Leeds Festival reunion shows four years ago weren't perfect, nothing about the band ever was, but it felt surprisingly fitting - brisk, brash and stirring enough to suggest closure. Of course, there is no indication that a summer show won't be considered successful, an infuriatingly Twitter-happy fan base will ensure that you believe the hype, but the motivation behind them, a greedy, malicious scrabble for cash from doting followers to fend off mounting debts, leaves even the most resilient of fans with a bitter taste in the mouth. As Doherty fabricates venomous tales of nostalgia and spits about an appreciation for his supporters, you can almost visualise the golden pound signs that materialise within his eye line.

Recent years have been awash with limp reunions and The Libertines certainly won't be the last to cash in on their ardent devotees (here's looking at you, Axl), yet my respect for a fistful of reinvigorated bands remains nobly intact. The likes of Albarn and Malkmus emit less of a sense of pissing over a legacy without a scrap of remorse and pocketing a hefty cheque, rather interweaving the experience with a creative process and producing scraps of their most promising material on the back of it.

It is time that Pete moved on. It's time that we all moved on, to prevent ourselves from being shamefully exploited. Instead of worshipping bloated parodies of our idols, we should be embracing fresh blood - and trust me, there's plenty more relevant in 2014 than the fucking Libertines. Shove that in your crack pipe and smoke it, Doherty.