Star Blog

No book writing today. The old body and older brain finally rebelled and caved in on me, aided by an over-long visit to the dentist's this morning. There's a line from an old Alice Cooper song, from his 1973 album 'Billion Dollar Babies'. I can't remember what the song was called now but there's a line from it that has always stayed with me: 'You're teeth are OK but your gums gotta go...'

Today I discovered why that line has stayed with me these past 30 odd years: it was a prophesy of the dastardly day my own real-life dentist said exactly those words to me (or very near anyway). Today was that day. Followed by an hour of drilling noises, suction hoses, mirrors, sharp pointy things and all sorts of other horrors that left me woozy and in pain - all day.

Being immensely brave, I did try and work, in the shape of a few must-do emails fired off like gunshots. Then I gave up and went to bed like the hardnut I am. They don't call me The Rocker for nothing. Or those other dreadful names they say behind my back. Fuck 'em. Wait till it's their turn for their rotten gums to give up on them.

One bit of good news. Kerrang! say they are going to run a competition to give away copies of Star Trippin'. I love that magazine. Especially the editor Paul Brannigan. He didn't even make me beg much. Bless him. I wonder how his gums are getting on...

No blog entry yesterday as the old brainbox finally fizzed out as I sat here trying to eke out a few more pages of the book. Better today though, thanks. Sort of. Passed another significant milestone - 50,000 words, about half the required length - and feel like your man Hilary halfway up Everest. Wish I had a couple of good Sherpas to help me up the rest of the way but having got this far I know now I am going to make it.

They say you shouldn't look down but obviously going back and taking stock of what you've done is a big part of writing a book and so I found myself today doing exactly that - reviewing what's already been written, what's been left in, what taken out. It's good, if I say so myself, and I do. But it's still lacking... something. An extra ingredient in the 'voice' which I'll probably only be able to find once I've got the whole thing done, or at least the first draft. That will be the time to go back and nancy around with 'voice' and 'tone' and how's-yer-father's like that. For now, though, a momentary respite as I sit here sipping good red wine and patting myself on the back for being such a good boy and working all the hours God gives. Makes me realise something else too: I'm so borrrring these days...

Let this be a warning to you all you would-be authors: writing doesn't just shorten your life, it makes it seem an awful lot longer too.

Reading books expand your horizons. Writing them shrink them. Take today. Sun outside, shadows inside. My wife and kids, out at play. Daddy, home alone, sat in front of the computer with smoke coming out of his ears. No, not that kind of smoke, no fun stuff. Just a blur of bubble-thoughts, waiting to burst.

Looked up, it was 5.00pm and my head was hanging off my shoulders. Decided, enough is enough. Went out and mowed the lawn. Pathetic how much that pleased me. See what I mean about shrinking horizons?

Tomorrow's weather forecast: more of the same. Except no more lawn to mow. This blog is starting to look like a suicide note...

The sun is shining, the world is having a Bank Holiday, most of it anyway, and me, I'm sat here trying to write a book. Oh, I know, there are worse ways to bring home the bacon, and I'm the first to admit it. Why else would I have chosen this ridiculous job. Still, even the queen must sometimes sit there on her throne wondering what the fuck it's all about.

Anyway, two bits of good news. I actually finished a chapter today, always a good feeling, even though it's only a draft. Meaning I'll need to re-read it a couple dozen times first before finally forgetting about it and moving on. But it's still a good feeling. The worst of it is done. All I need to do now is apply a little spit and polish.

The other fun I had today was listening to that My Planet Rocks thing I did for Planet Rock back in July. I was on holiday when the show was first aired, and again when they repeated it, so today was the first time I've actually heard it. Sometimes you do these things then spend the rest of your life cringing about them - that is, if you think about them at all. But I must have been on the good gear the day I did that because it actually came out all right. Of course, some good editing makes all the difference too (well done, Liz), as does the support role played by Mark the DJ (never under-estimate the man at the controls). But still, one for the family time capsule I think. Maybe 100 years from now some distant relative with a bad attitude will come across it and think, 'Hey, great-great-granddad wasn't such a dick after all!"

And then again...

You don't wanna hear about my day - anyway you already know where I'm at if you've been keeping up this week - so dipping into some of your emails instead.

First, and definitely most weird, out of the bag comes from Oskar Selander from somewhere in 24-hour-daylight Sweden, who begins by chastising me for making Star Trippin' too short! 'Maybe that's your plan?' he says. 'Star Trippin' - The Series.' Before adding: 'I would buy them all!' How wonderful. He also says he has read Paranoid a thousand times. Blimey. You might wanna get a check-up with the docs there, mate. The reason I mention all this though is because he also sent me a link to Youtube.com which sent the old noggin into quite a spin - a clip of me interviewing Rob Halford from my old Sky TV show, Monsters Of Rock, recorded in about 1987, by the looks of it. If you fancy a shock, check it out at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6uKhP8kbRSc. And before you ask, yes, OF COURSE I am still as thin and good-looking as that. And yes, obviously my hair is still as long.

Less flattering but just as damaging to the old nut was one from someone in America called Michelle, who describes herself as 'an insurance professional' with a company called TermQuote.com. I was hoping Michelle might be writing to offer me help in light of my probably disastrous phone call from the underwriters this week (see August 23 entry). But no, she has just written to gloat. 'Will you keep us posted on the outcome of your insurance application process?' she asks. 'I predict a "DECLINE".'

She then goes on to warn me that all the info I gave the bloke will now end up on my permanent record, thus fucking me royally for all future insurance claims too. Thanks Michelle, you really know how to cheer a sad old git up.

Finally (can't take anymore today) a nice one from Neal McIntosh, who describes himself as an English 41-year-old rock fan about to jump ship and go and live in Basque country with his Spanish wife - because, he says, 'The Basques are people who KNOW how to party and do it right!' He then kindly invites me over for a visit sometime. I think I might just take him up on his offer. Will I be able to get insurance for the flight though?

You know in the film Apocalypse Now, when they're in the boat gliding up the muddy river full of crocodiles and dead bodies, at night, the sky full of fireworks and strange disembodied voices, all calling out like lost souls twisting in the fires of their own personal hell, just inching forward because there is no way back, no way out, no way to do anything other than just keep... keeping on?

Well, that's me, that is, sat here trying to write this fucking book, working alone at night because it's damn near impossible to manage it during the day, tapping out the words, good and bad, long and short, just creeping along because there's no other way for a demented soul like mine to go, not with the mortgage and tax and VAT and school clothes and ladies shoes and bread and milk and whatnots to pay for, not with the hangman's noose hovering over my haggard old head.

The endlessly blank screen awaits. In the words of Colonel Kurtz: "The horror, the horror..."

The in-tray in the feedback section of this website is full of your emails again and I was going to rifle through some of them. But it's late - been sitting here pecking away at the book (what else?) - and now I'm too tired. Maybe tomorrow, faithful friends and pain-the-arse wise guys.

Shackled to the desk as I have been, the most entertaining thing that happened to me today was a phone call I got from the underwriters for the insurance company my bank manager insists I take a snuff-it-and-the-mortgage-is-paid policy with. I hate insurance companies, they are all thieves and conmen as far as I am concerned. And usually incompetent thieves and conmen too - until, that is, it comes to paying out. And then they turn into fucking experts at stiffing you.

Anyway, I don't mind submitting myself to this as the thought of my wife and kids at least having a roof over their heads if I die tomorrow is a comforting one. Well, for them, anyway. I wont give a shit obviously once I'm gone. But I want to do right by them while I'm still here so off we go.

"This will take about 15 minutes," says Insurance Man. An hour and 20 minutes later I'm still answering questions. "Have you ever taken any drugs that weren't prescribed?" he asks. "You mean like... drugs?" I reply. "Yes," he says.

Well, fuck me, mate, where do I start? "Amphetamines?" he asks. Yep. "LSD? Hallucinogens?" Oh, yeah. "Cocaine?" Most certainly. "Marijuana?" Who hasn't? "Barbiturates?" No, piss off. What do you take me for, someone with no self-respect?

And so on. A most bizarre conversation. "How long did you take speed for?" he asks, checking back. "For about a year in 1976/77," I reply, trying to remember. "Then I went mad and had to stop." He laughs out loud.

"How will this affect my application?" I ask when we finish. "We'll write and let you know," he says. Nice. I have a feeling I'm going to have to stick around and make sure the sodding mortgage is paid off first before I kick it. Probably have to bash out quite a few books first, too.

It seems some things never change no matter how high you get...

Trevor White, the grand fromage of Planet Rock, came to see me today. There aren't many people in the biz I would actually invite into my home but Trev is such a nice bloke he fits right in wherever he goes. We went and had lunch at a lovely pub in the village where they used to film most of Dr Who in the days when Tom Baker played the Doctor. Rather fitting, actually, as Trev and I are definitely relics of the '70s who have somehow survived into the '00s, though exactly how neither of us is really quite sure.

Trev drove us there is his big silver Merc, which didn't make me jealous (much) but did leave me feeling like I'd reached that moment in my life when a big silver Merc is definitely the type of car I should be driving too. I wonder if Trev wants to sell me his and buy himself a new one?

As ever, once we'd had a good giggle at all our rock star friends' expense, the conversation wandered onto how we might work together again (Trevor had been my producer/boss/best friend when I did a weekly show on Capital Radio in the '80s) but somehow the suggestion of perhaps me doing another show for him never comes up. I don't know if this is a good thing (stick to what you know) or a bad thing. You can't do everything in life but there was a time when I thought I'd actually cracked the radio presenting lark. But then it's one of those gigs where it doesn't really matter what you think, it's up to everyone else. Meanwhile, I've become far better known for this writing lark and Trev understandably talks in those terms now.

It's good though just to be back in touch with him, work or no work. There are very few genuinely good guys in the wild west of the rock biz and Trev has always worn the white hat for me. And what a job he's done at Planet Rock. Have you listened to it lately? For my money, it's the best rock station out there, better even than the best of the American rock stations - especially now they all seem to be owned and castrated by the evil empire that is Clearchannel. I will be putting up a link to Planet Rock on this site very soon. Meanwhile, get clicking. It rools...

Spent the evening back working on the book. Or trying to. I feel like a hill walker who is halfway up the Big One, the worst possible place to be, where the rest of the journey seems at it's most impossible, the finish line unbearably far-off. If I can just get over the hump I know all will be well. It's getting to that bloody hump, man. I feel like my legs are starting to give. In fact, I know they are. This is where the drugs used to come in handy. How strange not to have that crutch anymore - not unless you count tea (and more tea). And please don't say you do or I'll send Trev round in his big silver Merc to pour something much worse over your heads...

Or as they say in the jingles, Planet Rock - turn it up!

Can there be anything more obtuse and yet typically 21st century than sitting there in front of a computer reading about a man sitting there in front of a computer writing about a man sitting there in front of a computer writing about a book he's supposed to be writing but can't because he's so busy writing about... something else?

Well, that's where you and I find ourselves today, my friends. It is evening time as I sit here (in front of a computer) writing this and I haven't even been out the door to smell the air yet today. Which would be cool, if I had a handful of pages I could point to that proved my time had been well spent, or near enough anyway, on something that might one day amount to something.

Instead, I feel like a man who has spent the day trying to bite his own balls off, straining for something I can't quite reach, and with about as much enthusiasm as that unfortunate image conjures up.

Fuck it, tomorrow is another day. God help us...

Back to work today with a vengeance. Which doesn't seem right being a Sunday (no double time for freelance schmucks like me) but some things a man's simply gotta do, as they say, so here I am, churning out the wordage. That's the trouble with books, you're so sick of working on them before you're even halfway through it's a wonder any ever get written.

Fortunately, I had the perfect excuse to take a break from it for an hour or so this afternoon, in the more than welcome shape of a phone call from Simon Kirke - again as part of this on-going Classic Rock story on Free I'm doing. You're lucky when you interview a group if one of them turns out to be helpful AND articulate. In this case, it's all been aces, with Andy, Paul and Simon all providing enough amazing material to turn into several lengthy features. As for that guff about drummers not being able to talk, some of the most entertaining conversations I've ever had have been with people like Bill Ward, Ian Mosely, Aynsley Dunbar, Lars Ulrich, and now Simon Kirke.

Of course, there are also more than a fair share I've known who have lived up to their reps as nutters - Tommy Lee and Nicko MacBrain, to name just two obvious cases (plus the drummer in Europe, of all people, who was an absolute animal back in the day). Talking to Simon about his days necking so much whiskey even Peter Grant noticed it was getting out of order, you know he's had his 'moments', too. But he's clearly over it now, and what a lot he still has going on in his head, despite all that.

Hopefully, you'll get a better idea of what I mean when you read the piece. Which reminds me. I have some writing to do. I wonder what so-called normal people do on their Sundays? And whether I'll ever be allowed to join in, too. I'm not complaining (much). I know which side my bread's buttered, guv. But there are moments when I do just... sometimes... wonder.

Funny how the best days come along so unexpectedly. Spent the afternoon having a barbecue with family friends and neighbours, Tom and Lynn, and their teenage kids, Alex and Charlotte. Apart from being fed delicious food and treated to excellent red wine, it meant our much littler kids were entertained by the saintly Charlotte while mum and dad got a rare chance to have a grown-up natter to fellow grown-ups about grown-up type stuff. There is no greater gift in life - repeat, none - than having children. But it is nice occasionally to be freed from their sweet bondage-like embrace. Just for a few hours.

Also there were Tom and Lynn's friends, Ian and Sue, and their twin boys, all enjoying the same privileges. Ian is the bassist in Black Annis, a Leicestershire rock band named after a mythical local witch - which is why the oldest houses in that part of the country have small circular windows, to stop her coming in and stealing the children away.

Ian had a copy of the new Classic Rock with him and I got to see what they did with the Syd Barrett story I wrote for them. It looked good actually. Can't wait to get a copy of my own (hint, hint, guys).

Then in the evening, Paul Rodgers called me back to resume our conversation about Free and life in general. I'm still having a hard time putting together the things I've been told about Paul - the "most difficult interview in the world" as one long-haired former colleague once described him to me - and the guy who happily chats away on the phone. It just proves what they say - no one knows nothing. Especially all those people that say I am the one who is usually difficult. What, good old me?

Also spent some time chatting with Paul's charming lady, Cynthia. We arranged to all meet and say hello when Paul arrives here for his solo tour in a few weeks. Maybe take Linda with me. I guess it's been a day of couples just chatting away. How extremely civilised. Linda and I really must try and do this sort of thing more often.

One of those long rainy days when it feels good to be indoors looking out the window - or at least sitting by the window working, the sound (and smell) of the rain in the near-background. Drinking too much tea.

Stuck in a research rut with the book at the moment - meaning, I've uncovered a goldmine of stuff I either didn't know about or didn't know where to go (or who to talk to) to find. The hard part is wading through it very quickly. It's all do-able, as long as you don't mind sacrificing all your waking hours - and no matter what steps I take, that just isn't possible with a young family even closer-by than the rain.

I'm managing though - just - by trying to see it all as another experience, like my whole life is just one long repeating set of experiments that sometimes bear tremendous results, and sometimes don't. Of course, it's easy to write it like that as I sit here, thinking of going to bed, and quite another to really see it like that as I sweat out the hours each day. But I don't know what else to do to make it happen.

Just to break it up, I'm writing a piece on Free for Classic Rock, and as part of that tonight I interviewed Paul Rodgers, calling me from his home in Canada. Though our paths have crossed tangentially a few times over the years, I have never sat down and done a formal interview with Paul before and wasn't sure what to expect. Others in my shoes have spoken of a 'difficult' character who refuses to speak about the past - and that's putting it mildly.

What I found though was a thoughtful, quietly spoken gent who took his time to answer every single thing I could think of to ask him - about Free, easing into Bad Company, life in the '70s, and a few other things that left me with a smile on my haggard old, unsmiling face.

He is calling me back tomorrow night to finish off the conversation. I'm looking forward to it. Especially as I totally forgot to ask a couple of things that the mag have asked me specifically to get his thoughts on. Note to self: must try harder. And less hard. There's a trick to it, I know there is. It's just a case of finding the right key. So that's how I'll be spending my Saturday then...

One of those intensely slow and irritating days familiar to all long-distance writers. The kind of day where four hours handcuffed to the laptop later you still feel (know) that you haven't really got anything concrete down. Meanwhile you're head has turned to mush and your body aches from sitting in the same small overripe space for too long. Much too long.

Things have slowed so much I've had to drastically re-edit the next few days, trying to stall for time. Trevor White from Planet Rock was supposed to be coming over to the house for a visit tomorrow but I had to call him and wussy out, asking if we could put it back till Tuesday when I will still be stuck in the word-mire but by then so desperate for a change of scene I wont be able to refuse. Also had to re-arrange the weekend. Media empire builder Gerry was coming over with the family (and dog) but again I can't make it. I've somehow wasted so much precious time this week on things other than The Great Book that I have no choice but to throw the weekend at it now too.

All of which leads me to think I should get my ass back to the Hotel du Shit next week, just to get some serious book-work done. But it's such a dump I can't bring myself to make that decision yet.

Just to really confuse and depress me, I had a squint at Ross's latest blog entry just now before sitting down to write this and found myself almost sick with envy. He's out in LA, staying at the Sunset Marquis, where we both used to stay, way back when, only it's no longer me sitting next to him in the bar sipping Chardonnay and eyeing up the even-better-then-the-real-thing babes, it's Warren Beatty. For fuck's sake. How did I manage to miss that fork in the road?

Oh well. Another day, another kick in the head...

It's late so I'll make this quick. Spent the day down the word-mine, chipping away at the book. Then made a discovery which means I'm going to have to go back and rewrite significant chunks of what I've already done. This is tragic in one way - more work - but good in another. Want to get it right.

A better evening. Spoke to Andy Fraser, once of Free, on the phone from his home these days in Los Angeles. What a lovely man. Free are one of those extremely rare bands that tick all the boxes for me - i.e. a) almost unheard of, they are a band I've never written about substantially before, b) even rarer, I've never even met them all before, and c) again, much rarer than you'd think, I actually used to buy their albums when I was a kid (and again, on CD, as a so-called adult). So this was a blast for me. Especially as he was so pleasant to talk to. Smarter than the average bear, for sure. I'll write more about this in due course, when the old noggin is less done in.

Also got an email today from Kevin 'The Caveman' Shirley, my famous record producer friend, currently hobnobbing with Ross in LA. Kev says he's actually bought a copy of Star Trippin' at last - cue fainting fit. Of course, that doesn't mean he'll ever get round to reading it. He's far too busy making money for simple-simon pastimes like that. Anyway, good on ya, mate, as they say down your way.

Now, I've gotta go. There's a good book waiting for me at bedtime - the one I'm writing in my sleep at the moment.

No blog entries for the past couple of days. I can't remember why. I think I might have had what's known as a day off on Sunday. But I might be dreaming that. Then yesterday the moon must have been too close to Uranus (or mine) I'm not sure but my head seemed to be on fire. That is, all that came out of my mouth was smoke. And bile. And all kinds of stuff I knew was in there but thought I'd got under control. Silly me.

Today I have been bashing at the keys, sorting out a lot of stuff for Classic Rock. It's good to be back in the thick of it there, I hadn't realised I'd missed it so much. Today that mainly meant reviewing a new Free DVD that's coming out. If all you know about Free is 'All Right Now', shame on you. And no, they weren't like sodding Bad Company. That would be like comparing whisky (Free) to fizzy water (Bad Co). Not that I'm not partial to be a bit of fizzy now and then - especially when it's primo quality like Bad Co. (and again, if all you know about Bad Co is 'Can't Get Enough', double shame on you, check out anything from those first three fabulous albums) - but if you really want to get good and drunk you need the Real Thing, baby. Free qualifies.

But back to your emails. Everybody seems to have gone mad and started writing really long letters to me. This is very nice actually but not much good for reproducing here. I must especially thank Tim McMillan from Kettering, though, for a very entertaining missive detailing his own idle days as a Kerrang reader in the 80s. Made me LOL Tim and there's not many can say that. Same goes for Eddie T, whoever he really is, who ended his own version of War & Peace by suggesting I write a book about Ross Halfin. Funnily enough, I've been banging on at Ross about something similar. A book about our adventures when we used to ride the range together, as it were, back in the days of hairy old gods like the ones in Star Trippin'. We'll get round to it one day, I'm sure, god help you all.

Also got a short but sweet email from Adrian Monagle, who is the Business Analyst at Teletext Ltd, who says he has fond memories of reading my story about Ozzy at Live Aid in Kerrang first time around. He also suggests that Axl might be more human than I think. Actually, Adrian, I know what you mean, but I have never thought of Axl as being any less than totally human. How else could he be so fabulously freaky and fallible? By the way, any jobs going at Teletext? I quite fancy writing those reviews you see on the telly...

Meanwhile, got an email from John Clarkson, Magazine Editor at www.pennyblackmusic.com who sent me the link to the very thorough and smart review Mark Rowland has written of Star Trippin'. Find it at http://www.pennyblackmusic.com/cgilocal/rbarticlereadmain.pl/SID=8661959/?articlesearch=1702

A totally unexpected email, too, from a very old and long since long lost mate - Crazy George Bodnar. In the days when Ross and I ruled the rock world, Crazy used to sneak in behind Ross's back sometimes and take some really very good pictures of his own (including some very good Ozzy ones). Anyway, George asks: 'Did you call Michael Jackson the King of Pop and did he call you Rock's most famous writer? Where do these headings start?' Ah... good to see you still have your sense of humour, George, despite the old age. I'll be emailing you soon. (You asked for it.) Meanwhile, check out George's 'stuff' at www.GBimages.com. These days, Crazy actually comes to ya officially By Royal Appointment to Prince Charles! I don't know what in fuck that means but boy does it sound impressive. Who did you have to blow to get that George?

Finally, Sian at Classic Rock told me yesterday that Virgin Megastore in Piccadilly London have placed Star Trippin' in their Staff Picks section this week, along with a card saying some extremely kind (and obviously true) things about it. How very sweet. I feel quite flattered. I wonder if that means some bugger will actually buy it? Hey, kids, forget the canned soup. We're eating steaks tonight!

Spent the whole day writing the Meat Loaf story for Classic Rock. Not my favourite way of spending a Saturday but it's the first chance I've had this week - and anyway, now it's done. A writer's two favourite words - The End. Any good though? Yeah, not bad. I think that after 29 years I might be getting the hang of this.

Managed to squeeze a couple of phone calls in too. The first from my media-mogul brother Gerry who wants to update and expand the site. Dead right too. What with though we haven't quite agreed on yet. We definitely want to get some cosmetic stuff done like proper links to other websites I dig - Ross's site of course, plus PFD (my agents), Planet Rock (who broadcast my desert island discs thingy recently but which I haven't heard yet as I was on holiday), Classic Rock (if they ever get one), George Bone the tattooist... that sort of thing. Plus put up some of the reviews Star Trippin' has had.

What else we'll put on here though is where the big debate begins. If anybody out there has any good ideas for stuff they'd like to see/hear/access/have a wank over, let me know.

Meanwhile, if you want to get a signed cheap copy of Star Trippin', you better get a move on. Stocks are dwindling and you know you'll be sorry if you miss the opportunity. Just think, your grandkids will never forgive you.

Also spoke to Ross today. It was his birthday yesterday, poor love, and I wasn't there to give him a great big kiss. I'll make it up to him by taking him to Nobu soon (or getting someone to pay for us to go, ha!). He's also got to fly to America next week. Jesus, that will be fun right now with Heathrow looking like Stalag 17. Who'd be an international jet-setting rock photographer, eh?

Also called the Hotel du Shitsville and told them to cancel my reservation for next week. As Popeye used to say, I've had all I can stands and I can stands no more. That is, I'm gonna try and work on the book from my home office this week on the understanding that Linda skidaddles with the kids every day. If that doesn't work, though, or Linda ends up in the loony bin, it's back to the hotel, god help me. Who'd be an international stay-at-home-old-tosser rock journalist, eh?

I'm keeping this short as I have had to crawl from my sick bed to write it. Well, staggered in from the couch actually but it's the same thing to a well-known man of action like me. Maybe it's just tiredness - I certainly thought it was yesterday after I got back from Hotel du Hell, hence the lack of blog entry yesterday, simply too knackered, dearie - or maybe the old body has just worn out too many of its cogs, but I have had more bouts of 'sickness' this past year than in the previous 20 put together.

What's wrong now? Don't know, precisely, but I have a pain shooting up one side of my face which hurts so much it has actually stopped me working, which means it must hurt quite a bit as what I do is so physically undemanding that ill health is rarely an excuse not to do it. But this has.

Could it be the same pain I awoke with in my jaw 48 hours ago and which caused me to go squealing like a bitch to the dentist - i.e. the one they told me was an infection eating away at my gums, caused by my misspent years of smoking (even though I've given up now)? Maybe.

Or maybe it's some sad, washed-up old rock star sticking pins into a voodoo doll of me. Whatever happened to Graham Bonnett anyway?

What it feels like is my old mate and yours, Dr. Death - come tapping at my window, reminding me that if I think it's cold where I am sometimes it's fucking freezing out where he is. Time to get the painkillers in...

Had to go to the dentist this morning but jesus christ do you really want to know about that? Spent the afternoon and (long) evening back in Hotel Hell trying to write the Great Book, but again you must be almost as bored reading that as I am writing it.

So, instead, I have taken a (metaphorical) pin and stuck it into the piles of emails this site has been attracting lately and am going to do my best to answer a couple.

Firstly, Rhys from he doesn't say where writes to tell me of the strange but true connection between the late Arthur Lee and the even later Syd Barrett. He says that when Arthur started touring again a few years ago the band he was using to back him was an American band called Baby Lemonade. This, of course, is the title of a Syd song. Thanks Rhys, now for christ's sake get up and go for a walk. There's a big world out there.

Next, one from JohnJohn (no, really) who says: 'Just finished Star Trippin', a great read. Hope to see more of your writing in the future. How about a rock bio on The Cult. I've been a fan for 23 years and seen them well over 100 times'. See Rhys over there John? I think he's waiting for you...

One from Harry who says he has reviewed Star Trippin' for a German website called heavymetalheaven, and adds a link - www.heavy-metal-heaven.de. Nice one, Harry. Not that I can read German of course but it's the vibe that counts, yah? (Next time, how about a link to one of those German porn sites?)

Jonathan Maguire writes: 'Thanks for the many and long lasting laughs reading your blog. I think yourself and Halfin's blogs are a great read for those 15 min breaks whilst stressed and sweating in the heat of the office... Really looking forward to your book on Rose. Mainly to see what the fuck he did for those 10 years...'

Not sure how to respond to that one. Late, brain hurts, glass needs refilling etc. Let's go to Neil Daniels from Merseyside who witters on about Meat Loaf and how disappointed he is that he wont be doing 'Dead Ringer For Love' on his next tour because (as he told me - read all about it in the next issue of Classic Rock) he's only going to be playing stuff from the Bat Out Of Hell albums. Another new friend for Rhys, I think...

Meanwhile, Tricia who has written before writes again that she is 'looking forward to reading what you do with the Axl story. In spite of my earlier comments, I'm not unsympathetic to the man nor do I dislike him. At least he's never boring. I still haven't gotten over the reports of his demand that his Jack be a certain temperature. Doesn't he know that only pussies drink their whisky cold?' Ah, Tricia, you're a man after my own heart.

There's more of this sort of thing - much more - but I think that's enough for one day, I'm not wrong, am I? By the way, check out the new photos on Ross's diary. There's an orange and black one of the LA coast taken from a plane that is nothing short of art. And one of a girl in Bali sitting cross-legged facing the camera whose hair is so long and lustrous it has submerged her body. Quite beautiful. He really should think about taking up photography seriously...

Spent the morning wading my way through the new 40th anniversary CD/DVD of 'Pet Sounds' that Ian Fortnum sent me to review for Classic Rock. My god, what a piece of work. Not only do you get the original album but you also get a second version in stereo, plus extra tracks, and then a stupendous DVD packed with promos I've never seen before (I didn't even know the Beach Boys did promos), documentaries and so much other stuff it was the early afternoon before I came up for air. What is it with the mentally ill that they make such great art? And why is it I seem to be the one writing about them at the moment?

Eventually put my sandbox away and drove up to Hotel Crappyfornia where I got my head back into the Axl book. The next thing I knew five hours had gone by and my head was starting to tilt sickeningly to one side. Went for a lie down on the dusty bed and the ceiling started to spin. I used to pay a lot of money to achieve that sort of effect when I was writing but these days it just confuses me.

I forced myself to sit up and go back to the laptop but my heart (and head) was no longer in it. I realised I suddenly had a massive craving for some hot Indian food, and lots of it please, fatty. It was also Linda's birthday today so that was all the excuse I needed to end the pain early and go home as fast as I could drive, which was pretty fucking fast.

Now I'm sitting here doing curry burps and looking at the pile of emails I have kindly been sent wondering if I can get away with not going through them again for another day. I expect you already know the answer to that...

Back at the Loser's Lodge and - oh joy! - they've put me in exactly the same room I had last week, complete with peeling wallpaper, broken shower taps, broken telly and - a little extra surprise today - a pair of some bloke's underpants in the bin in the bathroom. Worst of all, I am NOT making this up.

The only reason I haven't stomped down to reception and given them my patented Nicko McBrain verbal kicking is that, goddammit, there is simply nothing else to do in this awful room but write. And as that's why I rented the damn place, it seems right somehow that that's the way things have worked out. Somebody else's underpants though. Jesus...

Anyway, worse things happen at sea, I'm told. Or down a coal mine. So I'm looking on the bright side. It's Linda's birthday tomorrow, so I'll be going home for that one. Clocking off early. Not that we've got anything planned. You can't exactly go out and paint the town red when you've got three squiddlies to look after. Baby sitter, you say? Not when the youngest is still only a baby. I barely trust me to look after him let alone some bored teenager waiting for us to go out so she can invite her hoody boyfriend over for a shag.

We'll probably just stay in and watch TV. Holding hands. Ahhh... As long as she doesn't force me to watch Holby City or any of her other favourites like that. In which case I might be tempted to go back to the Lodge. Then again... I mean, somebody else's underpants, stuffed in a bin. Fuck's sake...

Yesterday was nice, went out with the wife and kids and another couple we're friendly with (and their kids) to see the Gruffalo at the Playhouse in Oxford. Having been repeatedly subjected to the Gruffalo DVD (and books and posters and dolls and songs) non-stop this past year or so I had a feeling the show might be a good excuse for Old Dad to have a Quiet Kip. In fact, it was a lot of fun. The production team had obviously taken onboard that most of the mums and dads might be suffering from Gruffalo OD at this point so built in a few extras for the cast to tickle our fancies with. I managed to stay awake throughout anyway, which is definitely a good sign. In fact, they should put that in the ads: 'Managed to stay awake throughout' - An Old Dad. Dads everywhere would know just how high a recommendation that is.

Got home to a message from Ross (a sort of real-life rock'n'roll Gruffalo) telling me he had stuck something on his website to the effect that I will be bringing out an Arthur Lee book next week. I laughed along with him not really knowing what he was on about (he was on a high having recently returned from a globe-hopping trip to Bali, LA, and, er, Wacken, and I was still neck-deep in kids' meals). Then when I got up this morning I heard the news. Poor old Arthur Lee died last Friday of cancer.

Like Syd Barrett, Arthur Lee was one of those artists that more people have heard of than actually listened to, bar one song. In Syd's case that was 'See Emily Play'. In Arthur's case, it was 'Alone Again Or'. Even then, the title draws a blank with most people not 'in-the-know'. It's only when they hear the tinkling acoustic guitar intro that recognition dawns... oh, THAT one!

For those that do know about his group, Love, though, for many they were even more interesting and influential than Syd's Pink Floyd. Robert Plant, for example, has managed to mention Love's greatest album, 'Forever Changes', practically every time I've ever interviewed him.

For myself, I certainly think 'Forever Changes' has stood the test of time somewhat better than 'The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn'. It's absurd to compare the two albums, musically, of course. I base this view entirely on the fact that when Syd died recently I only really felt compelled to play one or two tracks from 'Piper' to confirm my memory of it. Whereas this afternoon I played all of the expanded edition CD of 'Forever Changes' all the way through twice. I'm playing it again now, in fact, as I write this. Not because I have ever been Plant-like in my devotion to it but, simply, because it's still so damn good to listen to.

I spoke to Arthur Lee on the phone once. It was a somewhat unpleasant experience, in that he plainly had little interest in being interviewed by some Limey cocksucker too interested in his time in jail and talking about the 60s. I quite quickly ran out of things to ask him and said my goodbyes. He was... well, a bit too real. Ironically, in just the way that I complain other artists aren't whenever I speak to them.

I didn't bother going to see the revamped Love play when Arthur brought them to the UK a few years back. I couldn't see the point. It will never be 1967 again so what's the point in pretending? And I doubt whether there will ever be another Arthur Lee. That's a good thing and a bad thing, I think. Like most things worth remembering...

My week in hotel hell has left me in mental limbo. Too tired to do any proper writing, I spent the day transcribing my Meat Loaf interview. Or trying to. Mostly I seemed to spend my time seeing just how big and long I can make my yawns. Not because the interview is boring. It's brilliant obviously. I'm just so knackered. Gave up at about 4.30pm and went off to make dinner. I like cooking, which is just as well as my wife cooks about as often as Ozzy shaves his chest. But it's not something I can usually squeeze into my busy-international-calls-to-make day. I managed it today though. Linda and the kids were out so I whacked a chicken in the oven, poured myself a glass of red wine (very good for the heart, you know) and went and sat in the garden staring at the sky.

I thought about coming in to write this blog but couldn't think of what to say so concentrated on peeling potatoes and chopping cabbage. And drinking wine. After dinner, the kids behaved like something out of an American soap and tiptoed around like angels, playing quietly before merrily skipping upstairs to bath and bed. I just lay on the couch staring at them, unable to believe my luck. Then passed out. Literally. Blacked out halfway through Location, Location, Location...

Woke up about half an hour ago, no idea where I was or what I was. Drank a gallon of water and staggered in here to my office and sat down to this. Apologies, I had intended to sort through some of your emails. I'll do that tomorrow now. One that I will mention quickly though came from Thomas Newcombe, from Melbourne, Australia, who paid me a kind of backhanded compliment.

He writes: 'Bought Star Trippin' - best rock book I have read in years. Good on ya mate! How come you don't write like that anymore, all crazy and fucked-up like? Is it cos you're getting old?'

Well Thomas, mate, thank you. And you're right. I don't write like that anymore. And yes it is something to do with getting old. Or old-er, to be precise. I was in my twenties when most of the stories in Star Trippin' were originally published, and as crazy as a fucking loon, drugs, booze, skirt, flying first class and wiping my arse on the curtains of five-star hotel rooms... I wanted and had it all. I even once got my dirty hands on a gorgeous air-stewardess - while she was still in uniform and holding a tray on a flight from London to Los Angeles. Beat that, Jon Bon Jovi.

But... that was then. This is now. The craziness is still there, I see it all over my mush every time I catch myself staring into the mirror wondering. It just comes out in all sorts of different ways these days. Whether the writing has suffered for all that, I don't know. A lot of other readers tell me it's the new up-to-date sections in Star Trippin' that they enjoy the best. So it's hard for me to tell.

And anyway, how sad would it be if we all got to our forties looking and speaking and, worst of all, behaving like we did in our twenties? Lemmy might be able to get with it but he's the only one, trust me...

Final day this week at the Loser's Lodge. Thank God. What a shit-hole. Only six channels on the 11-channel TV work, the cold water tap in the shower doesn't work, which means the shower doesn't work (I hate baths, particularly in hot weather) and although it's supposed to be a non-smoking room every night it smells like the smoking lounge of a hospital because, as I discovered, the smoking rooms are only two doors down from mine and are crammed with lung-abusers intent on making my life hell. Meanwhile, the room service is not, as advertised, 24-hour but shuts down at 10.00pm and even if it was 24-hour you wouldn't want the over-priced rubbish they serve anyway. I had lamb and mint sausages for dinner the first night, which were OK, but the mash tasted like it had come out of a packet and the so-called onions were like dry wispy husks of grey snot. The side-salad I ordered with it you wouldn't serve to a starving rabbit. It looked at least two days old and tasted like... well, shit, actually. Price for the whole meal: £20. Fuckers...

The only thing this place has got going for it is that it is so unbelievably shabby, boring and awful that there really is only one thing to do - and that is to work. Which is, after all, what I came here to do. And on that front, it's been a very good exercise, lots of words bashed out and many pages now groaning with paragraphs in no way hastily slung together in the hope that meaning may eventually accrue from them. All of which means I will almost certainly be repeating the experiment next week, God help me. Unless of course I can persuade my wife and children that they are the ones that should be spending the week at a crap hotel in Oxford. Or I win the Lottery. The latter option being the most likely.

Anyway, I'm packing up and going home tonight. I could stay until the morning and sample another of their delightful cornflakes and greasy eggs breakfasts (which I have already paid for) but I'm constipated enough as it is from taking my last two dinners at the nearby MacDonald's, sitting in my car stinking it out and reading two-day old copies of The Guardian. That or listening to Radio Four while forlornly munching my quarter-pounder-with-cheese. I'm not even joking, it's all horribly true. This is what it must feel like to be divorced, or slung out for having an affair. At least then, though, you would have had the pleasure of shagging someone naughty first. I'm so limp from laptop and crap-hotel exhaustion I couldn't even shag my fist right now. (I know cos I tried last night but was so bored I forgot what I was doing and ended up counting the flies on the ceiling instead. Well, it was either that or Big Love Brother Island or whatever the hell you call that shite.)

God, it's a great life being a writer. I hope some bugger actually buys this fucking book when it comes out. Or at least Axl writes another poxy song about it or something...

Spent the morning in London, drinking coffee and shooting the shit with Meat Loaf about his new album, 'Bat Out Of Hell III: The Monster Is Loose'. It was interesting, more so than any other time I've interviewed him. In the past he was always a total motormouth, you just turned up, turned the tape-recorder on and off he went without any prompting whatsoever. You didn't need to ask any questions, you just entered mid-flow and left again while he was still burbling on (and on).

Today was different though. We actually had a conversation. I don't know if it's because he's getting old or I'm just looking even older, or maybe just because I tend to burble on myself these days. I used to be a hell of a listener, now I just don't give enough of a damn. Either way, it was pleasant, two old farts been round the block way too many times already, laughing and jawing about what a wheeze this whole Bat Out Of Bollocks thing is. Unlike most rock stars you meet, you sense that Meat (or Marvin, if you prefer) knows just how lucky he is. After all, it's nearly 30 years since he first became famous and here we are still talking about his new album. Not even Elton or the Stones (or Ozzy or McCartney) enjoy that privilege anymore. Not really. Yet we'll all have an opinion one way or the other on Bat Out Of Hell III. Kinda like Star Wars, without the prequels. Now there's a thought for the next album, Meat me old mate. A prequel! Bat Out Of Hell -1: The Heavenly Years.

Anyway, back now at the Loser's Lodge in Oxford, trying to get up the enthusiasm to start work again on the Axl book. Maybe he should take a leaf out of the Loaf's book and record Appetite For Destruction II: Getting Back With The Band (The Real Band). Now there's an album we'd all pay cash money to hear, am I right? Forget the Chinese Takeaway that never comes and do something that would really make the rest of us sit up and beg.

Which reminds me... Meat Loaf told me he'd heard that Axl used to refuse to come onstage every night until he'd played 'You Took The Words Right Out My Mouth' at insane volume. Can this be true? Do let me know someone...

Well, here I am at what is going to be my new home from home for the next few weeks - the Loser's Lodge Hotel in Oxford. It's not exactly five-star but it's got a bed and a desk and 24-hour room service so I guess that's me sorted. Now that I'm actually here of course, the blank screen of my computer looks even more insurmountable than ever. How on Earth I expect to fill in the blanks and make a book over the next five weeks God only knows - but that's what I'm here to do so I better get cracking.

First though, a teensy bit of work on something else. I'm actually off to interview Meat Loaf for Classic Rock tomorrow morning - another (somewhat more expensive) hotel in another (somewhat larger) city called London. Fortunately, it's one of those early morning bashes so I should be back at the Lodge and ready to rock on Axl by lunchtime.

Oh lucky, lucky me. Now, as the Great Loaf himself might say, what number do I have to dial for room service...?