Star Blog

Woke up at 6.30 this morning because my 11-month-old son was hitting me on the head - then opened my eyes and realised he was standing by my bed doing it. Shock. How did he get there? Why wasn't he in his cot? What the...?

Turns out he had woken up a couple of hours before and my wife had climbed with him into the small children's bed in his room, to try and get him back to sleep. Except he woke up again and slipped out of the bed, which is close to the ground with cushions around it in case he should fall. But not so he can just take off whenever he likes while she is sleeping. And certainly not so he can wake Daddy. He must be punished.

Spent the day doing the usual, then got directed by a well-meaning nutter to a Guns N' Roses fan site thingy where they were discussing me in the chat room. Hilarious! How dare I take the piss out of poor Axl. He was a great guy and I was just a shit. And a pussy. And... and... then some poor fool started to defend me. Yeah, but he's a good writer and he never wrote anything but good things about the band back in the day. Well, that's mostly true. Which is why they gave me a gold record with my name on it for GN'R Lies.

But kids, it really doesn't matter. Just ask yourself why did Izzy, then Slash, then Matt, then Duff all leave? Because they are all PUSSIES obviously. And Axl is a great guy. Why hasn't Axl managed to make a record for 15 years? Because the world is full of PUSSIES and Axl is a great guy. Obviously.

Why do I care? Because it's my job, actually. And if you don't like this little blog of mine, that's OK too. Because you are all PUSSIES and Axl is a great guy...

Apologies for the temporary white-out in blog-ness. Been busy trying to feed the family, i.e. finishing up some paid work for a change, as opposed to the kind (books) that only pays long-term (if you're lucky). Finally finished the story for the Mail on Sunday which I'm not allowed to discuss until it runs but has to do with a certain once 'dangerous' rock band (geddit). For my sins, I also just wrote some sleeve notes for a Saxon compilation. Well, they were good back in the 80s, which is the period the compilation covers. I used to really like 'Stallions Of The Highway' and '747 Strangers In The Night'. Of course, I was young and mental back then but that's OK. So was everybody who liked rock music in the 80s.

I've also been on the phone a lot, which is very strange considering almost everything I do work-wise (life-wise too, actually) is done via the internet these days. And now of course, I'm back to the book. The glorious book. The in-no-way-an-albatross-around-my-fucking-neck book. I'm sick of talking about it, actually, so I won't.

Sad to hear about Alan Freeman today, though. Fluff and his Saturday afternoon show on Radio One in the early 1970s was the reason I started buying LPs by Black Sabbath and Deep Purple, god help me. He was also, strangely, the reason I later got into classical music, master as he was of segueing his rock anthems with huge splashes of titanic classical waves.

He later worked for Capital Radio and when he left (to return to Radio One) in 1988 I actually inherited his show - that is, I was the only bloke who applied for the job and, luckily for me, his producer, Trevor White (now of Planet Rock), took pity on me and hired me. Not that I was ever as good as Fluff of course. But then who was? Even the Great Tommy Vance bowed his radio-head to Fluff. In fact, the last time I saw Fluff was at Tommy's funeral nearly two years ago. Don't worry, I'm not about to go off on one about that again, but it is sad. Not arf...

Last night was a weird one. For the first time in weeks I actually slept that good deep sleep you remember from childhood, back when your mind wasn't permanently cluttered like an old drain with the detritus of all the nights and years you've spent doing what you shouldn't, listening to crap you don't want to hear or know how to digest.

Then, right in the middle of it all, I had the strangest dream - all about Tommy Vance. I didn't remember that he was supposed to be dead in the dream, just that I hadn't seen him for a long time and was quite surprised to see him again now. For whatever dream-reason, he had invited me to his house, where he was living with his ex-wife Cookie (the real Cookie) and his two daughters (not his real daughters, in real life he only has one, Jess, and neither of the dream-daughters were her). It was a huge, funky old Victorian house, a bit like Mick Jagger's pad in Performance, lots of crazy old rooms, but beautiful.

Tommy sat there in a baseball cap and long-face, telling me all about this new band he'd discovered that he wanted to play me and turned out to be like a cross between Coldplay and Travis - not the real-life Tommy's taste at all. Then I tried to tell him about Planet Rock and something Trevor White had said to me recently, about how if Tommy was still alive he'd be doing a show there. Except of course it didn't make sense in the dream, what with Tommy sat there in front of me.

Then Cookie showed up and suggested we all go for a swim in the river, which was handily placed right outside the door. We all jumped in and Tommy suddenly had a very small dog with him that he was training to swim under the water. We were all in the water together for a long time. Next thing you know me and Tommy are back in the house, sitting in our dry clothes while he starts playing this music again. Then one of his two dream-daughters walks in, not Jess, but a blonde with her blouse hanging open, exposing her small breasts. It wasn't exactly sexual, more something she was doing to piss Tommy off. He just kept the same straight face though, ignoring her. She asked him if he had seen her dope anywhere and he told her it was on the kitchen table and she left again.

Then we were back to Tommy playing me this bloody music again. He was definitely trying to let me in on something but I wasn't quite bright enough to get what it was. Then I woke up. That is, after the whole dream had played itself out again two or three times. There were other things too, like the other daughter who I can't remember now, and Cookie had a bigger part in it too but again it's gone now. The main thing though was seeing Tommy again. So real and yet... so obviously not.

I can't get it out of my head, even as I sit here today trying to work on the book. When I woke up and realised it was a dream it still took quite a while to sink in that he was actually dead. It just didn't make sense. If I'm honest, it still doesn't even now. Tommy Vance dead? How the fuck did that happen? It's not right, is it? Definitely not right.

Weird old day. Windy and rainy outside, dark and shadowy inside. Ross phoned me this morning to tell me our mutual bank manager Matthew has fled the coop - that is, been booted upstairs to handle company directors and people who actually have money, as opposed to people like us who just spend money. Bit disappointed I didn't hear it from Matthew himself first though. I've known him for nearly eight years and though I can't exactly have been one of his A-list clients, he was someone who I regarded as more than just a bank manager, someone who I invited into my home and gave CDs and gig tickets to, which makes you a friend in my book (seeing as that's about all I do have to give). I even introduced him to a few clients over the years (including Ross and Status Quo, not often you see those names in the same sentence). Never mind, you live and learn as my poor old mother used to say, just before she dropped dead from not knowing enough.

Spent most of the rest of today working on the book. I was going to finish the Mail story but for some reason they have stopped replying to my emails. Was it something I didn't say? So book it was. Got to about 3.00pm and nearly talked myself into knocking it on the head and going to bed for a couple of hours much-needed siesta. At my age a mid-afternoon nap can be just the thing to set you up for a nice productive evening in front of the telly, glass of red wine in hand. My incredibly deep-seated work ethic won out in the end though - honed by years of staring at red bills and poison pen letters from the VAT office - and so I sat here nodding off in front of the book until suddenly, completely from nowhere, I actually found some energy and - very weird - actually got quite a bit done. Actually.

Now, though, I've had enough. My daughters have gone to someone's birthday party, which means there's a couple of hours relative piece going if I can grab it in the living room right now. Well, I deserve it, it's been a long week. Specially for poor old Toby on Celebrity. Most surprised I was when it was him and not the dreadful Dean who got voted out last night. That's what you get for being a nice guy, I suppose. They should have Ross on the next one. He'd be the best Celebrity contestant since Johnny Rotten, who he very much resembles and is actually very good mates with. Which makes perfect sense when you think about it.

Finally, to Kelly Cartwright, who wrote me a very nice email today saying how much she liked Star Trippin' - especially the personal dedication I put in there for her - asking why I don't talk more about the emails readers send me the way I used to... sorry Kelly, you're right, I've fallen out of the habit. Tell you what, I'll get stuck into a bit of that this weekend. God knows, enough lunatics have been bombarding me with letters lately. So if you've got anything to say out there, now's the time to say it. I mean, let's talk. No, really, let's have a Celebrity-style hug-in...

I was supposed to have lunch with Damian my accountant today but he blew me out at the last minute claiming he was "too busy", whatever that means, and "suffering from stress". What, looking after my accounts? Surely not. My accounts are dead easy. Earned: this much. Spent: this much MORE.

As I was already on my way to Covent Garden I rang Robert my agent (whose office is also just off the piazza) and asked him if he'd like to come along instead. Fortunately, he said yes and we had a very jolly time at Jo Allan's where they were serving a special Thanksgiving Day menu - being American. I had the turkey, natch, and Robert had the glazed ham and we sat there drinking ice-cold Aqua Steam beer and laughing our heads off, trying to not talk about work.

Eventually of course we couldn't resist and I told him all about how amazing the new book is going to be and he told me how even more amazing the next book was going to be. We both agreed, however, that the best book of all was going to be the one we didn't know about yet, the one that comes along out of the blue and takes everybody by surprise, especially us. (That's what you get for drinking ice-cold Aqua Steam in the middle of the day.)

Afterwards I went to see Trevor at Planet Rock - also just a walk from the piazza, I'm gonna have to get myself an office there (actually I did once have an office there, back in the mid-80s but that's another story) - where we talked about plans for the glorious future of Planet Rock. He keeps saying he wants me involved and I keep saying I want to be involved but it's only now, after all this time of saying it, that we're finally getting down to talking about just exactly how.

Finally got home about 6.30pm to find a mountain of emails waiting for me, and a letter from my very good friends over at the VAT office. Of the emails, nearly half were instantly deleted rubbish, including one from some band I once had half a lager with about 20 years ago that have been telling everyone ever since that I am a big fan of, including their wretched PR who keeps asking me when I'm going to interview them. I'm NOT.

There was one from my old friend Nita, making me a little business proposition, which was nice, especially as it has to do with some very weird music which only she and I and a few other weirdos could possibly like - and also to tell me she's having a baby! Lucky girl. Mad lucky girl. The only other email of note was from the Mail On Sunday, who I have penned an opus for, asking me for more info, more quotes, more background, more facts. In short, more pain in the arse. (They have been doing this every day this week since I submitted the original story.) That's the thing with the 'proper' newspapers, you send the stuff in, they say how much they love it, then spend the next week tearing it apart and rewriting the whole thing for you. As long as you keep sending them "a few extra bits and pieces."

And that's my lot. I'm A Celebrity part 2 is about to start and I want to see if my prediction is correct and Dean Used To Be In Eastenders is voted out.

Well, it was a close-run thing there for a few days but I think I'm finally out the other side. Still bunged-up of course, but no longer tremblingly close to lights out. Never mind bird flu, there is nothing worse than man flu - and that, as my wife likes to remind me, is an established medical fact.

Not that I've been let off the task of working. Like that ever happens. They'll still be sending me emails when they're lowering the box into the ground. Of course, by then all coffins will come with their own blackberry and iPod. Dead? So what, you can still stay in touch, can't ya?

What have I been working on? Well, the book of course (and a couple of newspaper and magazine articles, but I don't like to mention them in case my publisher is reading this - in which case, hi Ingrid! Only kidding!)

Today, though, has been the book with a vengeance. Having done all I can paper and mag-wise this past week or so (well, Christmas is coming and you've got to put the turkey on the table as they say in the biz) the book is now off the backburner and currently sitting on my chest breathing its fumes all over me.

I don't mind really. A little break and it's amazing how you suddenly find the energy to get stuck right in again. I imagine it's a bit like running a marathon. Just when you think you can't possibly take anymore, you get a little burst of energy somewhere (in my case, from a coffee pot and a handy packet of Anadin Extra, the poor, flu-fucked man's speedball).

In a minute, though, I'm off to my new favourite place - Waitrose! Don't knock it till you've tried it, mate. This time of night it's full of gorgeous young girls who all speak to you so politely you feel about 85. "Uh, where do you keep the, uh, peas?" you ask with a wheeze. "Peas!" they cry delightedly. "Come with me!" And off they skip, little bunnies through the aisles as you stagger along behind, admiring their good manners and their youth, feeling like a vampire (looking like one too) but strangely comforted to be looked after so well by the little darlings. Of course, it's more expensive than your bog-standard Tescos but you can't put a price on quality, that's what I say. And when you're as fucked-flat-broke as I am it doesn't really matter anyway. Just burn up another plastic card and don't look down, that's my advice to you, my friends.

I'm even taking the wife and ankle-biters with me tonight. That's how kindly I am. Show them all a good time, that's my motto. And only buy the good red wine. You know it makes sense.

All right, I give in. It's not funny anymore. My cold is getting worse by the day. I mean, yesterday was bad, but today has been FUCKING bad. I'm starting to check for feathers in case it's something to do with birds. Not funny, I know, but you develop a certain gallows humour when you're as sick as this. I can't remember the last time I had it this bad. Irony of ironies - I am supposed to be having a flu jab tomorrow. Can you still do that when you're already on your knees with the stuff? Perhaps a kindly doctor will write...

Anyway, was supposed to go to London today but really, REALLY couldn't, though I was going to try, once the handful of pills I took at 6.00 am kicked in. But even then they barely cut into it. Of course, this is also the cue for my wife to wheel out all those jokes about men always complaining much more when they get a cold than women (or children) and maybe it's true but, fuck it, this is baaaaad.

Meanwhile, here I sit, snuffling and wheezing while staring at the email. Got one today from someone called Tom Welch taking me to task over my comments about Robert Plant not going to the Hall of Fame thing the other night, then saying what a load of crap I think the awards are anyway. Good point, Tom. But what I was really having a dig about was the fact that Robert is still so antsy about the whole Led Zeppelin thing anyway. I don't get it. Or rather I do, I just wish he'd get over it already.

He plays loads of their songs live, enjoys a very (very) rich and interesting life almost entirely because of what the group gave him, but still cares more about what the producers at Jools Holland's Later show or the editors of The Guardian arts section think of him than the poor slobs that love Zeppelin. Kind of like Jon Bon Jovi - owes it all to rock but hates the fact, wishing he were almost anything but a rock star.

Anyway, rant over. I really am not well so who knows what I'm on about. In fairness, it should be born in mind that Robert Plant co-wrote 'Stairway To Heaven' when he was about 21. Jon Bon Jovi could live to 121 and he'll never do anything remotely as good as that, whoever he isn't currently co-writing his generic-sounding hits with.

Finally, to the wally that wrote in asking if I knew Ross Halfin had worked on the 'Chinese Democracy' album - FOR FUCK'S SAKE! It was A JOKE! Go to Ross's website for further info (and insults). Meantime, I'm off to bed with a cup of hot whiskey (I wish). If I'm not here tomorrow, you'll know the chickens got me in the end...

Don't ask about the last few days, I have NO IDEA what I've been doing, other than suffering as I sweated and snuffled my way through the days and nights. The whole family came down with colds this past week and I was the last to get it. Nothing drastic, just insistent, like perpetual nagging pain in the metaphorical arse.

I do remember hyperventilating through a phone call to the bank in which I discovered I am much MUCH poorer than I thought, and I knew I was skint, so that was an arrow through the head. I also remember talking to Cookie who told me I was always selling myself short and that I reminded her of her late, great hubby Tommy Vance. I said, yeah, but Tommy did all right in the end, didn't he? "Yeah," she said, "but we'd have been a lot fucking richer if he'd listened to me!"

She's right, of course, but wotcha gonna do? I'm not in it for the glory anymore - do me a tiny favour - I just need the bread. But I still find myself jumping - or crawling - through hoops to get it. It ain't dignified but then if it was dignity I was after I would never have started out on this murky road all those long years and short decades ago.

Meanwhile, back at the good news lodge, my 11-month-old son took his first steps on Friday night. Now this is A Very Big Deal. Especially as they were right into his old dad's once muscly arms. My, how he laughed too. Since then there's been no stopping him. Every lower shelf in the place is now devoid of objects, every last dangerous corner of every room thoroughly investigated. He's a rocker that one. I picture him not so long from now riding a motorbike and quaffing ale, possibly at the same time. And laughing. He's one of those that never stops. Life's just one big joke to him. Smart kid.

Then on Saturday I spent a couple of hours chatting to Jim Steinman, the Alfred Hitchcock of rock, as he likes to see himself. I like Steinman. Unlike most rock stars - including his old mucker Meat Loaf - Jimmy's got a big brain and people with big brains are always cool to talk to. I mean, he made me laugh out loud - a lot - and that's a rarity these days. At least it is when interviewing musicians, most of whom are as dull as ditchwater.

Didn't go to the Thunder show in Oxford last night though. I couldn't, I was too ill. I must say, it's come to something when you feel ill on a Saturday night BEFORE you've actually been anywhere. Another sign of age creeping in, I suppose. Actually, not so much as creeping in as jumping up and down on my head.

Now it's Sunday morning and I'm sitting here doing this rather doing what I'm supposed to be doing, which is finishing a story those very nice people at the Mail On Sunday have asked me to write. After that, I've got to spruce my Bert Jansch story up for Classic Rock. They say they want a few more quotes. Piece of cake. As long as I don't pass out in a pool of sweat first or succumb to Anadin Extra OD.

After that, if I've still got anything left in the tank, I'm gonna phone Ross and talk to him about I'm A Celebrity. It must be the only thing he watches on TV that isn't some obscure art film from Thailand or wherever. What does that tell you about David Guest?

Been neglecting the book - and this blog - while I got on with trying to earn some much-needed dough. Head-deep in newspaper and magazine stuff. At least, for this week. Can't say more though because it's all on-going, happening-now type-stuff that you're only supposed to talk about once it's done.

Meanwhile, over on the TV it's been a battle tonight between I'm A Celebrity... Get Me Out Of Here - the official reality TV show it's OK to like (no, really) and the highlights on Channel Four of this week's Hall of Fame induction ceremony. I usually avoid this crap like the plague but I had to watch tonight because I wanted to see Jimmy pick up the award for Zeppelin. How pitiful that Robert snubbed the show, though. And where was John Paul? I can't believe he didn't want to go. (Was he hiding in the bar?) As for Wolf Mother doing 'Communication Breakdown', do me a favour, what a joke. They should have had Whitesnake on doing it, at least that would have been funny.

And what about Rod Stewart not being arsed to turn up for his induction? Can't decide if he's to be admired for it or despised. Probably admired. Let's face it, these things are such crap. The best bit was Joss Stone showing off her legs to Dusty's 'Son Of A Preacher Man'. She used to be such an ugly duckling, now look at her. As my wife said, "You can always tell when they've grown up and started to have sex." Quite so.

Actually, the best moment was when Dermot O'Leary, the clueless anchor, described Bon Jovi in his introductory speech as "the band mosh pits were invented for." They cut to Miserable Jon's miserable face a few seconds later and the expression of sheer misery on it said it all. Talk about getting it wrong on every level. Not only were mosh pits decidedly not invented for pussy pop-rock like the Jove, but the fact is Jon is so embarrassed by his own association with rock with a capital 'R' he's spent his entire miserable career miserably trying to avoid being in the same room as it, let alone a poxy mosh pit.

Anyway, back to I'm A Celebrity... doncha just hate Scott? A horrid little bender that should be fed to the crocodiles soonest. I'd definitely spend 50p on a text to vote for that. Not that I'm anti-gay, I'm just anti-spiteful two-faced morons. My only real fear is that I quite like David Guest. Looks like Tom Jones and talks like Tom Wolf but, come on, you gotta love him. He's so genuinely... himself. And how many of us can say that?

I was in London all day yesterday, being a media hooligan-about-town. In the morning I was taking part in another one of those classic album TV things - this time discussing Metallica's 'Master Of Puppets' album. I was actually in the studio with them for a couple of days when they made that one. I was one of the first so-called 'serious' journalists to be flown out and 'wined-and-dined' by their record company. The point was, after being the most loutish band in the world for their first two albums, they now wanted to be taken seriously - hence the arrival on the scene of your old mate. Hahaha!

I didn't mention this to the TV people yesterday but my main memory of being in Copenhagen in December 1985 was a) the snow on the ground, about 3-feet deep, and b) the snow in my hotel room, also about 3-feet deep. I was amazed, in fact, when the record company guy who accompanied me on the trip pulled out a huge bindle of coke. He'd actually brought it with him all the way from London, on the plane, through customs, and straight to my room. You wouldn't be able to do that these days with their no-liquids and only your false teeth in a plastic bag malarkey on aeroplanes.

I also remember, though God only knows how, getting totally pissed with the band on something called Elephant Beer, which Lars Ulrich, Viking that he was back then, insisted we all drink barrels of before we did the interview. This certainly put an interesting slant on the interview. I remember having tremendous difficulty making out a single word when I played the tape back a few days later.

One last memory: Cliff Burton. A good geezer. Didn't say much, but I liked that. Lars said enough for all of us. Cliff just liked a smoke and a beer and a go on his guitar. And of course those huge flares that he wore, silly sod. They were all in awe of him, you could tell. Just think, if he hadn't died a year later there would never have been any make-up or piercings, and certainly no fucking short hair. In a strange way, his passing allowed them to become the big fuck-off rock stars Lars always not-so secretly dreamed of.

Anyway, as I was waiting in reception at the studio complex where the interview (for TV) was taking place who should I bump into but a band I also have a lot of (hazy) memories of - Thunder! Luke, Benny and 'Arry - like the last 10 years never happened. Well, almost. Turns out they also use rent a big room there as their rehearsal space. Looking at them and seeing how much they've aged made me realise how old I must look these days. The price of all that good living, I suppose.

They reminded me of the first time we met - in their very earliest days, when they played a half-empty pub in Dublin, and I insisted on getting up and singing 'Brown Sugar' with them. Then fell face-first into the drums, scattering 'Arry's kit in all directions. There was, I confess, strong drink involved. Good job it was the encore though or I might have spoiled the gig for everybody. At least they laugh about it now. What's more, they even invited me to their next gig. They were rehearsing for their next UK tour, which comes to Oxford this Saturday. They say that if I knock on the dressing door at 7.00pm this Saturday in a certain (gay) way they will let me in and treat me to a little drinky. No 'Brown Sugar' though. Well, none of us are getting any younger...

In the afternoon, I went to see my mate Trevor White at Planet Rock. Ace chap that he is, he has asked me to do some 'readings' on air of Star Trippin'. I may have mentioned this once or thrice before but this time we actually sat down and discussed it properly. Looks like we'll be recording it over the course of the next few weeks, with a view to broadcasting the results in January - five nights running at the end of the Nicky Horne show. What a delight that will be. Unless I do a Thunder circa '89 of course and keel over onto the desk midway through. We live in hope...

The book finally sent me off my tits and so yesterday and today I have been doing something different - magazine stuff. I reviewed the new Robert Plant DVD for Classic Rock - not bad at all, actually - then sat down to write my Bert Jansch piece, which I finished this morning. Came out pretty damn good, actually, even if I do say so myself, which of course I do. But then after wrestling with eight or nine 12-15,000 word chapters in a book, a 2,000-word magazine piece is like asking a fish to take a bath. If you follow me.

Now I'm looking out the window and for once it's not dark. Of course, as soon as I start work on the book again, which I will right after bashing this out, things will suddenly become very tunnelled again, my head swimming at the sheer immensity of material I still have to wade through even though I'm now on the last two chapters. But that's OK because this afternoon Radio 3 do their back-to-back jazz programmes and from about 3.00pm onwards the only thing that will be missing from my office is that enormous smelly joint that would have been the perfect accompaniment to such activity once upon the long ago.

Meanwhile, my thanks to the blog reader (anonymous) who sent me the review form the Boston Herald of the latest Guns N' Roses show in America, describing the faceless new band as having "as much stage presence as a kumquat". How very sad yet true.

Right, off to make ANOTHER cup of tea. I do hope some of you out there are doing something more exciting. Do let me know...

I have been listening almost non-stop to Late Junction on Radio 3, via the Listen Again service on the Beeb website. This means I have had, literally, three or four days of almost continual late-nite, far-out stuff from all parts of the spinning globe, from what they call world music, to jazz, to monks chanting, seagulls shrieking, ghosts whistling, all sorts of deep, dark, wonderfully weird shit that makes the back of my neck tingle and the front of my brain descend into a sort of depressive gloop. Perfect for writing endlessly on the same subject, which is what you essentially find yourself doing when writing a book, but not so conducive to actual living, or the people that have to live with you.

Never mind. There comes a time with every book I've done where you approach the finish line with half your brain up your backside and the other half out there waving in the wind like a line of washing. It's always night. Even in the middle of the day it feels like night where I am right now. Head-space-wise. Man.

I have promised myself that tomorrow I will stop this madness and take myself out somewhere, even if it is just to the shops. But of course I can't promise I will. This stage of the dreaded book writing process becomes a bit like being a junky. You just can't stop, no matter how much you want to or feel you should. What this means for your average blog reader, God knows. I pity you almost as much as I worry about myself, trapped as I am in the middle of this. Whatever this is. Perhaps someone out there will tell me. Someone other than Ross, that is. Which reminds me, I said I'd ring him back this morning. Then forgot to because the postman was playing mind games with me. Another bad sign...

Things keep breaking. We keep fixing them but then something else goes. Last week it was my computer. This week it's the family car. Yesterday, it cost me £93 to get the heater fixed in it and some other tiny bits done like the bonnet cable (whatever that is - I know and care nothing about what's under the bonnet of a car). Then this morning, my wife breaks down in it, two miles outside of Oxford, on a busy intersection of the motorway in rush hour, two small kids in the back and one panting dog. Does she call the breakdown service? No, she calls me. I tell her to call the breakdown service. She does and when they finally arrive they tell her there's nothing they can do except tow her home or - if she prefers and she decides she does because she is a car fanatic that cannot be without a car - to the nearest garage, where someone (me) will have to pick her up.

All very rock'n'roll, except for the fact that I am getting ready to go to A Very Important Meeting in London. To cut a long story short, the meeting went out the window, as did the car - unfixable, it seems, until Monday, don't ask why, I don't know, I just pass on what my car-mad wife tells me - and so I spent the day fretting about how the Meeting I Blew was going, and trying to make the most of it by sitting here working on The Fucking Book, as it has affectionately become known to me.

Now it's dark outside. And cold. And guess who's going to have to walk the dog with the poop-scoop tonight, because there's no car to take her to the woods where it doesn't matter where she poops because all the furry creatures poop in the woods at night? Just another day at the cutting edge of the rock biz. Just a pity I wasn't anywhere near it at the time...

Another sleepless night followed by another day nodding off at inappropriate times sitting at my desk. Did get a lot of writing done, though. Which can happen when all else seems to be going deathly dark. Everything else went strangely pear-shaped, phone calls, letters, visits to the cash-point machine, sudden appearances at my office door by family members. Then a friend emailed to ask why I hadn't responded to the 'comment' they left on my MySpace page. Oh gawd... the truth is I did have a look-see into it but it asked me for an address or something to enter before I could 'log on' - and I have no idea what that is, as my media-friendly brother sorted it all out. And as he doesn't ring me anymore I have no idea what's going on there. If you do want to leave messages, I suggest you do so via this site.

Other than that... I'd really rather not say. Ross and I were talking the other day and we agreed we would try and keep our on-line diary entries 'positive', as opposed to moaning on all the time. But when you've had one of those bitter-sweet days (more bitter than sweet) it's hard to think of what to say that isn't a moan. I know you know what I mean, so I'll leave it there. Except to add this charming quote Kev the Caveman sent me: "Sometimes I lie awake at night, and I ask, 'Where have I gone wrong?' Then a voice says to me, 'This is going to take more than one night'." - Charles M. Schulz.

I think that says it all. Or quite a lot of it anyway...

A lovely day yesterday, spent the afternoon cooking my world famous pasta-and-bolognese while my wife went nuts trying to clean the house and make it look like we're not all a pack of animals that live here, then enjoyed myself in the evening, nattering to Tom and Lyn and their kids Alex and Charlotte, while drinking red wine and generally coming on like the bon-viveur I really am (or however you spell it).

After dinner, we went into the garden and I held the torch while Tom and Alex set off all the fireworks. First time I've done something like that since I was a kid myself. It's true what they say, too, that you get off on it just watching your own children's faces. I haven't laughed or enjoyed myself so much in ages. Made me wonder why we don't do things like that more often. Apart from the fact that I'm a miserable bastard, I mean.

Then today it was back down the word-mine, which I didn't mind either actually as the chapter I'm on is one of those downhill ones where the stories are all there, I just need to stitch them together. In fact, I should have it done by Thursday, which will leave only the last two chapters. At the end of which - bloody hell - it looks like I'll have a book to show to the (long-suffering) publishers.

I even had a couple of quite exciting phone calls today, which I can't discuss - yet - because they were about Forthcoming Events, in which I may or may not be involved. But they certainly put a smile on my hound-dog face. I wasn't even upset when Kevin Shirley, the world's greatest record producer (he says) emailed to berate me for my grammar on this blog. Writing 'their' instead of 'they're' and suchlike, in between telling me he's about to marry some 22-year-old goddess. Bloody know-all millionaire-producers. Where did it all go wrong, Kev? That's the question I ask myself every morning when I'm avoiding the mirror...

Oh, and last but definitely not least, spoke to Cookie, who I'm trying to chat up into having dinner with me again. She keeps telling me she's got some rich bloke with a house in the country but I'm not so easily fooled. She's just trying to make me jealous. Besides, I don't want her for her body, I want her for her soul. That's where the real treasure in a woman lies. Ask Kev the Caveman...

Still on the slippery slope. Passed out in the armchair last night while watching the, admittedly dreary (except for the dirty dancers) James Brown Electric Proms concert on BBC4 - which means it must have been about 9.00pm. My wife had to poke me hard with a stick to wake me. Then when I did finally make it up the stairs, what happened? I woke up this morning at 5.22. I remember the time exactly because it was so upsetting to see such small green numbers on the alarm clock.

Tried to go back to sleep but couldn't. Got up and walked around slowly peering into the dark like Dracula. Ross rang me today to tell me it was depression and he gets it too, waking up with your head in a spin at some unfairly early hour. I don't know if it is depression - more like fear. Fear of not being able to pay the mortgage. Fear of never seeing daylight again because I'm always at this machine typing, typing, typing. Fear of getting old (older) and being left to sleep it off permanently in the armchair. Fear of... I'm not sure, exactly. Money is the main thing. Or rather the lack of it. I'll feel better hopefully when I finish this damn book and get paid for it. One of these fine days.

Meanwhile, I am looking out the window now at darkness - again. Is it late enough yet to treat myself to a glass of red? And I do mean a glass. More than one these days and I'm nobody's. Can't even get drunk anymore. Don't like the feeling. What a way to spend a Saturday. Tomorrow will be different though. We have our friends Lyn and Tom coming over for spag-bol, which I am cooking, being the master of spag-bol. Later we're going to piss off the posh neighbours with lots of fireworks. Hooray!

Their bringing their children Alex and Charlotte, too. Two of the best brought-up kids in the world. But then Lyn is a teacher. On the other hand, that's like saying I am a writer therefore my kids are all literary geniuses. Actually, one of them probably is but that's not the point. No, the fact that Lyn is a teacher is only partly it. She and Tom are just good parents. There's a lesson there. I'll give it some thought as I pour that (big) glass of red...

Something very strange and not at all pleasant has happened to my body clock. For most of the 40-odd years I have been using a bed without wetting it in my sleep, I have been pathologically incapable, emotionally under-equipped, and just plain unable to greet the day much before midday. Of course, needs must and there have been days, months, even years when I have had to fight this chronic condition and drag my poor disbelieving body out of the sack at all sorts of FUCKING UNREASONABLE times. Like, say, when I used to have to get up in time to get the 9.00am train to work in London at Classic Rock. Even then I hardly ever used to manage it, and if I did woe betide any BASTARD that came near me before about mid-afternoon - unless it was to give me a cup of tea, obviously.

Suddenly, however, as of like the last three days, I have found myself in the nightmarish situation of waking up feeling like it is midday, except that when I look at the alarm clock (dread words) it invariably says something completely insane like 6.00am. Indeed, the situation has gotten so out of control I found myself these past two mornings actually being the FIRST ONE IN THE HOUSE AWAKE.

This is not fucking funny. Nor is it to be recommended. But why is it happening? All I can think of is that the sodding squiddly-diddlies have finally won out and had some disastrously long-term effect on my aging metabolism, forcing the old-before-its-time bod into frightening new habits. I mean, come on, it's not right. It reminds me of my own mum and dad, who were of that mental generation that seemed to think getting up before the sun had actually lit up the sky was something to be proud of. Like working down a coalmine or scavenging on a bombsite.

The other side-effect of this extremely distressing state of affairs is that I now get tired a lot earlier in the evening. The other night I found myself losing consciousness at about 9pm. I mean, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! What's going on?!? Next I'll be wearing dentures, smoking a pipe and smelling like cat's piss.

Anyway, today I have been mostly sitting here like the old git I am, listening to Planet Rock, writing and researching and editing the blessed-book, answering emails from nutters and doing all that other good stuff that an old early-to-rise, early-to-bed tosser like me does these days. And on top of all that the days are drawing in, the darkness has doubled, and this weekend the entire town will be go fucking berserk letting off fireworks. Bastards. Don't they know some of us needs our sleep...

I was supposed to go to London today but then I was suddenly plunged into computer hell - again! There's nothing quite like paying over £400 to get a computer repaired then have it fuck up the very next day to really put you in the mood for love. Consequently, all plans had to be drastically revised at the last minute, which was great, obviously, as I just adore being the unreliable schmuck with the tossy computer.

Anyway... once I'd fixed the problem, with the aid of two long hours on the phone to a 15-year-old pixel-head in a hood, I reconciled myself to my fate and got back to what I supposedly do best - writing. Actually, this didn't turn out so bad as I actually finished another chapter of the book. Only a couple more to get through now and then all I have to do is give it a polish. Sounds cool, but polishing can actually take ages. Like fucking weeks, if you're not careful. And I don't have weeks. Not anymore. No, the Fat Lady is not just hovering, she's leaning so far over my shoulder I'm walking around like Quasimodo.

Meanwhile... I realised I didn't have any problems at all after speaking to Ross just now. He's currently being nailed to the cross by one of those bands who shall remain nameless but who are way old enough to supposedly know better. Except of course most of them don't - and like the old dowagers they all are, the more ancient and grizzled they get, the bigger the tossers they turn into. All of them. Computer nerd-shits and rock'n'roll spoon-benders. And so endeth the lesson for today.

Except for one thing... What I was saying yesterday about adding a few kind words in the final few Star Trippin' books we sell via this site. Keep the messages you want me to write in them short, the shorter the better in fact - a) because you wont be able to read my truly pigshit awful handwriting, and b) it's the short messages which are most memorable. So to the bloke from America who mailed me today to ask if I could write 'My wife's tits are so big they look like a trucker's arse, and so are her feet, except when I'm standing on them' - forget it, pal. Life's too short - mine is anyway. Remember: keep it short. Something nice, like: BALLS TO XMAS. That sort of thing...

Right, I'm off to play monsters with the squiddly-diddlies. They have been running around looking much too happy lately and that ain't right.

All right, calm down, I'm back. Yes, good old Toshiba came through for me and delivered my trusty laptop (hate that word 'notebook', it's not a fucking note book, it's a fucking laptop, OK?) back to me this morning all fixed and - almost as good - all cleaned up too. It hasn't looked this good since the day I paid a fortune for it. Of course, it also cost a fortune to get it fixed too but wotcha gonna do?

So what have I been up to while you've been logging on and going away all disappointed? Well... not a lot actually. Not unless you count writing like a bastard trying to finish the godforsaken Axl Rose biography. Oh, and keeping the bleating children and yelling wife in line of course with my usual thoughtful mixture of kindness, understanding and several stiff jabs to the metaphorical jaw.

The book has turned into quite a journey actually. When I started it back in the summer I knew exactly what kind of book I was going to write, like stabbing a spider through the back with a pin and watching its legs wriggle. Now, several months and - literally - hundreds of thousands of words and hours and days (and nights) of research later, I'm not so sure. I'm actually starting to think this could be the Greatest Story Ever Told - at least, about a rock star.

Of course, this is partly the normal sort of psychosis that sets in when you write a book of this length and depth. As you get towards the blessed end, you become convinced it's either the biggest piece of shit you've ever put your shameful name to, or you start to think it's a fucking masterpiece. I'm currently in the 'masterpiece' frame of mind. Which means nothing, of course. Except that I hadn't expected to reach this point at all. I thought it would be a knock-it-out job. Good, you know, but not too many cigars lighting up as it sat on the shop shelves, looking moody and semi-magnificent.

Now... I'm actually starting to think it might be one of the best things I've ever done. But then I haven't had a proper night's sleep since my first child was born six years ago so what do I know? My brain has been so jellified in recent times I've even given up drugs and started taking regular exercise.

Anyway, apart from that, it's been uphill all the way. Not having access to the internet really took me back to a... well, not a better time, exactly, but certainly a less technically-stressed one. Instead of checking my email like a paranoid maniac every 10 minutes I actually got to stare out of the window occasionally at the woman across the street and wonder why the phone never rings anymore. All gone now of course that I'm hooked up again.

Which reminds me. Ross rang me this morning to tell me about his recent trip to Japan. Thank God I didn't go with him. It sounds like it was hell. Except for the Sushi, obviously. However, we did agree that it was time I started getting out more. Like once a year at least. So keep reading for further developments.

Meanwhile, it's only eight sodding weeks left till Christmas and we're down to our last few boxes of Star Trippin' books. I'm thinking of signing something extra special in the last few, so if you have an special requests when you order one from this site let me know and I'll make-like-Santa and try and make your wishes come true. See what a nice fucking cunt I am deep down...