Star Blog

Blimey, what a long time between blogs. Sorry. It wasn't just Xmas that got in the way, though. As ever, your exceedingly old (and getting more weary by the day) mate has been working. Especially last week, when I was actually deputising for Mark Jeeves at Planet Rock, doing the afternoon shift for him.

What fun that was! Seriously. I mean, how hard can it be, playing a big box of records and waffling on as if you know what you're on about, in between some annoying bloke trying to read the news every hour or so? Even I couldn't find anything to complain about. And because it was Xmas week, even London seemed quite nice. Still monumentally over-crowded, but the trains were mostly empty - which is how I like them, totally devoid of anyone except for me.

Best of all, Trevor the Main Geezer came back from a long lunch suitably refreshed enough to start talking about making this a regular occurrence. Not doing Mark's shift, afternoons already belong to him, obviously. But at weekends. What could I say - except YES! And try and not bite his arm off as I said it.

First though, I'm going to do some more depping work - sitting in for Nicky Horne on his evening show 7-11pm on January 9. Do look out for that, as I'm told it helps if some bugger actually listens to your shows.

Meanwhile, the Mail on Sunday also printed my Guns N' Roses story today. I must say, they've done a lovely job. Even ran one or two pix even I'd never seen before (of Axl's Malibu mansion and one of him in a limo with some bint from last summer). They also gave the forthcoming weighty tome a rather nice plug, which was very sporting of them.

All in all then, a rather cool way to start the new year. If only I could find a way of making the children enjoy themselves in total silence, and for some nice ghost to come along and do all my writing for me, I'd be in bleedin' paradise. But then you can't have everything. Not that it should stop you trying, obviously.

And on that note, I leave you with these three quite important words, which I suggest you take and use on any and everyone you can between now and tomorrow morning: Happy New Year.

Well this is it, I guess, for most of us. The last knockings, last shout, the final bit of business for the year. Not me, though. Course not. For I made the decision back in my unsheltered youth that I would never be like "the others" and by God but that wish still haunts me.

Instead, here I sit, still pecking away at the laptop, feeling a fool because everybody else has long gone by now. I want to say I'm nearly done, because I nearly am. In fact, I'll have finished this latest piece of work, of which you have already heard too much, tomorrow - probably. But then I will have to READ the bastard back. Not the worst job in the world but any job at this late stage seems like a job too far. Fuck it, though. I'm gonna have Xmas Eve and Xmas Day off no matter what. Not because I'm religious - though I find myself talking to God all the time these days - or even believe in the Big Fat Red Fella - though I find myself thinking of him too occasionally - but because I believe in my wife and children and saving a little for them, come what may.

Boxing Day I'll be sat here again, though, not doing this but trying to piece together some background to help me pretend I'm waffling effortlessly as I take over the afternoon show at Planet Rock between Wednesday and Friday next week. I want it to sound like the whole thing is just rippling straight off the top of my big head, which means I'll have to spend at least a day here rifling through books and internet files first. That's entertainment, folks. Or might be, if I can get it together, man.

Right... now I'm off to Waitrose with the family, to have a rocking Friday night buying snowmen cakes and far too expensive bottles of red wine. I can't afford it but then I can't afford anything right now so what's the difference? Just flash the plastic and watch it wobble, baby, that's my motto and has been for some years now. And look at me, I'm doing all right. Ah, yeah...

Imagine a small room, with a desk surrounded by shelves of books, CDs, magazines, and other related crap. Imagine a man huddled over a laptop, sweating because he is trying to beat the clock but he is not not not succeeding. Imagine it is less than a week before Xmas and outside all is black... and white. That is, the sky looks like permanent midnight but the ground is totally whited-out. Not with snow, just ice and cold and... white.

Imagine the man's mind is beginning to crackle and spark like a burnt-out old fuse, his arse glued to the chair, his eyes misty and watery, his fingers numb not with cold but with strain. Imagine that all he can hear, apart from his own thoughts, which sound like boxes crashing to the basement floor, spilling their shit everywhere, is the sound of three small children all whooping and screaming and banging and crashing and, occasionally, crying very loudly, because that's what three small children do when there's just five days to go to Xmas and school has finished and their poor mother can't handle it anymore so she is beginning to let them run horribly free.

Well, that's me, that is. And this has been another exciting day in the pure rock'n'roll life of that man. Are you jealous? Just a little? Don't you wish you were me, sat here, going round the fucking twist? You don't? Wouldn't you like to help me then? Then hurry, send money. It's the only thing that can save me. Click that Buy Book button up there at the top of this page now and do what you can to help me. And for God's sake hurry, because another day of this and I may have to take the long walk out of here, into the whirling white (and black) outside, just my footprints behind me. Think of the children, please. Hurry...

Seven days to go till Xmas and I have just turned down an invitation to the only big Xmas party I got invited to this year - the Planet Rock bash. Thunder, who are playing it, will think I'm trying to avoid them. I'm not, of course, I'm just trying to finish everything I started in 2006 before it gets to 2007. The good part is that, after today, I might just make it. Or most of it, anyway. In fact, I'll be working right through Xmas, oh fucking woe is me, but I am cheering myself with the thought that by the start of January, barring any strange accidents of fate or inland-bound-revenue, I should be able to have a few days off - before beginning all over again. But I'm not going to think about that - the beginning all over again part - just the time off. The sales will be on then too. I might treat myself to a new book or two. Written by someone else, for a change.

Which reminds me, my brother Gerry has sent me an order for special inscriptions in another box of Star Trippin' books. Have you ordered yours yet? You haven't??? For Christ's sake, what are you waiting for? Top of this page now, slacker, and click that Buy Book button. Go on, make the miserable life of your favourite miserable scribe just a little less hand-to-mouth this Xmas. And get a personalised inscription too. To My Ever Loving Slut, something nice like that...

I am ill. Again. This is neither right nor fair. I had a bad cold about three weeks ago. I also had a flu jab while I had the bad cold. Now I've got another one. WHY? Because I am an old git? Or just getting more sickly by the day? Or perhaps - my theory - because I am just worked off my arse. It's Sunday today and I am working again. I have done a lot of seven-day weekers this year and loads in a row lately. All to do with the joys of writing books and trying to keep up the other work - and still broke. How does that work? Ask that f-holing taxman and the Mr and Mrs Cs at the VAT. Seriously. They can't even be pleasant about it, either. Makes me want to move to another country. Maybe Ireland - the old country. Would I qualify as one of those 'creative talents' that don't have to pay tax there? I am definitely going to look into it.

Meanwhile, my wife and kids are off for lunch today with our friends Tom and Lyn, and their kids Charlotte and Alex. Roast dinner and red wine. I am invited too but of course I can't go because I have to work, and also because I now have a cold. No one is sympathetic though. Quite the opposite. WHY can't I go? Am I some sort of SPOILSPORT? Or GRUMPY OLD GIT? Well, yes, I am, actually. But not when there is food and drink and nice natter on offer (Lyn and Tom always offer all three).

Think I'll phone Ross. No matter how bad I'm feeling, he always seems to have more to worry about, which has the strange effect of cheering me up. Not because I'm glad he's in even more pain than me, just that I'm glad I'm not the only one none of this makes sense to. That is, if he's not in LA or having lunch at Nobu with Robert De Niro or whoever...

Well, it wasn't so bad after all. The Planet Rock thing, I mean. I did get lost on my way into London. Made the fatal error of thinking I knew what I was doing and taking a - famous last words - short cut through town, only to find myself going in the wrong direction down a one-way street I had never been on before. Fortunately, the traffic was so bad I was able to chat to passers-by out the window and ask directions. Then somehow lucked out and found myself actually driving straight into Leicester Square, where the station is, where - miracle of miracles - I discovered a 24-hour parking lot right on the corner. There is a God, you see, and he really is a DJ.

Got there in time for the last hour of Nicky Horne's evening show. "You'll be all right," he said encouragingly. "I take it you know how to operate the desk?"

"Well, no."

"But you have had a bit of a practise first?"

"Er, no."

"So you don't know how anything works?"

"Correct."

He pulled a face. He didn't blame me, what was I to know? I was just the poor sap sent to try his patience. It was the evil bosses who had callously plunged me, as he put it, "straight into the fire."

It's funny how fast an hour goes by when you're dong a live radio show. Even faster I expect when you've got some simpleton leaning over your shoulder trying to watch what you're doing and making notes. When he left me to it, at about two minutes past eleven, he nodded his head sadly and reassured me that if all else failed, I could always push the blue 'Automaton' button, let the machines take over, and go home.

But I was made of sterner stuff, of course, and within moments of him leaving I had turned the volume up to 11 and sat there wagging my head like a good un, convinced I was going to rock the nation. Which, in my own weird way, I sort of did. There were the few odd moments when I appeared to have lost control of the rapidly accelerating vehicle, but mostly I pulled it off, I think. It seems those years in the dim and distant when I actually did this sort of thing for a living hadn't entirely deserted me after all.

Left the station at about 1.20a.m. and was amazed to discover London still in full flow. I don't just mean the late night loonies of my youth, I mean it was like the middle of the day, except that everybody was drunk. Hundreds of them everywhere, not just Chinatown but literally everyfuckingwhere. Didn't get home until 3.00a.m. though. I wouldn't want to do that every night, or even once a week, frankly. It's just too knackering for an old git like me. Finally got to sleep about 4.00a.m., then woke up at 10.00a.m. to the unruly sound of Trevor, capo de capo of the station, ringing me on my mobile to ask me how it had gone. Unfortunately, I couldn't get both eyes open at that point so couldn't reply. Maybe later...

Anyway, fun over. It's now back to the serious business of book writing. That is, sitting here with a head full of mud and the light already gone from the outside sky, wondering how to spell simple words like 'cat' and 'mat'. Perhaps some kind soul could remind me...

Having worked my poor, old, distressed arse off these past couple of days trying to finish stuff to what we in the trade call a merciless tight deadline, I was hoping to spend today partly snoozing, partly limbering up for the big show tonight on Planet Rock. Instead, the phone/email/doorbell/kids/wife/dog has not stopped going at me. All day. Even as I write this, they are pounding at the door and buzzing my phone with texts. Seriously. This is very good in one way cos, man, I need the bread but bad. A right fucking pain in the arse in another way, as I could really use the rest. Especially as the show doesn't start till 11.00pm, or half an hour past my usual bedtime. Sort of.

It wouldn't be so bad if I actually lived in London, instead of next to a cow field, but I don't and so it will also entail a hell drive to town and through the arse end of Soho looking for somewhere to park (good luck), then a similarly fun walk through the early morning junkies and late hours hookers afterwards trying to find the damn thing again, assuming someone hasn't nicked it. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love Soho. It's my kind of scene. But not when it's late, I'm already fucked, drugs are no longer an option, and I've got a two hour drive to look forward to having just wrecked my potential new career as a rocking DJ-type dude by doing what will probably be the worst two hours in the history of digital/internet radio.

So as you can see, I'm feeling positive. "Just remember to have fun," said Trevor White, head witch doctor at the station when we spoke just now. But then he's on his way to the pub and I'm on my way to the dark, dank, overcrowded M40.

Do me a favour, don't listen. It will only make it worse knowing there are some lunatics out there actually listening to me fuck-up. Assuming I find a place to park and actually get there on time of course. Oh god... I must have been a terrible cunt in a previous life to deserve this. And what did Trevor mean when he said he hated reading my blog cos it makes him feel suicidal. Makes HIM feel suicidal...?

Long day. No, make that FUCKING long day. Spent the first half working out (pat on back) followed by turning around some copy for Classic Rock (more pats on back). Had a quick lunch - ham, eggs, all gone in one mouthful - then got stuck into book work. Wasn't feeling like it at all. Been doing seven days a week for about a month now and really could use an itsy-bitsy break. But Xmas is coming and the goose is nowhere near fat enough, so...

Just got really going on that, a couple of hours under my belt and steaming along, when my wife reminded me that tonight was my six-year-old daughter's school Xmas nativity play, in which she was playing a singing chicken. This is one of those gigs you do not miss, on pain of spending the next 12 years being reminded of it. So I gave it another hour then packed in what I was doing, gulped down some soup and bread and sent myself upstairs to try and find clothes that make me look at least half-human and not some recluse with beard and bad-breath.

Just going out the door when the phone rang. Scott Rowley, chief head doctor at Classic Rock, wanting to know if I can help them out. Some last-minute thing has collapsed, the balloon gone up, the shitbag burst, and they suddenly have an urgent need to fill several pages. Could I help? Of course I could. I'm broke. I mean, I'm ready to go down a coal mine, let alone write cool stories for the world's greatest rock mag. So off I went to the play - bless her, she was one shit-kicking, singing chicken - then got home... and started writing.

Now I'm starving, knackered but sort of speeding, not on illegal drugs (chance would be a fine thing) but on that almost worst combination of too much coffee and not enough rest. Why I'm still sitting hear writing this when I should be in the kitchen fixing some biddles I don't know. Why I should be in the kitchen fucking around with food this time of night instead of in bed dreaming of the easy life, I'm fucked if I know either. Or rather I do but that's an even longer story with so many empty pages waiting to be filled the job may never get done...

Having spent most of Friday farting around on the phone and email, mainly talking to people about pictures and design and how much things cost that I can't afford, I then spent all of Saturday and Sunday, or most of it anyway, writing, writing, writing. That is, until about 4.00pm on Sunday when my right eye started twitching and I finally went for a lie down - and promptly passed out.

In between times, I went to see my daughters performing in the Christmas dance show on Saturday night, which was joyous but very tearful. I remember years ago a guy I knew from a record company becoming tearful at a rock festival because he was missing his children at home, and I remember thinking, "What a prat!" Now I have to have the Kleenex to hand if my own just smile at me in the right way.

Speaking of which, today was my son's first birthday. Cue: more tissues being used and abused. Lots of laughs too. He got given loads of really cool gear to wear by various relatives. He really is Finn McCool. He's going to kick the shit out of me one day, bless him...

Almost all of today though has gone on trying to make sense of the stuff I started doing on Friday - all to do with something I'm helping Planet Rock with. Or helping them think about anyway. Can't say what exactly but it could be really good. No, really.

Meantime, here is some weird news about them I can tell you - they've gone insane and asked me if I'd like to guest host the afternoon shows on the Weds, Thurs and Friday of Christmas week, 2.00pm till 6.00pm, the slot usually hosted by the King of Rock DJs, Mark Jeeves. Of course, I know it's only because no other bugger is mad enough to want to do it but I'm secretly chuffed. It's been years since I did anything proper on the radio - and it will probably be years before anyone lets me do it again after they hear what a bollocks I make of it.

Anyway, to that end, I'm going to have a little practise first by doing a late night slot for them this week - Thursday night, UK time, from 11.00pm till 1.00am. Just google planetrock.com and there I will be, making a bollock of things - and playing some great rock music to try and hide the fact. Be there or, er, don't. Either way, it promises to be another major Kleenex moment for all you kidz out there...

No blog yesterday because by the time it was over it was today, if you know what I mean. Ronnie Wood... he's a geezer, isn't he? I met him in the top floor eyrie of a private members club in London, all done up like it was Ronnie's pad, cool, laidback, Booker T on the sound system. Being a Rolling Stone he was an hour late of course, but I expected that.

When he finally turned up, he was a diamond though. Chain-smoking, cos that's all he's got left after quitting the booze and the drugs, and guzzling espressos, but looking and sounding exactly as he has done for about 35 years now. It's bizarre. Most 57-year-old blokes who had spent decades hanging out with Keith Richards would either be dead now, or at least look like they'd died sometime back in the 70s. Not Ronnie, he just keeps on keeping on. And he gave me a signed copy of his latest art gallery show catalogue. Bless his pointy cheekbones. Read more about it in Classic Rock in the new year.

Got the train home just in time to set things up for Aynsley Dunbar to ring me from LA. In a strange twist of fate, Aynsley once played in the same group as Ronnie Wood. Twice, in fact. The first time with Jeff Beck, the second time with Peter Green. Since then he's played with everyone from David Bowie to Frank Zappa to (early) Journey, to (late) Jefferson Starship, Alvin Lee, Pat Travers, Eric Burden and - almost forgot - Whitesnake, on their biggest ever album, '1987'.

Not much to talk about then. An hour and a half later, my wife was banging on the door wanting to know where I wanted my dinner - on my head or on the walls. Sorry, dear, got a bit carried away. Well, it makes a change. Today I was back to sitting here writing down me great thoughts. Which was, um, great.

And that's about it. Except for a sudden and most unwelcome trend in emails from blokes in bands desperate to send me their demos so I can discover them. What for? Having already 'discovered' - that is, been the first person in the world to write about - bands like Kings X, Thunder and several others I don't always want to admit to, I can tell you right now, there's nothing in it for me, boys. What's more, there's nothing in it for you either. You've either got what it takes, in which case you don't need me or anybody else to tell you, or you don't. Fair? What's fair? My life certainly hasn't always been fair, that's for fucking sure. So do me a favour, stop writing to me bleating and go back to playing. Or not. But stop begging. None of the greats did that. That's the only clue I'm prepared to offer.

Is it Christmas already? Or is there perhaps some giant party going on to which I am the only person in the world that hasn't been invited? I ask because everything here has gone deathly quiet. A trickle of emails where there is usually a flood, absolutely no phone calls whatsoever... what is going on out there? Are you all dead? Have you all joined a band and gone on tour?

I will find out tomorrow when I go to London. I'm interviewing Ronnie Wood during the day, which I'm looking forward to a lot. A Nod's As Good As A Wink by his old band The Faces was the first album I ever bought. Indeed, I have been something of a (dread word) fan of his work since I was this high - and indeed, a great deal higher at various times. Of course, he has been through rehab now, and I am... well, let's just say I'm still alive, just about, so no more fucking around for me, except with a plate of food and the occasional medicinal glass of red. Earl Grey for us both then tomorrow, I expect...

Then in the evening I am rushing home to speak on the phone to - quote - legendary drummer - unquote - Aynsley Dunbar. Aynsley, in case you don't know, has played with EVERYONE. Jeff Beck, Steve Howe, Rod Stewart, Frank Zappa, David Bowie, Journey, Jefferson Starship, Eric Burden, even Phil Mogg and Pete Way, god help him. Now he gets to meet me. How exceedingly nice.

Actually, I met Aynsley once before, drunk as a skunk in the bar of the Rainbow in LA, in about 1989, when I pinned him down for half an hour asking him all the stuff I am going to try and ask him more politely tomorrow. That is, I'll actually be listening to his answers this time, rather than just giving him my opinions.

That is, if my phone is actually still working...

Awright, I give in. Sheesh, no need to be so touchy. So I'm a little too tired to wade through your emails, it doesn't mean you have to deluge me with stuff designed to wake me up like a crack on the head.

First off, Tricia, who resents being described as "a disaffected GN'R fan". As she puts it, "I'm more Jefferson Airplane then Starship." But then, as she goes on to say about Axl, "I'm still not sure Botox Boy isn't some alien robot sent to destroy us all." Well, quite.

Staying with that subject, Marco Petamenti writes with a link - http://www.ifilm.com/video/2802098 - to an Eagles of Death Metal interview, the group Waxy had thrown off the current Guns tour of the US. The link shows a video of the boys giving Axl a taste of his own medicine to hilarious effect, calling him "the white Michael Jackson" and taking the piss out of the specially tailored shirt he wears on stage to make himself look slender.

And finally on that subject, Jason Vorhees sends me an even funnier review written by someone in the US describing our favourite Nut Rocker as "highlighting the descent into insanity and irrelevance that we can all look forward to" before concluding: "Who would have ever guessed that Scott Weiland would bring stability to the lives and careers of Slash and Duff?"

There are many MANY others like this. But can I just say, this blog is not meant as a forum for disaffected GN'R fans (and Tricia) to congregate around. After all, Axl is a deeply sensitive and greatly misunderstood artist. Who lives in the jungle and is GONNA DIE BABY!!!

Right. Enough. I'm ending with an email from someone who simply doesn't care about all that shit, a Good Geezer who describes himself simply as Tom, Midwest Metal, Chicago, and writes to remind me of something I said some moons back about the great joy and deep shit of having children. Kidding aside, I hear you Tom, and very touched I am too that you took it to heart. I do mean what I say at least half the time.

You're wondering where I've been. But I'm too worried about boring the arse off you to say. Also, Ross phoned me to say I shouldn't say anymore about the book now until it comes out. Of course, that would be impossible, as it would leave very little else for me to talk about right now, but I see his point. I have been going on (and on) about it for what feels like a life time.

The fact is though, I have now embarked on the final surge for the summit, aka The Final Chapter. Soon, I shall be planting my metaphorical flag atop the very peak of Mount Waxy. And then I shall be sleeping for a week - or possibly two.

Actually, that's not right, either, as I have already agreed to do lots of other things, just as soon as I have more than 10 minutes each day in which to do them. All of which I'd lurve to tell you about - but can't. Not right now anyway. Soon, though, happy hordes, very soon. Let's just say I'll be able to light up your Christmas holidays in a very tangible sense this year, and possibly even more in the new year. More of which... later.

Apologies also for not trawling through your emails. There have been some really good ones lately, not least from Tricia, the Disaffected GN'R fan, and Francois the Well-Meaning Nutter, but you find me in poor mental and physical health - all because of that book we're all sick of me going on about - and, frankly my dears, I can't be fucked. Not today anyway.

Meanwhile, are you aware that there are only so many days of Christmas shopping left available to you? And that if you want your hot copy of Star Trippin' - replete with personalised message from moi - you had better get your on-line skates on? Do it now, that's my advice. If not for yourself, then for me and the poor raggedy brood it is my duty to provide a glittery tree and so forth for every year. Imagine their grubby little faces when Daddy walks in the room with more than bread and dripping for Christmas lunch. See that 'Buy' button at the top of this page? I think you know what to do...