Star Blog

A sunny, rainy, quiet, noisy, nice, weird day... so far. Now I've got to jump into the car and drive to London for the Planet Rock show. Hear it at www.planetrock.com from 8.00pm tonight. Straight after Dr Who. In fact, if you've got satellite TV you don't even have to move, just punch 0110 into your remote. Fuck who wants to be a bender on ice in the west end or whatever it's called. Although that dishy Captain Jack is definitely a geezer. Just tape it then...

A long day doing rewrites on the Axl book. How good they are I can't tell yet as I've only just finished doing them and you need a day or two to really see stuff like that. The rest of the time was spent on the phone, talking to Ingrid, my editor at Macmillan, who's doing a v.good job steering me through this arse-ache, and Scott, editor-in-chief at Classic Rock, who did a similarly good job talking me through how I'm going to deliver the half-dozen stories I still owe him that are all suddenly due, er, now.

Also spoke to Ross, who just got back from LA.

"HAVE YOU GOT YOUR US VISA SORTED OUT YET?" he asked me - again.

"Well, I've been very busy..."

"YOU MEAN NO!"

"I mean not yet."

"SAME THING!"

Indeed. I've really got to get it sorted out before he comes round and puts a gun to my head. Besides, I'd quite like to go to LA again, if just to see if the old bod and even older head will stand up to it. Probably not but what a way to go. And I miss lying by the pool at the Sunset Marquis as Ross barks orders down the phone at some poor record company lackey.

As Ross says, I must "DO IT NOW!!"

Meanwhile, the editor of Skunk magazine in Canada - the country's leading authority on dope smoking, he tells me - has asked if I can send him a copy of the Axl book for review. Fuck, the dope must be good in Canada. I thought I'd made it clear I haven't finished writing it yet.

No blog entries for the past three days because for the past three days I have been banged up in the prison cell of my office working on a couple of lengthy Deep Purple stories for the Planet Rock website. They should be up there by Monday if you want to have a look, www.planetrock.com. Meanwhile, I've now got some rewrites to do on the Axl book which should have been delivered at the start of the week but will now not get there till Monday, assuming my brain keeps going long enough to finish the job tomorrow (and a bit of Monday probably). I've got to hurry though because next week I'm gonna begin discussions about two new book projects, which may or may not come off. That is in between pre-recording my weekend Planet Rock shows because I'm actually going away at the end of next week for what I believe you Earthlings call a 'break'. That is, if you can call being holed up in a cottage in Dorset with an exhausted wife and three insane killer kids a 'break'. I don't. I call it another form of madness. The kind I've been not so slowly succumbing to for quite a fucking long time now. Oh yes.

Did the two Planet Rock shows at the weekend. The Sunday one was better than the Saturday one, I think. Not that that means anything. Whatever I think, other people usually think the opposite. The other thing I have learned is that just when you think you're getting the hang of it something happens to make you feel like you've slid down the ladder again. Silly mistakes. Absent-mindedness. Tiredness. Oldness. Whatever, the devil just takes a hand in things sometimes. Then, just when you think you'll never get there, something goes gloriously right and you think, hey, this is OK, let's fucking rock! It's all very interesting - for me anyway.

The worse part is always the drive home. Saturdays are hell. London is like Mega City One after midnight on a Saturday. Cunts everywhere. Everywhere! All over the car, in your tired face, up your broken arse. The only good part is Bob Harris on Radio 2. He does a great show which goes on till 2.00a.m. I listen to it all the way home. I never knew how good he was till I started trying to do it myself. Trust me, he's gooood. I also like it cos I know he lives just a few miles up the road from me and I imagine him driving home later, same as me, tired and fucked but pleased to have done his best.

Sunday nights driving home are not so bad. Less cunts under your wheels as you crawl through Soho. But there's no Bob on the car radio, just what's-her-face, the awful Annie Nightingale clone from Radio 1 in the 80s. I mean, she's all right in that I-was-reading-the-papers-today-and-read-something-really-(not)-funny DJ sort of way. But it's exactly the sort of drivel I don't need at that precise moment. So I listen to Radio 4 for a while, or Classic FM, then resort to playing a CD. All very so-so. The really hard part is staying awake. Two nights of this and I'm asleep at the wheel for the last 20 miles. Last night, I nearly ran over two young deer that suddenly sprang out in front of me in the middle of a country lane. That would have finished me off completely, killing babes like that, or worse maiming them, leaving the bastards smeared all over my bonnet. Luckily the brakes were good and I stopped about six-inches from their big blinking eyes.

Had today off, trying to recuperate. Not bad, went out in the sun this afternoon, bit of shopping for the kids, then a little picnic on a bench outside the bakery after school. Then one of the girls started crying because the other girl had new shoes and we couldn't find any that fitted the one that started crying, and so on and so forth.

Now I'm sitting here trying to stay awake long enough to type this. And to think that thousands of miles away in LA where he wanted me to be but yet again I somehow couldn't get it together to go, Ross Halfin's day is just starting. I never feel jealous though, until I start reading his fantastic blog and then I admit I do wonder for a second what happened back there when we took those different forks in the road. But only for a second. And then I remember...

Feeling much better today, thanks. Still got green stuff coming out of my nose in a rush but the sore throat and head lifting off my shoulders seems to have passed. Just in time for the show tonight, which has a new starting time of 9.00pm. I know you want to listen so just click here: www.planetrock.com

The extra hour that gives me and the added bonus of no longer lying prostrate at death's door meant I felt bold enough to go out with the tribe this afternoon. Just a little burger hop and then onto the High Street. What a palaver though. Fell out with eldest daughter when she dared disobey my orders, then blamed her little sister. A hanging offence. She got her own back later in the car though, playing I Spy. She came up with two little words beginning with FD. Didn't take me long to work it out: Fat Daddy.

Got back and spent too long trying to find a suitable spot for the painting wife bought yesterday in a junk shop. She loves it, has been going on about it for ages, trying to get me to go and see it. In the end I told her, if you love it that much, darling, it must be good. Just get it. It's not like it cost much - £50. That should have been a clue but I didn't think of that.

Then she brought it home. It's... nice. Not bad at all. A church, trees, sky, cows in a field, the sort of thing we both quite like done well. It's big though. Much bigger than I'd imagined for £50. It's also not exactly a masterpiece. I'd say £50 is a good price for it. Not that I give much of a shit. Just that it's, well, big, and where we gonna put it? Actually, I can think of one or two places but I don't want to upset her. So we ended up with it in the lounge. I'm sure I'll grow to like it as much as she does in time. Especially if she reads this...

Long bad night being ill. Bad throat, bad head, bad all over. Woke up in the middle of the night shivering then noticed my pillow wet from sweat. The bugs these days must be supersize. Don't recall colds like this back in the black-and-white days.

Staggered downstairs this morning to eat a bowl of cereal and couldn't finish it. Another bad sign. Decided to go back to bed then remembered a story I hadn't finished that Classic Rock needed today. Washed my face and sat down to the laptop, typing very slowly. That was my morning.

Just about to go to bed when I remembered another job I'd agreed to in Oxford. A spot of radio punditry for the jolly old Beeb. Can't let Auntie down. Drove there without crashing, did it, and drove back. Ate a sausage roll while staring at Sunset Boulevard on the TV - great movie, even better than I remembered, couldn't stay awake for it though.

Finally climbed the stairs for bed. Took the newspaper with me to read and woke up three hours later with it still in my hand unopened. It was gone seven and the kids were in the bath. Wife very understanding though, brought me a cup of tea. Now I'm here, whining about it.

How I'm gonna get to London tomorrow for the Planet Rock show I don't know. It's a later start than usual - 9.00pm instead of eight - so maybe I'll just sleep all day. Have a feeling there may be a bit less chat than normal. Not a bad thing, probably. Just stuff the show with music, sweet music. And try not to sweat too much over the controls.

Trevor the programme director asked me if I was a hypochondriac on the phone the other day. Actually, I went about 20 years without a cold or even a sore tooth before I had kids, the only blight to my health the hangovers and inevitable mental pain of being... me. Since the kids though, I have become a lab rat of infestations and diseases. I think it's nature's way of telling you it's your turn to fuck off. Or will be very soon. Let's face it, you get past 40 the slope starts to fell very slippery...

Yesterday was one of those long but ultimately enjoyable days in London in which you end up trailing home on the train long after dark, smoke billowing from your years, mental bubbles completely burst. I'd love to tell you all about it but most of it is to do with projects I'm not supposed to talk about yet as they may or may not come off. I can tell you that it did involve a very nice lunch at the Groucho club though with my well-groomed agent Robert, featuring an exceedingly good bottle of red wine. The stories that man tells, he should write his own book. In fact, he is writing his own book, I think (the red has robbed me of my usual pinpoint accurate memory here). The only problem was I then had to go to another meeting, this time featuring - cue: shakes - lawyers!

By the time I finally got home the car park was pitch black and I couldn't find my car. Wandered around in the freezing cold wondering if maybe it had been nicked or I was just stupid, or blind, or all three. Ended up phoning home for wife to come and help. She was just rallying the troops when I finally found it. My hands were so cold I could hardly manipulate the bleeper. Jumped inside and sat there quivering waiting for the engine to warm me up.

Now today I am ill AGAIN. Really sore throat, bunged up everything, perpetual feeling of sickness. Swallowed the usual pills. No joy whatsoever. And to top it all off there is a Well Known Band apparently Officially Upset over something I have written about them in the latest issue of Classic Rock. That makes at least two Well Known bands pissed off with me then over something I have written in the latest issue of Classic Rock. My crime? The usual one: telling the truth. I was much more popular as a writer in the 80s when I didn't bother myself overmuch with The Truth. These days it's the only thing I really enjoy writing about. Try telling that, though, to some pampered rock star with an office full of drones waiting for the signal to begin sending emails and making phone calls.

Meanwhile, it's back to the medicine cabinet for me. If only I had more to look forward to in there these days than mere aspirin. Ah, for the days when the medicine cabinet was something you would fit into a small white envelope and carry round in your underpants...

Been so tired these past couple of days I've been finding excuses not to be in my office. Of course, I can't really get away with it for long but it's amazing how much skiving you can do when you're your own boss. I never realised before. For those of you who aren't self-employed this must seem like a funny thing to say but, trust me, working for yourself means never copping off home early. My friend Tom is one of the chief engineers at a power station and from his house you can see the belching towers from his back window. Consequently, even when he's not at work, he's always keeping one eye on the window, being able to tell just from the way the smoke swirls into the sky whether all is well at the plant. I'm the same way. Even when I'm not sweating bullets over the laptop I've still got my eyes on which way the smoke is heading.

Not so much these past couple of days though. Right now, I could close my eyes and instantly fall asleep. Instead, as soon as I've finished this I'm going to go and jump up and down on the stepper while lifting weights. Why? Cos I'd like to live just a bit longer than previously advertised. And anyway, I'm not allowed to sleep in the day, the boss won't let me. The fact that I can't sleep at night when he will let me is neither here nor there.

Meanwhile... been taken to task by someone called Katalina, who sends me a looooooong email from foreign parts giving me what for over a piece I wrote in the latest issue of Classic Rock portraying the late Steve Clark of Def Leppard as a sad case more fond of booze and drugs than being in the band. Which he was, and which Katalina says she knows. But that shouldn't mean I can't spare a few words to point out what a great musician he was, too, she says. I think you might have a point, Katalina. But then I knew Steve and I'm afraid music was never exactly high on the list of topics we discussed as we sat there doing our drugs and drinking our booze all those weird years ago. Sorry, dear, it's just one of those sad facts, and I feel I have every right to write about it. For if not me, then who?

Another email from another foreign woman has also set me on edge. This one comes from someone called Patrizia who works for a radio station in Oslo and wants to interview me for her show. Normally, I'd be happy to oblige. But Patrizia is not the sort of woman I feel I want to be stuck in a room with for too long. I met her a few years ago, when she was working in London, and she is one of those tall, blonde Amazonian types that dresses like she's about to go onstage - and she usually is. All of life is a stage for women like Patrizia, the men she meets mere stepping stones towards the spotlight. Naturally she is always invited backstage by all the bands - how can they refuse? She looks like she was born backstage, on a red leather couch, wearing fishnets, high-heels and a welcoming smile. I mean, I'd love to 'chat' with her but my throat goes dry and I start to stammer at the very thought. Certainly whenever I ran into her at gigs I used to peer up at her the way one would a snowy mountain range and wonder what it would be like to ascend to the summit, so to speak, knowing that better men than me have already tried and failed, some even meeting their deaths along the way. It might be a good way to go, but frankly, sweetie, at my age, I've lost the nerve for adventures like that.

Of course she'll read this now and think me a wally. And she will be right. All she wants to do is chat, after all. Perhaps if she blindfolded me first and I couldn't actually see her... No, wait, scrub that. I think I'll just go and jump up and down on the stepper for a while instead...

Paddy's Day today. Not that I ever celebrate it, despite being a paddy myself, albeit one born in London. It was also my late father's birthday today, a proper paddy born in paddyland, not that I ever celebrated that either. In fact, I don't recall us ever celebrating too much in our house when I was growing up. Certainly not birthdays or saints' days. My father managed to go through his entire life, in fact, never having sent me a birthday or Christmas card - ever. A rare feat for a so-called father, you might think. But he was one of those dads full of rare feats when it came to his kids. Except for the beatings, of course. There was nothing rare about those.

Which is one of the many reasons why I still hate the old bastard. And why Paddy's Day means bugger all to me. As for all these loonies dressing in green - when exactly did that all start? I don't recall anything like that when I was kid. Mind you, The Troubles were still raging so they'd probably have lynched you for having green hair back then. It probably got going sometime in the 80s, when they learned that you could make money out of almost anything with an anniversary attached.

Anyway, not to sound tooooo miserable, cos it's a beautiful sunny day again and you can't let those pass with a frown. Doctor Who is also back on the telly tonight - a real cause for celebration, except that I won't be here to see it, I'll be in London getting ready for the Planet Rock show. None of the rest of the family will be here to see it either as my eldest daughter is appearing onstage tonight in a musical concert in which she will be wielding a very serious recorder, bless her golden locks. I'm gonna miss that too but my mate Tom says he's gonna catch it on his camcorder and make us a DVD so that's all right. Maybe we could turn it into a double feature - Doctor Who followed by Daughter's Concert. It's a must-see!

Meanwhile, I'm off now for London. The show starts at 8.00pm so when you've finished watching Doctor Who either flick your Sky remote straight to 0110 or turn your digital radio on, or go on the internet, or if it's about that time, just click here: www.planetrock.com

You know you want to...

Been a while since I mentioned any of your emails so I thought I would do something about it. The latest comes from a singer-songwriter some of you will remember - Ginger, from the band The Wildhearts - who sent me this message out of the blue the other day:

"Hey mate! You have lead the sort of life that should be in print, and are the kind of writer that should write it! I'm great, getting ready for the release of the new Wildhearts album and tour. Sober, clean, healthy and creative. How are you? best, Ginger."

I haven't spoken to Ginger in years but we certainly shared one or two times together in the past. I particularly remember the time in 1995 when I went with him to the Top Of The Pops studio. I think the Wildhearts tune was 'I Wanna Go Where The People Go' but I'm not sure. What I do remember is Ginger and Liam Gallagher staring each other down in the TOTP corridor. It was the week Oasis went to Number One with 'Some Might Say' so I suppose Liam was feeling specially 'mad for it'. It was just a shame he didn't do more than stare. I'd love to have seen Ginger - a proud Geordie lad - land his coal-miner's fist in monkey-boy's face.

Of course, Ginger had his own, er, interestng personality traits too. Including a commanding ability to shoot himself in the foot career-wise. Despite half a dozen hits and the covers of numerous magazines, The Wildhearts never did become the historic band I thought they were destined to. Still, as he says, he's sober and clean now so there's hope yet.

Then there was this one:

"Dear Mr Wall, I am an avid reader of your books owning 5 of them. However, I have been trying to find Devil's Music the story of Ozzy and Sabbath. I tried calling the publisher and they no longer carry it. Can you tell if there is a place I can possibly order it? Aaron."

Sorry Aaron, that book never did get published. Indeed, it never even got written. I'd love to tell you why but that might take a book in itself. Suffice to say, please stop looking. And buy Star Trippin' instead.

More typical of the sort of emails I get is this one:

"I loved the adventures of Wall and Halfin in Kerrang etc., and have got your Marillion and Paranoid books. I'll probably get around to buying Star Trippin' once everyone else in the family have worked their way through my wages, i.e. sometime when the kids leave home! Best wishes to you and yours, James Summerson, Newcastle upon Tyne."

And this somewhat confused one:

"Mick Wall, you think you are such hot shit cos you know rock stars. Big fucking deal! I read your blog too and it was a load of boring shit about your wife's headaches, not proper stories about music and bands. You think you know it all. Why should we care about your problems... etc Hugh Stanhope, Cornwall."

Which reminds me, my wife's headaches should be much better after next week, thanks Hugh, as she's getting a new pair of glasses. Rather fashionable ones too, along with a free spare pair (via a special Specsavers offer) with tinted lenses which she can wear as sunglasses in summer. Naturally, I'm jealous as mine make me look like a fucking librarian. Still, at least I 'know' lots of rock stars so that's all right then.

Finally, on a completely separate note, the first of my two world-shattering guest appearances on the BBC World Service programme, The Beat, have just been broadcast. If you would like to hear me wittering on about 'rock stars' while straining to work in references to my wife's headaches, click to this link: http://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/programmes/the_beat.shtml

Another gloriously sunny day. Like summer but better because it's not stiflingly hot, just crisp and clear and warm enough to walk around outside in T-shirt and jacket. So that's what I did this morning. Ignoring work for once and going for a walk with wife and baby in the Wallingford sun. I wish we lived in Wallingford, it's such a pretty little town and the people are so polite. Not what I'm used to at all, being an Irish Londoner brought up on the not-so smooth side of town. We went to the bakery and bought a little picnic then sat on a bench by the church and ate it. Nobody around to bother us, baby asleep in buggy, sun smiling down. I simply could not have imagined such a scene ten years ago but there we were, lapping it all up.

Afterwards we went to Oxfam where wife got some red noses for the girls' Children In Need school activities. Then I found the most fantastic secondhand bookshop. Actually, I have been peering through the window for about five years but today was the first time I'd ever been tempted inside. Got a shock when I realised what I'd been missing. Just the most amazing place. Hills of books piled six feet high all over the place. Could barely walk around there were so many of them. All first or rare editions. With the most unearthly old boy running the show, tweeds, tie, crimson kerchief billowing from his top pocket, lovely old fruit, looked like he once piloted a spitfire and later solved parlour room crimes in his spare time.

Stood there nattering to him till wife who was standing outside with the buggy waiting for me rapped on the window and pointed at her watch. I could barely drag myself away though. You looked around and all you could see were rare first editions of everything, from Ian Flemming's From Russia With Love (£350) to The Prime Of Miss Jean Brody (£75) and some Beatrix Potter (little jobs, six quid a pop). I bought a 1973 first edition of Rock Dreams by Guy Peellaert and Nik Cohn for £25. A bargain, I told wife. Seriously.

The day seemed tame after that. Did some shopping at Waitrose, stocking up on Magners, and drove home, picking up middle daughter from pre-school on the way. Got home and finished the Aynsley Dunbar story for Classic Rock (at last) then set about emails and (long) phone calls. And that was my day. Entirely tolerable. Fun even. I'm off now to open one of those bottles of Magners that have been sitting in the fridge waiting for me. Then gonna sit in front of the telly, don't care what's on, with my copy of Rock Dreams on my lap. Happy? I don't like using words like that because it's a bit like counting chickens. But if I did use words like that then this might well be one of those occasions. (Now wait for the bomb to go off...)

And so to Milton Keynes, where a fully-fledged BBC team awaited my exulted presence. I love doing these TV things for the Beeb. When you do it for Channel Four or one of the other commercial stations, you're lucky if you get more than one bloke doing the whole thing on a hand-held camcorder. The Beeb, on the other hand, turn up in force. I counted five able-bodied men and women today, all of them friendly, professional, good at their jobs and terribly busy doing... something.

Anna, the director, was particularly striking. We have been talking on the phone such a long time it was a bit nerve-wracking meeting her at last. But she turned out to be just as she sounded on the phone - sharp, witty, no pissing about, but plenty of time for chat too. I enjoyed myself. Which is just as well as I had to sit there on a Marshall amp for three hours solid while they had their wicked way with me. We were at the Marshall amp factory, with me sat in front of a wall of Marshalls, sipping coffee in my new black shirt and doing my best to sound like I know what I'm on about. Which I do, weirdly. What a strange thing to be an expert on, though. Rock. Hard rock. Heavy metal. Motherfucker. It's not what I see on those rare occasions these days when I allow myself a peek in the mirror but yup, apparently that's me all right.

Got home in the early hours of the morning from the Planet Rock show having driven the final 20 miles face-down on the steering wheel asleep. I don't think I got more than about four hours kip a night all of last week. This is just about manageable until I get to the weekends and find myself not getting home from London till 2.00a.m Sat and Sun, and then I'm fucked. Seriously fucked.

Of course, this used to be around the time I was just getting going but those days are long gone, pal. These days I'm lucky if I can stay awake in the armchair past about 9.00pm. The only place I don't seem to be able to sleep is the actual bed. Or not for long anyway. Years of children crying and dogs being sick have conditioned me to wake up every hour-on-the-hour in a panic, sweat rolling from my wide-open eyes. OK, some exaggeration there perhaps but not nearly as much as I'd like.

Then today I had to go back to London, having let my ego get the better of me and agreed to appear on two radio programmes called The Beat for the BBC world service. The Beat is an arts magazine show on which only seriously intelligent and incredibly interesting people like me appear. Oh, and you have to be immensely good-looking too. Anyway, it was quite good, actually. I almost sounded like I knew what I was on about, talking about why all these big bands like The Police and Genesis have got back together. (Money.) Then about the Axl book (terribly good) for the second programme.

Of course, they didn't even offer me a cup of tea which is very BBC, and got rid of me in two seconds flat once they'd had their wicked way. But at least I didn't fall asleep or pass out standing up, even though I felt sick with tiredness. Saved it instead for the train journey home and nearly ended up in Swindon having missed my stop.

Tomorrow I'm off to Milton Keynes for yet another BBC thing, this time for the telly, on - you guessed it - the history of heavy metal. Breaking out the new black shirt for that one. Might even shave. Thankfully, there's no hair left to comb. Got to get some sleep tonight first though. Got to try anyway.

Wife just asked me what I wanted for dinner. "A bottle of Magners," I said. I wasn't kidding. I'm gonna drink that between 7 and 8pm then go straight to bed - and stare at the ceiling. On the train home I made a new (old) rule - absolutely no more trips ANYWHERE on a Monday. Not while the Planet Rock shows are going anyway. Then my mobile rang and it was someone asking me if I'd take part in some Channel Four documentray thing, as part of an 'invited' audience. "Sure," I said, "in principle." (Code for: how much?) Then the killer: "When is it?" Next Monday, they said.

I can only hope it's a typically cheapo Channel Four thing and they come back and say they haven't got a budget (their usual bullshit excuse) leaving me able to politely say no. Followed by "Zzzzzzzzzz..."

Went shopping then in Oxford this morning. Desperately trying to find something to wear other than the usual black shirt I always wear for TV interviews. Went to all the usual places. Ended up in Gap buying... a black shirt. Well, it's got a bigger collar than my old one and is much more... modern. Bought a nice white T-shirt to go underneath it, which looks very much like all my other white T-shirts except, well, newer. Just like the white T-shirt the display dummy was wearing under its black shirt with good-sized collar, in fact. Thought about going for the grey dummy trousers too but decided, fuck it, you never see my trousers in these talking-head TV things anyway. I may as well be naked from the waist down. Except then they'd show it of course.

Spent most of the time buying clothes for the kids. I get more pleasure out of doing that than buying gear for myself. They have such cool stuff for kids these days and unlike their old man they're not too fat or too fucked yet to wear them. Then had a nice early lunch in the covered market with wife and (thank you God) sleeping baby in buggy. It was really pleasant. Very sunny, good organic food, if it wasn't for the allergy wife is suffering from which makes her eyes look like I punched her in both of them everything would have been totally tickety-boo. You can't everything, though. Not that you shouldn't try for it, obviously.

Got home and wife took girls straight from school to their swimming lesson, then to Nana and Granddad's for tea. Leaving Good Old Daddy free to get some work done. That is, a few phone calls followed by a snooze on the couch. Well, I was born a bastard, what can I say? And anyway, if that's the sum of my crimes these days, trust me, I'm doing good compared to the Bad Old Pre-Daddy Days. Would love to tell you more but I'm saving that for a book. Or another book. One of these fine freaky days, assuming I can keep going long enough to get there and I never assume anything anymore, and nor should you...

Had one of those days yesterday where I was talking to people non-stop for hours on end. Some of it for official reasons - like the interview I did with Paul Rodgers at lunchtime and the one I did in the evening with Gary Moore - and some of it off-the-cuff stuff, like the loooong conversation on the phone with the BBC TV producer who's making a programme on stadium rock and wanted to talk to me about Led Zeppelin, then said he'd phone me back today and never did. Lots of other long phone conversations too. Mainly with people you either won't have heard of or care about or who you have heard of and do care about but who don't care to have me bandying their names around here. Like the Fish Man who comes by every couple of months and sells me and my wife £100 worth of frozen tuna and chicken. And the nice wife of the singing Rock God whose name I don't feel comfortable mentioning...

Anyhooo, this meant that I had more writing to do today than I had bargained for, or felt like doing, frankly. It also meant I couldn't go out as planned and buy myself some clothes that at least look a bit like 2007, as opposed to the circa 1977 ones I usually wear around the house. But then, when does T-shirt, jeans and long nondescript jumper ever really go out of fashion? No good for telly though - not proper BBC-type telly, which I'm doing next week - and so now I've got to work all night in order to find the time to go out tomorrow. Can't do the weekend cos no bloke in even half his right mind goes shopping for clothes at the weekend. Hate Saturday staff. Hate other shoppers. And I have to be in London anyway for the Planet Rock show.

Tomorrow it is then. Of course, as I'll be in Oxford it rather limits my choices. But I like that. Not really having a clue what to buy or wear anyway, at least this way it's made relatively easy for me. If Gap or Next or (if really desperate) Edinburgh Wool don't have it, I can always go into Marks & Sparks and buy something 'trendy'. Oh god, I'm already feeling sick at the thought.

Paul Rodgers was good, by the way. He and I have done a lot of talking over the past few months. And people say he's 'difficult'. Well, they say that about me too. And it's probably true. Not when we talk to each other though, maybe cos we're both short and full of piss. Maybe not. Gary Moore was good too, very funny. He's another one they always say is miserable. Yet every time we've spoken lately he's cracked me up. Maybe it's getting older. All us hard-work miserable bastards are mellowing out. Until we're made to go shopping for 'cool clothes' anyway.

Six-thirty a.m. I am being hit on the head - hard. I semi-wake up. My 15-month-old son is kneeling on the bed next to me, walloping me, and laughing. It hurts. The bastard weighs almost as much as his four-year-old sister and already has hands like shovels. The only way to stop him is to wake up and play. I wake up and play.

After breakfast and a shower I go out with son and wife for a walk in the sun. It's another cold sunny day. The walk should do me good, blow the cobwebs away. Right. I am still fucked when we get home though. The cobwebs are not so easily blown away.

Sit down and actually finish my story for Classic Rock. It must be all the years of practise cos I can't remember doing it when it's over yet it actually reads all right. Send it then look at my emails. An hour later I'm still looking. Think seriously about a little afternoon nap. Then wife reminds me I have promised to meet eldest daughter from school and take her to the highstreet to buy a book she really, really, really wants. It's a book and I never say no when they ask for books. Plus we've been arguing too much lately and I want us to do a bit of daddy-daughter bonding. It seemed like a hell of a good idea when I suggested it yesterday.

I go and am very glad I did by the time we get home again. Saw her old teacher, now our family friend, Lyn, and arrange for her and her husband Tom and their kids to come over and have a meal sometime over the Easter holidays. Have to keep it vague cos it's still too far ahead for me to plan properly. Might need a few good naps first. Then we went and got the book, all about witches. Cooooool.

Home again and back in the office. Kids out swimming. Write the monthly column I do for a French magazine, all about the time Dave Mustaine of Megadeth showed me how to do a sex hex. That is, a magic spell to make someone fuck you. I never tried it - too scaredy cat - but he assured me that it works. Carried around the little piece of hotel paper with the instructions on it in my wallet for years. Wish I'd tried it now, of course. Like I wish I'd done a lot of things I didn't, and wish I hadn't done a lot of things I did. But that's normal, right? Funny word 'normal'...

Been trying to make Mondays no-go areas because I'm so done in after the weekends but it's impossible. People want things and they don't care that your head is full of holes. I'm behind with Classic Rock work - a story on John Mayall that should have been delivered last Friday but which I still haven't finished; then another story on Aynsley Dunbar that's due tomorrow that I haven't even started yet. Then something due on Friday which I've got no chance of doing on time. Oh, and I'm interviewing Paul Rodgers on Wednesday. And Sidgwick & Jackson have another dozen questions about the Axl book they needed answers to yesterday. Plus all the pictures I need to look at for it. And another half-dozen things I can't even be bothered to moan about but some of which are even more urgent. Apparently.

I put my foot down this afternoon though, said fuck it, only so much one poor toss can do, let's go out. So out we went, all of us minus eldest daughter who wasn't due home from school until much later because of singing practise. Or recorder. Or swimming. Can't remember. Anyway, we did a tour of the local charity shops. The town I live on the outskirts of has enough charity shops to fill three towns. And another one opening soon.

"I don't get it," I said to wife. "What the fuck do we need another charity shop for?"

"The council gives them grants," she said. "And the workers are all volunteers so they don't have to pay them. And they get their stock for free. It's a good business to be in."

Seriously thinking of opening my own charity shop. Could stock it full of rock clobber. That is, my rock clobber. Christ knows there's enough of it clobbering up my office, loft, garage, head, arse. Maybe get a few 'volunteers' to flog it for me. All proceeds to charity, natch. The Mick Wall Benevolent Fund for Old Age Gits Who Hate Mondays. Please give generously.

A beautiful sunny day. Cold but beautiful. Went out for a walk with the tribe, the girls on their bikes, the boy in his buggy and me and wife walking slow and taking it all in. We're lucky where we live, there's a beautiful park walk right next to where we live, goes right down to these big ponds full of fish, along a trickling stream. All man-made, I think, or man-enhanced, but very nice all the same. Did a big circle and by the time we got back we'd been gone an hour. Hard to imagine doing anything remotely like it in London, where I'm from. And where I end up going every Saturday night now for the Planet Rock show.

Don't get me wrong, I like doing the show. I'm old enough to know now when the luck is smiling on me. But Saturday night in Soho... Jesus Christ! People, drunk and stoned, everywhere. All looking for that Saturday night something. What? Sex? Action? And none of them getting it, not really, just wandering around staring at each other, wondering where it was. It. The thing. Fucking desperate. Then trying to drive back through Chinatown after midnight... it's like a series of scenes from Taxi Driver, only much, much worse.

When, finally, I'm able to nose the car out of Shaftsbury Avenue and point her up towards the A40, the relief is immense. It's like leaving the lunatic ward behind. By the time I get off the M40 and back into what is now my part of the world, the contrast is complete. Total darkness, country lanes, no other bugger around, just the glinting eyes of weird night creatures caught in my headlights, scurrying around as you whiz past them. Last night I nearly hit an owl. Huge bastard. Sat in the middle of a black country lane, alone, eating something. I don't know who was more surprised by our near collision, him or me. Well, me...

The world has gone mad. Well, the world was already mad. What I mean is, it never rains but it pours. No, wait. Must stop writing in cliches. (A hard habit to break after all these years.) Let me start again. I'm ever so busy. Not that I'm complaining. Well, I am, but not that I want to. It's just that... fuck it, I've been limping around like a three-legged donkey for so many weeks and months now my health is going. Seriously. Can't sleep, can't shit. Woke up in the middle of the night again last night, exhausted and utterly unable to sleep. Had the same sore throat I've had for about three weeks now so lay there freaking out wondering if it's throat cancer. Why not? I spent enough years gulping down smoke of every description. The night before it was mysterious chest pains. Well, not so mysterious. Sit in a chair for long enough typing - like about 30 years - and you'll have chest pains too.

Mainly, though, my problem is arse pains. As in, pains arriving on a daily basis straight into my arse, both figurative and actual. But whatcha gonna do? This time last year I had so little on I spent most days sitting here picking my nose planning my exercise routine. Nowadays the only exercise I get is staggering to the bog and wrestling my todger into position. And then I've become so absent-minded I forget to do my fly up. Hours go by and my wife will suddenly catch a glimpse of me shuffling towards the kettle and cry: "Do your bloody fly up! What's wrong with you! You've lost it, haven't you? Totally lost it!"

Yes. I rather think I have. So what's been keeping me at it, you ask. Oh gawd... the usual. Just more of it than seems fair. What are all the other writers doing? I even gave away a nice job last week to Dave Ling - writing the liner notes for a Status Quo best-of-the-Beeb box set. I mean, that's the sort off gravy I would normally devour with extreme ardour. Not now. Gave it away I did, hoping it would free me up to have a day off this week.

Fat chance. Only myself to blame of course. So insecure I can't and don't say no to anything - ever. Gonna have to start now though. Been running a fever today. And getting loud buzzings in my ear. And dizziness. Every time the phone rings I jump out of my skin. Then the kids come home from school and that's it, I'm totally done in until they go to bed again. Followed not long after by exasperated wife. Left to sit here on my own, groaning and listening to the Fairport Convention box-set Universal just sent me. I love my Fairport Convention. They fucking rock, or certainly used to between 1968-73, something like that. That Sandy Denny, she was a one, eh? Wish she was still alive now. If she played her cards right she could come round and we could compare ailments...