Star Blog

Spent yesterday evening with the family round at our friends Tom and Lynne's. Tom, who lived and worked in Pakistan for about five years helping them build power stations cooked a huge curry dinner based on recipes he was given out there - lamb this, chicken that, pork up your jumper, three kinds of rhata (rata? raita?), dahl (darl?), three kinds of nan bread, chapattis, sweet pickle, onion, chilli, coriander, lots of other gear, the full monty. It was great. He kept the glasses filled with red too, which is never bad. Lynne's mum and dad, Stan and Eleanor, were also there telling funny stories about the old days, and between them and Lynne's daughter, Charlotte, we got a little holiday from our own kids for a few hours. Except for the boy, who can't leave daddy alone at the moment, bless his big brown naughty eyes. Must be my cologne.

Then this morning I had to leave early for London. That is, I had to be at the train station for 10.00.a.m. which is early for me. Had coffee and breakfast on the train. Then mooched down on the tube to darkest Shepherd's Bush to Bush studios, just opposite the market, where I was being interviewed for a TV programme about Lynyrd Skynyrd. Afterwards, walking back to the tube, I had a moment where I felt like having a nose at the market for old time's sake but it soon passed. I used to live just down the road in Acton - a rotten slum then, even worse now - in my early twenties and Shepherd's Bush market was somewhere to go sometimes on a Saturday afternoon. Looking for cheap jeans and bootleg albums. And the occasional five quid deal off some old spade used to own a minicab joint. By the looks of it, things haven't changed much in the past 25 years. Was glad to leave again.

Scurried home just in time to sit with both phones glued to my ear for an hour, then take over looking after the two youngest kids while wife and eldest daughter went for their karate lesson. This usually happens on a Monday when I am so fucked from the weekend that I can barely handle it and make the kids watch children's TV with me - or else. Today was different. Had them helping me cook dinner, then we read a book together and played on the floor. Very middleclass civilised. Not that it wasn't a relief when wife returned two hours later. Blokes have it easy when it comes to kids. Even those of us who work from home and think we do more than our share (more than blokes that work in offices anyway). Wives have the hardest part, by far. And yet they nearly always live longer than us. Funny that. Except in my case, of course, where the 20 year age gap will also have some bearing on wife outliving me. If she's lucky. And I'm not.
Just read Ross's blog, by the way. If this domestic crap is boring you go there, he's in Dubai having a jolly rock'n'roll time of it with his boyfriends in Aerosmith, and I am in no way jealous. Obviously.

Don't know how to describe today. Been caught in a blizzard of annoying lawyer reports and impatient printers. But also some good phone calls and interesting ideas too. Of course, like all interesting ideas, while they're still ideas, it's not something you can really natter about. But at least it makes the day feel better when you finally, finally get to the end of it.

Meanwhile, in some parallel dimension, a doppelganger me is sitting on a moon-drenched beach sipping pink champagne from the coconut bra of a lovely young native girl in a cosmic grass skirt who has never heard of Guns N' Roses but who feels very strongly that I need looking after in ways only she and her tribe of women-only beauties know about and to whom I have no choice but to succumb...

Watched part two of the BBC2 series The Seven Ages Of Rock, which wife had taped for me, when I got home last night. I missed the first one last week - completely forgot it was on - so it was interesting to have a gander at this, particularly as it was billed Art Rock, i.e. the Floyd/Bowie/Roxy/Gabriel-era Genesis stuff that first got me into buying albums way back when.

Thought the whole thing was class, just as I'd hoped it would be. Not exactly comprehensive, no telly docs ever are, you have to allow the producer to sew what they have together. But done with huge imagination and a good balance of very good archive stuff and new interviews. Next week is punk - less interesting as I lived through that era as a music journalist and that deal has been done sooooooo many times. But the week after that is heavy metal - and features your old mate pontificating while perched on a Marshall amp in my new black shirt from Gap. Another masterpiece of broadcasting no doubt. Then I'm in it again the week after that in the episode titled Stadium Rock.

Very strange at this exceptionally late stage of the game to find oneself billed as an expert in these things. You might say it was obvious, as these are the areas I've spent the vast majority of my career working in. But to me - a longstanding Dylan and Miles Davis fan with a growing adoration of classical, folk and country music - it's... well, let's just say it's funny the way things turn out. I'm glad in many ways, as I always find it baffling and somewhat off-putting to come across so many people so sure and contented with what they like and don't like about music, or indeed books, art, TV, film, life, sex, food, anything. It's as off-putting as meeting one of those meathead football fans that can't bear having the piss taken out of their team. Like sitting with a big smile in your own pile of shit.

Right, off now to stuff myself full of Sunday roast, then try and stay awake as I steam down the motorway through the driving rain on my way to the Planet Rock studios. Sundays are always better than Saturdays in terms of getting in and out of London, less drunken tossers throwing up everywhere. Driving back is always a drag though as the radio sucks. No Bob Harris to feed my roots music habit or remind me what a real DJ sounds like, which means relying on my own CD collection. Gonna bring the Sandy Denny Best Of with me, the Scott Matthews and the Moody Blues Live At The BBC. Good driving through the rain late at night all alone and fucked music.

Got a phone call from Ross at nine this morning telling me off for writing such a "crawling" blog entry yesterday about my lovely lunch with Chris Ingham. Had to laugh. Ross always rings to tell me off for "crawling" whenever I say anything nice about anybody. Especially when it might be about someone I've had "words" with in the past. And it's true, me and Chris have had our moments over the years, as have Ross and I, or indeed almost everybody else I know worth a damn. But while Chris and I didn't always agree on everything at least we were usually coming from the same place. We just wanted Classic Rock to be really good. Fighting about it was all part of the fun. Not as much fun as fighting about something with Ross, of course. Though in the case of Ross I nearly always lost. But then that's the same for all of us in the extended Halfin family. He's the Daddy. The rest of us are just his unruly children. I just happen to be one of the oldest who should know better.

Meanwhile, on another planet entirely, I'm sitting here listening to the new Velvet Revolver album, and... it's really good! I'm surprised. Not by good it is, just how quickly I've grown to like it. Their first album took about 50 listens just to get the shape of it. This is straight into it, like a fix. Funniest moment: their version of ELO's 'Can't Get it Out Of My Head'. Now, I knew Slash and Duff back in the motherfucking day, dude, if you follow me, and they never once expressed any sort of preference for anything remotely ELO-like. I also knew Scott back in the bad old daze of Stone Temple Grunge Lites and I doubt he'd even heard of Jeff Lynne let alone know how to spell 'Orchestra'. So how come the brill version of '...Head' included here? Could it have anything to do with the fact that a certain W. Axl Rose used to LOVE and WORSHIP Jeff Lynne, to the point of once telling me he wanted to try and get him involved in recording 'November Rain' from the Use Your Illusion albums?

Naw... that would be taking the piss, wouldn't it? And I can't imagine Slash or Scott wanting to take the piss out of sweet little Axl, can you? Naw...

Off for London now, for the Planet Rock show tonight. Find it from 9.00pm UK time at www.planetrock.com...

Today was what you call a mixed bag. On the plus side, went to London for lunch with Chris Ingham, publisher of Classic Rock and Metal Hammer. Although we haven't seen each other face-to-face for a long time, Chris and I have known each other for years now. He was very instrumental in helping me find my feet - and kick much-needed arse - in the early days of Classic Rock. It was good to see him again after such a long time. He's helped take the mag to another level since I stepped down as editor-in-chief three years ago, and he treated me to a very jolly lunch in the basement of the Landmark Hotel in Marylebone. Never been there before but they obviously know Chris well. I left with a big smile on my face.

Came home to a sack full of emails that put the frown back on my face though. Some bollocks from readers of this blog asking me to send them Chinese Democracy CDs. Yeah, right. Then even more annoying bollocks from the book lawyers asking yet MORE FUCKING QUESTIONS. Jesus, I've really had enough of this. I mean, really, really, really. From now on all my books are going to be works of fiction (or thinly veiled). Seriously. Rock stars are such pussies. God forbid you should actually suggest they might not be perfect in some way, or not be able to otherwise get your head far enough up their sunray arses.

Some nice emails in there too, of course. Just not enough to stop the irritation from the ones that weren't. But like the man said, fuck 'em all. Off now to concoct something nice to eat for me and wifey. Cos after all I am very nice like that. Very, very, very nice...

After my gallivanting in London over the past couple of days, it was back to reality today, sat here sweating over a hot laptop. Reeaaalllllyyyyyy boring stuff, too, trying to sort out the 'clerical' side of my business. That is, paying bills, sending bills that I want to be paid for, and trying to do something about the bills I can't afford to pay yet. Also had the book lawyers on again with yet more questions. "Can you confirm this, that, the other thing?" Yes, no, no, yes, no, yes, yes... oh fuck off and leave me alone...

Hot, too, sweat literally pouring down my face as I type this. Also been trying to listen to some CDs that have arrived in the post. A new one from Jake Stigers is surprisingly good. Also, Joan Armatrading, Into The Blues, and a Live At The BBC by the Moody Blues I found myself liking quite a lot. Course, it could just be the heat and the creepin' old age. None of this stuff is as good though as the Sandy Denny Best Of. Now this is the shit, trust me. As for the Chinese Democracy song CD... I haven't played it anymore since some mad impetuous fool sent me it. It really is one those: really good when you hear it, no real reason to want to play it again afterwards. Unlike 1987 when the first Guns N' Roses album was released, there's just too much other really good stuff around to listen to these days. Good doesn't mean special anymore. I'll be interested to hear what the new Velvet Revolver album sounds like though. It seems to me they have a real opportunity to give the fans what they want - that classic GN'R guitar sound, and a lot of crazy, fucked-up songs sung by a gen-u-wine lunatic. Give the kidz what they want, that's what I say...

Spent the entire day locked in the sweltering hot airless basement of the Hope & Anchor in London, filming my interview for this American Bono documentary. Jesus Christ, but I thought I'd never get out of there. They must have had 500 questions they wanted to ask me. It went on so long we even had a break for lunch - sausage and mash in the noisy smoky bar upstairs - before 'resuming'. Fucking torture. Fortunately, the three-man crew were all gentlemen and made it as easy for me as they could. Which was just as well as the brain was not working at all. They kept quoting me passages from my Bono book which I couldn't even remember writing. Blame it on the night, as someone I also can't remember used to say.

Finally crawled out of there a sweaty mess and made my way to the train station like the ghost of Robert Johnson minus the suitcase in his hand, unless you count the shoulder bag, which I suppose you could. Sat on the train my head rolling around like a doll's, one eye going this way, the other going that, the sweat pouring down my face.

Nice when I got home though. Eldest daughter has had her looooong hair cut and it looks really good but vaguely eerie too. Six going on sixteen. Youngest son and daughter hadn't had anything major done but both were smiling and full of the day's hot sun, as was wife in skimpy top, so that was all nice to look at too. And there was a Sandy Denny Best Of CD waiting for me when I finally got back to my desk. So it's all been worth it after all, apparently. Now I'm off for some red and then bed. I'm hoping the woman might be there waiting for me when I get there but I'm not counting anymore chickens, cos even I know today's been good enough as it is.

Went to see how the other half live at the BBC. Got invited for a drink with my new mate James at the World Service, the venue the basement bar at Bush House on the Strand. Blimey, what a gaff. James was telling me they have about 47 different language stations at Bush House, along with the regular BBC crew, so you can imagine the mix of people. I haven't felt that cosmopolitan since my days floating around the VIP lounges of the word's plushest nightspots with Ross. And check out the lay-out. Plush leather couches, low lights, strong ale. I'm not known for my ale drinking anymore, being more of a good red wine man these days. But there are always exceptions and this was one of them. Haven't enjoyed myself so much in ages. I'd even consider sticking my head out the door socially more often if I could pop in here on my way home.

Sick, tired, ill. Surrounded by naughty screeching children who obviously have some sort of death wish. Another flying start to the week then. In the middle of which, a TV company that want to interview me for a documentary they are making on Bono ring to ask if they can film me here, at home. God must enjoy testing me. Or perhaps he just likes dead TV people.

Go to the email and immediately wish I hadn't. Some people really enjoy writing angry bitter emails. The worst thing about them is the awful insight it allows you into their own tortured souls. There are a lot of truly sad, lonely people out there that think sending emails will somehow help, that they are right and everyone else is wrong and that now someone MUST PAY. Poor cunts. I used to get like that too sometimes. Then I had children. I would bet anything that the world's most angry letter writers are the ones without children. Because one thing children are really good for is perspective. On every level. But mostly the one where you end up so exhausted everything else just looks like silly games. Which of course they are.

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Sod's Law pt. 194... Finally got a day off then was too tired to enjoy it. Partly the fault of spending the night in Brighton, so-called coolest city in Britain, in reality just another posh restaurant with too-expensive wine. Did take my youngest daughter swimming today though, which was v.good. Then came home and watched wife mow the lawn in the back garden - very tiring. Though I did take bag loads of mown grass to the dump afterwards, which was helpful of me. Then picked up eldest daughter from school and took the whole tribe out for a burger. Then after that, just to pile on the excitement, we came home and all sat round listening to her doing her clarinet practise. She's brilliant, of course. And my head aches.

So there you have it, another kick-ass rock'n'metal day here in the Wall household. Oh, and Joachim Molin from Stockholm, Sweden, sent me the following embarrassing Youtube link - me back in 1989, doing a lifestyles of the rich and rocking type thing with Ronnie James Dio. Before you go there though, just remember, I was (a lot) younger then and (a fucking lot) thinner. And had hair. And so did Ronnie. ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XgiqT5-xxsg&mode=related&search=) Cheers Joachim, what did I ever do to you?

All day yesterday in London, sitting in a lawyer's office, drinking coffee, going through the Axl book with a very large fine-toothed comb. Wouldn't want to ruin the poor lamb's reputation as being an all-round lovely feller who's never said boo to a goose, nor done anything that might make the rest of the world think of him in any way, you know, weird. Obviously.

Leaving again in a minute, this time for Brighton, for what we in the trade call a dinner-meeting - i.e. a meeting disguised as a social occasion (dinner and drinks) - with representatives of one of the world's heaviest metallist bands ever so there. Can't say more as it's still at that very touchy-feely stage but it's all about another possible future book project. One I'm not actually sure I'm that interested in but which I am as ever open to persuasion about, especially when they start flapping their big metally chequebooks in my face. We'll see.

Meanwhile... been picking up a lot of email traffic again on this site. In no particular order, one from Mike (no surname) writing to agree with me about the tip-top state of music today. He adds: "An afternoon of bliss would be to sit down with the Sunday papers with Bob Dylan's Desire CD on and the kids off somewhere with the wife." I'd agree with that, though any old CD would do me under those blissful circumstances, even one by the heaviest metallist band ever so there. (You can always turn the volume off.)

And one from Tricia in America apologising for daring to disagree with me on the same subject, and blaming the lack of coffee. No probs, Trish. Next time you're low on caffeine chuck a bit of Scott Matthews on the CD, or download an itune or whatever the hell it is you young people do these days. If it can calm Ross Halfin imagine what orgasmic bliss it might provide for you.

Then one from Debbie in Camp Hill, Pennsylvania, saying how much she looks forward to reading this nonsense every day and that "you and your wife are in my top five peeps that I would love to 'share a bottle of red with'. Have a great day, and thanks so much for sharing your everyday..." You're welcome Debbie. And if ever we're near Camp Hill we'll be sure to drop the kids off with you for a few hours.

There are quite a few of these, which is nice. What is not nice though is how quickly they have become submerged by the ton of mewling, pleading, reasonable, unreasonable, bullying, threatening, charming, et-bloody-cetera emails I have received in the last few days from people wanting me to share this bootleg Chinese Democracy CD with them. Please don't send anymore as the answer to all of them is simply this: No. Look at it like this, if the red-headed one had wanted you, his faithful slaves, to hear it, he'd have done something about it by now. But he hasn't, so we have to assume he doesn't. Geddit? And anyway, what am I, a do-gooder?

What I will tell you is that it's not worth all the fuss. Really. The first day I had it I thought: wow, can't wait to play this. And did. Promptly. And loudly. Very good, I thought. Then the next day I came into my office, I thought: oh look, there's that Chinese Democracy bootleg someone sent me. Shall I play it again? Er, naawww...

How very typical of being a human being. It's all so must-have-able when you ain't got it. But the minute you have... it's actually no biggie. And maybe that's part of the reason why poor misunderstood Waxy hasn't released any of it yet. No rock CD will ever be so good it was worth waiting 12 years for. What he should have done was pinged it out back in 2001 and simply went on and made another one or two and pinged them out quickly too. Instead he's allowed it to become this huge great albatross which no-one with any sense will be able to experience any other way than the way I am currently. Which is as follows: yes, it's very good. Better than the latest Scott Matthews or Show Of Hands CDs though? Um... probably not. Now, what's for dinner?

A seriously heads-down, no-nonsense, get on with it for fuck's sake sort of a day. Trying to put together a comprehensive Notes and Sources section for the Axl book. Amazed myself at how many hundreds of different sources I trawled through in order to try and put together as full a picture as possible. By strange coincidence, a regular reader of this blog who wishes to remain anonymous very kindly sent me a bootleg CD with 11-tracks from Chinese Democracy on it, gleaned presumably from the internet. Probably not the exact versions that would be on the album if it was released tomorrow, which of course it won't be, but fascinating all the same. It's gonna be a great album if it ever sees the light of day. Makes you wonder why the silly bastard has waited so long to release it. Then you remember who you're talking about and you just nod your head and go, "Oh, yeah..."

On a different subject, got a very angry email from someone in America called Tricia taking me to task for daring to suggest that we live in a golden age for popular music, ranting on for ages about how awful rock music is right now. She's right, of course. But then I wasn't talking about all that American rock shite she's been listening to. I was talking about Scott Matthews, Richard Thompson, Hen, Show Of Hands, June Tabor, The Flatlanders, Robert Belfour and a MILLION others. If you're looking for this stuff, check out the Bob Harris web page, or Andy Kershaw at Radio 3. Jesus Christ, how hard can it be, Trish?

Anyway, enough already. Off now for food and red. For once, I actually deserve it for being such a good boy and working so hard. Send sympathy cards - or better still, send money by buying one of the last ever Star Trippin' books - to mick@mickwall.com...

Listening to the Scott Matthews session on the Johnny Walker show in the car on the way to London this afternoon. Reminds me of a cross between Nick Drake and Tim Buckley. Made think what a lot of unbelievably good stuff there is out there these days. I hear most of it on the Bob Harris show when I'm driving home from London on Saturday nights. All these singer-songwriters I've never heard of before like Jesse Malin, Vanessa Peters, Daisy May, James McMurtry and the rest (dozens of them), all these bands I never knew existed like Twang, Hen, John Butler Trio, Wire Daisies, Show Of Hands (and on and on), all of them really exceptional. And none of them with anything to do with computers (except for their websites and MySpace pages) or bending over backwards with their trousers round their knees begging for entry into the charts. All somewhere between folk, country, rock, blues, punk, whatever, all into roots music, i.e. the stuff you sit and play yourself on guitar and piano and etc.

Has there ever been a better time for popular music? I really don't think so. Also, it's nice that I don't know them. Familiarity breeds contempt. As does hanging round with big-arsed rock groups intent on ruling the world. And you can grow old with this other stuff too, unlike the rockers intent on trying to look and sound just as they did 20 years ago. Get the feeling the audiences for this stuff are nicer too. Not too many thirtysomething women dressing like teenage groupies at their gigs (same goes for the men, those saddos with their long thin hair and hideous band T-shirts).

Anyway... Scott Matthews. Check out his album, Passing Stranger. Even Ross likes him. And as you know, recommendations come no higher.

Haven't had a hangover in years. Literally, years and years. I'd almost forgotten what they were like. Now I don't have to wonder anymore. Actually, it's not that bad - sore head, sore arse, sore soul - just one of those too much wine things that you get for hanging out with those wild TV types. Not like the suicidal three-day mindbenders I was experiencing back in the days before I came to my senses long enough to realise I was too fucking old for that malarky anymore.

Anyway, off to the school jumble sale now. Oh yes, it's non-stop rock here today. Then jumping on my trusty steed for the long ride to London and the Planet Rock show. If you can drag yourself away from the Eurovision Song Contest for long enough tonight, find me from 9.00pm at - www.planetrock.com

Ended really late last night, started again really early this morning. Not finished yet. What a week. What a fortnight, actually. Wasn't there supposed to be a long weekend off in the middle there somewhere, frolicking in the fields or whatever it is you're supposed to do with a day off? Not for this sad sack. I don't mind, actually. Too busy is better than not busy enough. And a lot of veerrryyyy interesting things have been going on. Not that I can really get into them here - not yet. Nature of the beast when it comes to yer common or garden rock types. The best stuff always has to stay 'secret' until so many people are in on it, it suddenly becomes 'common knowledge'. That's where I'm at right now anyway, the so-called secret part.

Finally got the book proof pages finished though, then rushed to the post office to get them off special-delivery in time for Monday. Now I'm off to meet a TV producer for drinks and chat. As you do. Which reminds me, the BBC2 documentary The 7 Ages of Rock starts next Saturday night. I haven't seen it so can't vouch for it but I think it might actually be good. It's made by the same team that made Lost Highway (on country music) and Soul Deep (on soul) both of which were top drawer, so you never know. And of course I'm in a couple of them so it can't be all that bad, right? In fact, you can read about it in next week's Radio Times, including some guff from your old mate. Like you don't get enough of that here...

Complete blog breakdown these past few days, sorry. Just couldn't get over the mountain of everything else to get to here. There was Monday, a day off - not. (Still reading through the proofs for the Axl book while the children, off from school, burned the house down in the background). Then there was Tuesday when I was back in London, sitting in for Nicky Horne on Planet Rock. Which I really enjoyed. Like taking someone else's flash car out for a spin rather than the old jalopy you're used to. Then there was yesterday, where I was so fucked I couldn't even be bothered to shower. Partly because I was so bogged down in crap like telling my Virgin ISP to FUCK OFF. They really are rubbish. Take my word for it, do not get a Virgin email account. I've had a few and they are the WORST ever. But the trouble with telling one ISP where to go is you then have to find another. My brother Gerry is the computer expert around here but when I asked him for the best one he said they were all crap, for different reasons. Great.

Anyway, that was yesterday. On top of which I still haven't finished ploughing my way through the proofs of the book, which are riddled with errors. Got to finish it today though come what may. Just wanted to put something down here in case anyone out there thought I'd pegged it. Nearly but not quite. Not yet.

The other thing I discovered while putting Virgin out of their misery was nearly 300 emails I've received completely unread since Xmas. Including many from your good selves. So very quickly let me at least acknowledge the three that really caught my eye and deserve a response, albeit horribly belated.

Firstly, Susan near Seattle, who wrote me a lovely email back in January telling me how adorable I am. Which is of course true. I often regard myself in the mirror of this blog and think how adorable I am. Susan also mentions some TV interview I did with Joe Elliot back in the dark ages of the 80s which can now be found apparently on YouTube. Which is also adorable. Susan can write again anytime - mick@mickwall.com

Then more recently there was Haydn Pickles - his real name he assures me and his wife - from Australia who says he reads this blog first thing every morning. God, what a flying start to the day that must be, Haydn. I suppose with all the sun and the barbies and big blonde Aucker babes in hardly any clothes you see wandering all day a little bit of bleak grey bitterness must be quite bracing.

And then, much closer to home, my new teacher friend Becky, who wrote me a lovely looooooong email some weeks ago which I have only just now finally read. Sorry Becky, try again now my apparatus is working properly again. Becky teaches small kids like mine for a living. Then goes home and reads this blog (and Ross's). I'm not sure what any of that signifies or says about any of us but she must have the patience of a saint, and I'm very glad she does. She also likes her Aerosmith. As you do.

Now I must go back to correcting my book proofs. Great joy awaits...

Tired again today. My fault this time though. Got home at 2.00a.m. and flicked on the TV, which said the De La Hoya / Merryweather fight was on live. "Ooh," I said to myself, "This will be good." Poured a glass of red, sat down, got comfy and waited. An hour and a half later they were still showing the undercard fights. Suckered in again. Gave up and went to bed. Slept like a dead man - until about seven, when I awoke to the boy jumping up and down on me. Lay there whimpering, begging for mercy. None came.

Now I'm getting ready to go back to London. Quite looking forward to it, actually. Enjoyed the show last night. You don't enjoy them all, last night though seemed to flow. For me anyway. So setting off today feeling hearty. Usually a bad sign. Expect all manner of mistakes to be made and gobbledegook to come out of my mouth. Or more than usual, put it that way. Find it from 9.00pm on www.planetrock.com

Another long night of clearing up sick and poo. I think wife and I are ready for the 5000 mile service now. Neither of us can keep our eyes open. Frankly, I'll be glad to leave here for London, just to get away from it. Thank God neither of the other kids have picked it up yet - or us. That would be taking the eyelash with the eye as my old mother used to say.

At one point in the early hours of this morning I was wondering how I was going to keep it together to do the show tonight. The adrenalin will take care of the mental yawns, though. It's the drive home afterwards that's likely to get me. God help any night creatures foolish enough to show their green-eyed faces tonight.

Meanwhile, if you want to see if I can manage a whole show without mentioning shit or sick, click here www.planetrock.com - from 9.00pm.

OK, it's not funny anymore. Three nights running now we've had child sickness. And runny poo. Today we heard there's "something going round the school" which has started to affect parents as well. Great, can't wait for my dose to begin right in the middle of one of the shows this weekend. Because you know that's when it will be if it happens. Just in time for the so-called Long Weekend too. Thank you, Lord.

Finally got my Pink Floyd Buyers Guide finished today for the Planet Rock website. Should have been delivered yesterday but the week has just had it in for me one way or another. Spent the rest of the day filing. That's the polite name for it anyway. Mainly it means paying bills, sorting out the rubbish accumulating like a slag heap on and around my desk, and wondering why my accountant isn't responding to emails, phone calls or texts. Surely there can't be anything more important for him to do than sort my problems out?

Oh well. At least it's going to be sunny this weekend, they say. So I'll have a nice view to gaze at out of my toilet window...

Just when you thought it couldn't get any better... 3.30 this morning, awoke to the ever more familiar sounds of eldest daughter puking. Oh well, been there, wearing the T-shirt in bed. Then suddenly, a new development. "Mummy! I've pooed the bed!"

Oh yes, it doesn't get any better than that. Puke and shit, all in the one bed. At four in the morning. God loves us so much, he's testing us, I told wife. Fortunately, she was swearing so loudly she couldn't hear me or she might have done something to me that left an even bigger mess in a bed.

And so the day began, and so it did continue. Just to add a further layer of fun to proceedings, today was the day we had to take wife's car in for an MOT. Just as she was leaving, the man who was bringing the skip - booked last week and instantly forgotten about - arrived. I was in the shower. Fortunately, I hadn't had time to soap up yet so was able to get out and put my dirty clothes back on and go downstairs and move my car from the driveway.

This was definitely going to be one of those days to remember, I decided. Came back inside, thought about trying for a shower again then thought, what's the point? I'm not going anywhere. Made a big pot of coffee instead and crawled into the office. Had a go at some writing. Not bad, got half a page down, then the phone rang. It was a nice lady at my book publishers asking me if I'd had finished reading the proofs yet of the Axl book as the deadline is tomorrow. SHIT!!! THE AXL BOOK!!!! Fuucccccckkkkkk...

I knew there was something else I was forgetting. Promptly stopped what I was doing and tore open the huge envelope with the mountain of proof-pages in it that I've been using for a foot-rest for the past fortnight. And that was me for what felt like the next several hours but in fact was probably only three or four.

Weird reading it after all this time. It's actually pretty good. Very good, in fact, some of it. I'm a much better book writer these days than I used to be. There's so much of the damn thing, though. What was I thinking when I was bashing that out? I mean, it actually reads like this bloke knows what he's on about and has spent years studying his subject. Which I suppose I do - and have - in a roundabout way. But what a surprise it is to see it in black and white like that. If only the bastards would hurry up and pay me for it, I'd feel even better about it.

Gotta go now. Eldest daughter has stopped letting it all hang out, as it were, but the baby yob is up to his tricks again, smashing the joint up and laughing loudly as his mother screams and curses him. I need to find a length of rope to tie the bugger down...

The day began way too early, work-wise, and staggered steadily downhill from there. Eldest daughter awoke and started being sick at 5.00a.m. The sound of which woke baby son, who then refused to go back to sleep. This meant all hands on deck - or put another way, it meant I had to wake up and get involved too, rather than just leaving it to wife - which meant that by about 9.00a.m. when middle daughter was at least at school and therefore the volume of home noise turned down a notch I was ready to go back to bed again. Which I did. For half an hour. At which point the sound of the screams from downstairs woke me. This time because baby son had pulled a table-chair down on his head.

I gave up and got up - again. Stumbled downstairs, tried to help, got in the way, then tried to go to work, writing. But eldest daughter kept being sick and baby son kept hurting himself. After the table-chair he burned his hand on a hot oven door. Then yanked a kitchen cupboard door clean off its hinges. Fucker is strong. And stubborn. Not even pain and misfortune can deter him.

By now it was almost lunchtime and I realised I hadn't even had time for a shit and a shower yet. Very unlike me, being a regular first thing in the morning man, myself. Not today, chum. Ate some food while young son yanked at my trouser leg and eldest daughter wrapped herself in a blanket on the couch watching a Dr Who DVD, then fought my way back to my office, where I tried to get some writing done again.

No luck. Or rather, some. A page or two. Like chiselling tablets of stone though, all inspiration somehow lost by now. Suddenly it was 3.00pm and wife remembered we had PROMISED FAITHFULLY to both show up for a PTA meeting at the school. So we did, dragging sick and battered brood with us. Fortunately the teacher, Mr Aldridge, is a Good Bloke, so ignored our obvious distress, showed the kids to another classroom full of toys and gadgets and sandpits and all sorts of stuff to keep a bunch of small lunatics happy - then sat us down and spoke to us for AN HOUR AND A HALF about the golden future of our sparklingly over-intelligent eldest child.

It was really good, actually. He's about my age. Felt like going for a pint with him afterwards. Except there was no chance of that, of course, as I had to hurry home and GET SOME FUCKING WRITING DONE. Which I will seriously be trying to do in just a shake of a lamb's tail. As soon as the screaming and vomiting subsides long enough...

Long sunny day doing a lot of small things that you hope add up to something big but are never quite sure about. Big enough, that is, to justify the shuffling around staring into the sun. Day started with me looking after the boy while wife took the girls to school. He sat on my lap while we ate cereal together and a banana, watching Tweenies on the TV. I like hanging out with him when there's no one else around. It all kicks off again though when his mother returns.

Then I did a phone interview for the Radio Times to do with this BBC 2 series that's about to begin called The 7 Ages of Rock. I'm in two of the seven programmes - the one on metal, natch, and the one on stadium rock. So as part of a feature the Radio Times are doing on it I got to pick the three albums I think sum up the heavy metal genre. I chose Paranoid by Sabbath, Machine Head by Purple and Zep IV by you know who. Then waffled ever so eloquently on my reasons for choosing them.

The writer of the piece - Martin Aston - happened to be the same age as me and so we had a lot in common, including even some mutual friends, small world etc etc. We ended up nattering like mums over the garden fence about our current favourite TV shows, which again we both shared - Dr Who and Life On Mars. I've never spoken to Martin before but by the end of it I felt like I'd known him for years. The piece is out on May 19. It will be my second time in there in as many months. I was their 'face behind the mike' or whatever they call it a few weeks ago, in connection with the Planet Rock shows. If I can ever get round to it I'll put the cuttings up here sometime.

Then, wanting to delay the start of the working day just a bit longer, I went out and mowed the front lawn, strutting about impressing the neighbourhood wives all peeking through their net curtains at me (I imagined). Which made me feel very manly. Then, not wanting to waste the sweat, I jumped up and down on the stepping machine for half an hour followed by some even more manly sit-ups and push-ups. I do this stuff all the time but my gut never gets any smaller and I seem to be putting weight on, which drives me crazy. The buzz makes you feel good though.

Then... I came in here and started to work. And that's where the day died for me. Nobody returned my emails, nobody was in when I called. I did manage to bash out a splendidly over-the-top column for the French mag - about the time as a teenager I got so out of it I threw up all over Wishbone Ash in their dressing room - and book a skip so we can start to throw away some of the months worth of accumulated garbage from the house and garden (all the shit the dustmen won't take away) but as for the rest...

I think I'll do a Ross and go and sit in the garden. See if the ankle-biters will leave me along long enough for me to fall asleep...