Star Blog

Not at all the sort of day I usually have on a Saturday, when I try and keep things cool and as uneventful as possible in the lead up to the evening radio show. For a start, I woke up having written a new hit tune in my dreams for Status Quo, which stayed with me for a good hour after I achieved consciousness. It was so good - redolent of their mid-70s peak - I was going to tape me singing it then send it to Francis and Rick (with the usual copyright proviso attached). Then I must have come fully to because I promptly forgot it. Dragsville cos it was a certain hit.

With wife and tribe all out for once, I had planned a long lingering session after breakfast on the couch with newspaper and tea. But then I made the fatal error of going into my office to - dread words - check on emails. Well, I haven't been able to for weeks so it's still a bit of a novelty again. Big mistake. It's now nearly four hours later and I am still here. So much shit left to sort out from my three weeks of being offline, on top of all the usual day-to-day bollocks. There's just enough time now to grab a bite before jumping in the wagon for the long ride through the pissing rain to London for the Planet Rock show tonight.

If you're around later and you're interested I'm going to be playing some tracks off the new Velvet Revolver album, which if you're a Classic Rock reader you'll know I'm rather keen on at the moment. With a certain strange serendipity, it turns out that the Definitive Album on tonight's show happens to be Appetite For Destruction, so it should be quite a night for fans of top-hatted guitar and fucked-up frontmen. Find it from 9.00pm UK time on http://www.planetrock.com/

Been very, very touched by how many people of apparent good mental health have emailed in since the blog sputtered back into life, saying how much they missed it. You are a very sad lot that I am feeling increasingly strangely familial about. Life - even electronic half-life - is a very weird and beautiful thing (when it's not being ugly).

Anyway, special mention to the following persons of illogical repute: Giulio, who points out that as Ross Halfin has recently "kissed and made up" with Lars Ulrich, isn't it about time I did the same with Axl. If only, Giulio. I'd give him tongues too if the silly old fart would only let down his guard long enough to admit to being human again. You just know he wants to.

Also, Ann McLaren, who asks for the sordid details of my little DJing gig up north that I never got to tell about. Weellll... let's just say even the biggest fattest cheque isn't always worth the aggro that comes with it. If you have seen that episode from the second series of Extras where the Andy Millman character (played by Ricky Gervais) encounters his 'fans' for the first time in a pub (Count Fuckula et al) then you will have some idea what my evening was like in Cheshire. Yes, I spun the discs and cracked wise, as directed. I may even have - ahem - rocked the mike somewhat at one fairly alcoholic point. But when I turned around to see the gaggle of otherwordly hairy-beings from the black lagoon lined up to "have a quick word" with me each time I staggered towards the Gents, it fair made me want to run and hide. Which, shamefully, I eventually did. Let's just not ever go there again, OK, as I'm still having nightmares about it.

And to Steve Leach, Bull McCue, Ron Nevermore (as if) and June Moon (no, that one's real) who wrote in welcoming me back but really wanting to know what I know about this so called Led Zeppelin reunion, all I can say is this... Probably. But not if Planty changes his mind. Again. In which case, probably not. All clear?

While Mike Cosby wants to know why the 7 Ages Of Rock show on BBC2 which featured myself in extremely fine form (everyone says so, dahling) didn't make more of groups like Van Halen, rightly pointing out that "a few gems from Diamond Dave Roth would be infinitely more satisfying than Rob Halford's missives on whips and bondage or the dribble from that tit from Motley Crue." All true, Mike. But when I tried talking about Van Halen during my interview I was politely told to stop as they couldn't actually get anyone from Van Halen to agree to appear on the show, and therefore wouldn't be featuring them.

And finally, love and kisses to Chris (a girl), Rhys (a boy), and Debbie the DefLeppardLoveLady for all being so tremendously nice. What a pity they don't all get jobs at the Inland Revenue or better still the dreaded VAT dungeon, then life really would be worth the hassle and I could genuinely stay loved-up and go round hugging every semi-compis humanoid I see.

You see what three weeks without a Proper Outlet does for you? I'm practically slavering for attention. Are you listening Cookie? (I want that dinner date NOW!) Maureen Rice (I think I've waited long enough for my love-lunch) and Ross (good of you to call me back)?

Well, hello. And here we are again - finally. I'm sure you have as much interest in hearing the whole sorry saga of how I ended up stranded in the off-line world for three long sodding weeks as I do in telling it. Let's just forget the whole thing happened, shall we?

What have I been doing instead? Well... who knows? Writing, I suppose, bit of radio, of course, bit of TV too, no biggie, and a lot of running around being told what to do by the other people I share my house with, most of them much smaller but infinitely louder and even more demanding than me.

Had a nice day yesterday though, letting my accountant Damian buy me lunch at Jo Allan's in Covent Garden. It's true what they say though about there being no such thing as a free lunch. Having just paid Damian's bill last week, I now find myself writing insultingly fat cheques today at his insistence to Her Majesties Inland Revenue, the VAT, the nice bloke that owns the cottage in Dorset we plan on disappearing to at some point this summer, plus the two jolly gardeners who are currently building a large amount of decking in the back garden. This was wife's brilliant idea and of course it looks lovely, dear, or will do when the buggers finally finish. I don't see wife writing any cheques though.

All of which means I am skint again - or fucking skint, in official accountancy parlance. And thus, back on the treadmill from which I have barely alighted since our last summer holiday last year. And these are meant to be the golden years. Oh well, it's good to be back here, I suppose. And to those kind souls that contiued sending me emails even though I wasn't in a position to do anything about it - I will get to them now, I promise. Just as soon as I can get this old worn saddle off my back...

Forget everything I said, the ISP pixies have truly fucked me. I really don't have the time or the energy left to get into it here but suffice to say I am STILL without easy access to the internet - hence no blog entries these past couple of weeks. I have been told by someone with a very long white beard that all my troubles will be over in this respect later this week but then those bastards have been saying that for nearly three weeks now. If there's anybody left still interested, please try again on Thursday. If I'm not back by then for fuck's sake send out a search party...

All right, hold your horses. I still haven't sorted my rotten email system out, I've just managed to 'borrow' someone's laptop for five minutes. This is just to let anyone who's interested know that so-called normal service will be resumed... eventually. About seven more days say the pointy-headed evil elves that have put me in this position. Till then, hang tough, kiddos. Cos there are many more drab domestic tales still to tell, oh christ yes.

OK, here's the deal. My old isp doesn't want to help me anymore as I've cancelled my account and my new isp which promised me it would be connected within three weeks has actually taken five. So............ I will not be able to get on line except sporadically until I am properly connected again probably next Wednesday June 13. Can you do without your blog fix till then? Silly question. You can still write me emails though at mick@mickwall.com, but I wont be able to respond until next week sometime earliest.

Hang on in there cos I'm coming back...

All three sprogs now down ill. Feels like Hitler's last days in the bunker. Me and wife surrounded by the dread forces lined up against us, the silver bullet looking more and more like our best way out. Except of course... it isn't. Instead, we continue to fight, though we can barely remember what for anymore. In fact, it's become almost comical. When we're not falling apart with exhaustion we're falling over laughing. Feels like one and the same thing.

Meanwhile, out here in the on-line world, I'm trying to keep face by at least pretending to get some work done. Fielding calls, replying to emails, thinking hard about what needs to be done, prioritising and itemising and rationalising until I've almost fooled myself into thinking I'm getting stuff done. In the old days, it wouldn't have mattered as much. I'd have done all this then got some writing done at night. The very thought of which is enough these days to make me want to have a long lie down. Age? Yeah but not in the way you imagine when you don't have that concern. This is more like those old vampires in Anne Rice's Queen Of The Damned where they ain't dead, they're just so old they'd rather pretend to be dead than sit through that same old shit anymore. More and more, I am that bloodsucker...

Boy still ill, youngest daughter now ill too. Me and wife ready to drop. Consequently, done the merest I could to get by today and spent the rest of it listening to children moan and cry. Want to go to bed and hit the big sleep and it's not even tea time yet. A house full of joy. That said, for everybody out there reading this that doesn't have kids and sees this as one very good reason why not, you're wrong. You just don't know it. This is hell yes, but only one dark hell cloud hovering in a blue sky heaven. At least I'm alive, even if I feel like death.

Woke up dead. Which is normal for a Monday after the Planet Rock weekend before. Today was worse than usual though as the boy has a throat infection - croup? croop? - I don't know how to spell it but it means his air passage is inflamed and constricted and that it is serious. We've been here before with youngest daughter so know what to expect but that doesn't make it any less worrying. She ended up in hospital under observation - by me and wife, no doctors to be seen for miles, god bless the NHS. Anyway, after an all night vigil both wife and I now resemble zombies. Not new for grizzly bear me but a downer for the usually rose-fragrant wife.

Eventually stumbled into my office about midday only to run into a looong set of emails all detailing a number of horrendous problems I needed to address NOW. OR ELSE! Including such un-jolly items as news of tax demands, VAT assessments, obtaining MAC codes from my existing isp, the much loathed Virgin, and several other head-fucks.

Plus a completely bizarre one offering me what my old mum used to call "good money" to be the DJ at what the invite describes as a 'pre-wedding reception' for some rich bloke up north. In fairness, this one came through a couple of months ago but I didn't take it seriously, just told him the staggering amount of money I would need to even consider it and never expected to hear from him again. But the lunatic has not been put off in the slightest and despite my continuing to ignore the possibility, he now says he's mailed me a suitably fat cheque today along with my vouchers for my 'hotel suite', and that I am to be at the reception desk of a certain five-star establishment in Cheshire at a certain time this coming Monday evening. And the really weird part is, it looks like I'm going to be. Turns out he was a big fan as a teenager of the show I used to do on Sky TV back in the 80s - the Monsters Of Rock. And has 'followed' my 'career' ever since, up to and including reading this blog, which, he says, "I FUCKING LOVE!!"

I thought it was someone taking the piss, and it may prove to be exactly that. But if that cheque arrives tomorrow it looks like I'm on my way. I assume it's his stag night, which I admit frightens me somewhat, a conference room at some hotel full of beered-up blokes all demanding 2 Minutes To Midnight by Iron Maiden from me. But he says I'll only have to 'do an hour or so' then I'll be free to 'enjoy' myself. He mentions there will also be several 'vintage episodes' of my old show played on a large screen. Jesus Christ, what kind of woman would be marrying a (very rich) guy like that?

I wonder, though, if there will be any police women turning up midway through that then feel compelled to remove most of their clothes? I do hope not. Not that I've ever been to any stag parties like that, of course, it's just what I've heard. And to think, I only recently vowed I would stop doing anything just for the money? I know me, though. Once I get that hefty cheque in my trembling, sweaty hands, there'll be no turning back, god help me. "Who remembers this one from Judas Priest...?"

Hot sweaty day even before I got out of bed. Woken early by tribe of children on the early a.m. prowl. "OUT! DADDY IS SLEEPING!" It doesn't work. Just screams and giggles. Little bastards. I go to Plan B and rouse wife with fake sweet nothings. She is not fooled either. I get up grumpily and go down the stairs. I need tea and plenty of it.

Later I am playing chess with eldest daughter while rest of clan is out with mum shopping. I am at my most benevolent, allowing her to reconsider moves, showing her better ideas. Then I do something stupid and she swipes my queen without a second thought. Ten minutes later the game is over. She has won. Decide to sit together watching a video of last week's Doctor Who. This is better, the best episode I've seen yet of the new series, though I haven't seen many because of my new Saturday night residence at the Planet Rock studios. It's a two-parter and I decide to try and get to London early enough to catch part two tonight live.

Still in Cool Dad mode I cook us all a nice roast beef lunch. Youngest daughter plays up and I threaten her with death. She comes round. Not like her as even death threats don't usually work. Must be the awful heat. Speaking of which, after lunch I sit on the porch sweating buckets watching the children run riot in the Saharan-hot garden. Then suddenly it's now and time to jump in the car for the long ride to London. Thank god it's got air conditioning. It's still going to be a drag of a drive though. London on a hot Saturday night equals large amounts of pain in my arse, largely due to the fact that it can take over an hour just to get from Baker Street to Leicester Square. So many wankers in a hurry to get off their faces, so little patience left for all that inside my car. Way I look at it, if I'm straight, EVERYONE SHOULD BE STRAIGHT. Ross taught me that one.

Assuming I get there without running anyone over, find me from 9.00pm UK time tonight at www.planetrock.com

Finished the Velvet Revolver album review for Classic Rock and decided it's the real solid gold deal. That is, apart from the (presumably) jokey version of ELO's Can't Get It Out Of My Head. Not because it's an ELO tune, taste fascists, ELO were great and that was one of their classics, but because it just sounds like a car wreck - completely unnecessary filler on an album absolutely loaded with killer.

For fun, I played the Chinese Democracy CD straight afterwards, and yeah, it holds up, though it does sound incredibly ponderous by comparison. Axl so serious, VR so fun. Ultimately, the world is easily big enough for the both of them. If only Axl would let it be.

Read the 40th anniversary issue of Rolling Stone in bed last night. Great interview with Bob Dylan. The sort of thing I never dreamed possible for most of my adult life, Dylan being the absolute king of crap, obtuse interviews. Now suddenly here he is talking like the wise old man I'd always hoped he'd be. What a shame Axl isn't more of a Dylan fan, he might see the light and start pumping out one album a year, which would be so great and so obviously the answer to all his career problems. Just let it out, baby. It's only rock'n'roll, whether any of the critics like it-like it or not.

After I finish my next mortgage-paying rock biography, that's what I plan to do, start pumping out books at a rate of one or two a year. Fiction and semi-fiction, straight autobiography. Like Paranoid, for those of you that have read that. Or kinda like this blog, for those of you that haven't.

Right, off to play the VR album again now. It's just too much fun. And what with evil book lawyers, inland revenue nazis and credit card bounty hunters all on my dusty trail at the moment I'm ready to take my fun anywhere I can find it thankyouverymuch...