Star Blog

Well, we're on our way, God help us. The kids have been driving us mad since about 5.30 this morning and have promised not to stop until we come home again. Once upon a time wife and I would take books and lots of clothes on holiday and that was how we spent our time. Reading in the day and wandering around on or near the beach and small towns. Then in the evening dressed up looking for somewhere good to eat and drink. Maybe, later, we'd even make love.

Ancient history now. The children have made sure of that. Now we don't bother with books. Well, I still take one, for reading half a page of just before I pass into unconsciousness at the end of another very long day. And our clothes are anything that doesn't look too bad crumpled and covered in chocolate, sick, sweat, dribble and occasionally blood. As for sex, that's still on the menu just about but you better pray the chef's not off. Basically, we come back more exhausted from our so-called breaks than when we left.

The weird part is we actually like all this. Those poor unlucky souls without kids read stuff like this and congratulate themselves for never having fallen into the trap, as they see it. While the truth is they don't know what they're missing. Fuck books. Fuck food and drink in fancy restaurants. Yeah, it's good. But nothing beats the smiles on those little monkeys faces when I pick them up or tease them or just play with them. And the conversation - unbeatable. Life, the meaning of the universe and all the toys in it. And yes I can get you a Ribena. In a fucking minute...

Loooooong fucking day. Good though - mostly. Spent the first half of it sorting out my office before going away tomorrow, paying bills, making calls, et-boring-cetra. Sent copies of the Axl book to Matthew my bank manager and Damian my accountant, without whom... no kidding. Matthew told me he'd actually heard me on the radio at 3.00a.m. talking about the book on the BBC World Service. "I thought I was having a bad dream," he said. "I couldn't sleep so I turned on the radio and it was you - talking about Axl Rose and Chinese Democracy. You're starting to haunt me!" Only starting to...?

I was on the radio again at 4.00pm this afternoon, yacking on Radio 4 about Don Arden. I thought I sounded flat as a witch's tit actually but the producers assured me I was "marvellous." To complete the hat trick I'm taking part in a live discussion on Ireland's national RTE station on Monday - again about Don, though I've warned them I will be giving the Axl book a shameless plug along the way. Of course, I'm actually supposed to be on holiday next week but wife doesn't mind, she says, as they're letting me use a local BBC studio in Dorchester for the interview - while she goes shopping. I was actually going to interview Nikki Sixx about his Heroin Diaries later on that night from the phone in the cottage but the floods have apparently knocked out the phone lines down there. Jesus, I mean I really like the rain normally but even I am starting to get fed up with this. And what about poor Nikki, what will he do without me?

Which reminds me, blog users. Unless Farmer Giles lets me near his straw-made computer again - unlikely since he caught me ogling his buxom 21-year-old daughter (I wasn't really, I was just being nice, obviously) - after tomorrow there will be no more blog entries until I get back on-line on Aug 4. Never mind, I'm gonna miss you too. And the really sad part is I'm only half-joking...

Spent the morning hurriedly finishing off a big piece about Don Arden for the Mail On Sunday. As usual with the newspapers, I have no idea if and when they'll use it but they did seem in a big hurry to get it off me. Then, as chance would have it, no sooner had I sent it than a car from the BBC turned up to take me off to Oxford for an interview about Don for Radio Four's The Last Word, their weekly obituary programme which is broadcast tomorrow (Friday) at 4.30pm (I think) and again on Sunday at 8.30pm (I think). Classic Rock have also asked for a small piece about Don so I'm going to try and get that done too later tonight.

So much writing and talking about Don has brought back a flood of memories. Most of them good. Like the fact that he was always offering to "make a call" for me to "sort out" any "problems" I might have. I never took him up on his kind offer. But of course now he's gone I half-wish I had.

The other thing I've got to do before we go away and leave the house in the safe (and huge) hands of my mate Big Ken the ex-Policeman is sort out all the extracts from the Axl book ready to be recorded for the serialisation Planet Rock will be broadcasting in August. It's harder than I thought it would be. And with so many over the top tales in the book I hardly know where to start. But it's got to be done. Also, it's given me the perfect excuse to actually read the damn thing like a proper book, as opposed to as the author of the book. I'm rather enjoying it, in a ghoulish sort of way. Makes me realise how drab most so-called rock stars are today. Jeez, if we had more managers like gun-toting Don and more singers like fuck-you-fuck-me-fuck-everyone Axl the music biz might actually be a place I'd want to spend more time in.

And then again...

Began the day reading the obits in the papers for Don Arden. They all said the same predictable things... Al Capone of Pop... father of Sharon Osbourne... man who held Robert Stigwood out of the balcony window by his legs... etc. All true of course. But in no sense conveying any sense of what the guy was actually like.

Five years ago, I spent the best part of a year working with Don on his memoirs, finally published in 2004 as Mr Big. What was he like? Funny. That's always the first word that comes to mind. Fucking funny, in fact. I used to spend most of my time with him laughing my soft lardy arse off. Of course, he could be scary too. Tales of his friends in the Mafia, the times he put lit cigars out in people's heads, or waved guns in their faces. The times he simply punched the fuck out of someone. The many (many) others he would still like to, as he put it, "rip the fucking hearts out of with my bare fucking hands."

That was Don. And I loved him for it. Because in some sense we would all love to have lived our lives like that. Taking no shit from no cunt. Turning over their desks before setting fire to their buildings. Breaking their arms and legs when frankly they fucking deserved it.

Okay, I admit it, I wouldn't really like to have lived like that. I'm not that stoopid (anymore). And I'm far too intent now on pursuing the Zen in everything, if you know whaddamean. But in some sense I always came away from being with Don feeling awfully glad that someone had lived like that. And that I'd been lucky enough not just to meet them, or interview them, but to actually spend time with them. Quality time. Cos Don was like a magnet, larger than life. We'd go to the pub for lunch and by the time we left again everyone in there would be hanging on his every word - and laughing.

He was a born entertainer. And though I never saw him again once the book was finished (he was already very ill and spent the last few years in a private care home in LA paid for by Sharon) he's still on my Christmas card list - you know, the one in your head full of weird and golden names that you never actually send cards to, like the childhood and teenhood friends you never see anymore but still think of. I'm not quite sure how the ferocious old nutter got on there but there he is. God bless his mean old handmade silk socks...

The rain dominated everything today. Even though it wasn't as bad as yesterday it still made driving to and from London a nightmare. Every few minutes a new ambulance and/or fire engine and/or police car would come roaring up behind me, its blue lights whirring hysterically, sirens screaming. Every weekend there seems to be some new pain in the arse. A couple of weeks ago it was nutters trying to bomb and set fire to London and Glasgow. And if it's not acts of and/or on behalf of God, it's lunatics riding bicycles (not a Tour fan, no) or the Diana concert or fucking Live Earth or some other reason to fuck up the drive.

Fortunately, I don't have to worry about it this weekend as we're going down to the cottage in Dorset. It still seems a long way off right now though. And who knows what the flood situation is like there. Just to get away for five minutes though, that's what I want. Meanwhile, I'm off to Joe Allen's again on Tuesday for lunch with Robert my agent and Ingrid, the publisher of the Axl book. A little celebration - Ingrid's paying. How very civilised. Then I'm straight back here trying to sort out 10 extracts from the book to read on-air for Planet Rock. I think they're going to go out during the Nicky Horne show every night, starting in August - I think. If I can get them done in time.

Thank God the rain has let up for five minutes. At least it has here where I am in Oxfordshire. In fact, it's been sunny all day. Sorry, I don't mean to rub it in if you happen to be reading this under six feet of smelly brown water. I just thought I'd mention it.

Meanwhile, some people emailing me don't seem to have noticed anything weird happening outside their windows at all. The reason - they tell me with apparently straight faces - is that they have been totally engrossed in the big new book published this weekend. No, not the four-eyed wizard. The red-haired dictator! Yes, AXL!

The book has only been in the shops since Friday but already several of you seem to have devoured far too many pages of it. I was going to quote from some of the emails but they were all so complimentary I started to feel like a plonker. Then they started really mounting up and I even began to suspect a bit of piss-taking out there. But no, it seems a lot of you just can't get enough of it. Makes me think I might crack it open myself, just to see what all the fuss is about. It's been so long since I wrote it I honestly can't remember...

Well, we asked for it, didn't we? The rain, I mean. This time last year the poxy government had imposed a hosepipe ban on most of the country (including the desert-like plains where I live), moaning about how little water we had left while the water companies themselves posted record profits of billions. Now God or the Devil - much the same geezer in these instances - is having the last laugh, pissing down on us from on high. Even the M4 which I drove in to London on today was like a river. Now as I sit here getting ready for the Planet Rock show tonight wife phones to tell me the water outside our house is creeping up onto the pavement and heading towards our front doorstep. And still it rains even heavier than before.

Christ, I've had enough of this. It's times like this I wish I had put more effort into getting my American visa sorted for Ross. He's off to LA this weekend, and if I'd shaken my arse just a little bit harder I could have been going with him. Instead, I'm likely to be swimming through shit, figuratively and metaphorically. Life's full of little jokes like that, though, isn't it?

OK, gotta go. Show to do, panicky phone calls to field, crap to worry about etc. Find me biting my nails from 9.00pm UK time at http://www.planetrock.com

One of those arse-backwards days where you start out doing all the weird stuff you'd meant to leave till later and don't get round to the stuff that was so urgent until the day is nearly gone. Consequently, I now feel more behind with things than when I was writing the Axl book - which reminds me, it's actually published today in the UK. Yes, you can buy it right now from all good book shops (and a few not so good to, I imagine) as well as Amazon and all those sorts of places. Worth it, though? Well, you might say so but I couldn't possibly comment.

Meanwhile, when I drove back from the coffee bar today with my usual mountainous cappuccino spilling over the dashboard there were firemen putting up barricades to my street. Aye, aye, I thought, it looks like the crowds at my door hoping for a signed copy of Axl have gone a bit over the top. But no, actually, it was because of the rain. Which I should have mentioned earlier as it's been monsooning down like no tomorrow since the early hours of the morning. Never seen anything like it. Not even in America. Scary too, when you come home to find firemen erecting barriers to the road you live on because the floods have started.

And this, they were telling us just a couple of months ago, was destined to be the hottest summer on living record. Which just goes to show, no one knows anything - official. Now I have to go. I still haven't finished the bloody Dio feature for Classic Rock and it should have been in yesterday (or possibly the day before). And then there's the Nikki Sixx interview I'm supposed to be doing for Metal Hammer next week, the serialisation excerpts to sort out of the Axl book for Planet Rock which I'm also supposed to be doing next week (did I mention that yet? No? Well, hang on in there cos I will... eventually), the weekend shows to prepare for, a couple of other things I have sworn a blood oath not to repeat here and the small matter of the week away in Dorset I have promised to the family, which starts in seven days. Christ, I hope the rain holds off till then. Or somebody shoots me. Whatever comes first...

Burn out. Got up, looked after two out of three kids while wife took eldest to school, then did the decent thing and jumped up and down on the jump up and down machine, followed by my sit-ups and push-ups (I know, not something you'd want to visualise but so horribly real to me). Which left me feeling good for about an hour. Then found myself slumped over the laptop trying to write up an interview I did with Ronnie James Dio last week on the phone for this forthcoming Classic Rock metal special.

Ronnie is a classic interviewee. Way too much to say. But this is easily the best interview I've done with him in the 27 years we've known each other. But even that wasn't enough to keep both eyes open at the same time for very long. Nor even was the ENORMOUS FUCKING CAPPUCCINO I bought to help me through it either.

In the end I did the honourable thing and just gave up. Actually went back to bed when wife wasn't looking. And slept like a dead man for nearly three hours. God bless her for letting me. It's all those years I didn't sleep at all, I tell her. Thankfully, she knows I'm not even half-joking.

Got up in time to read more emails. I must say the quality has improved greatly lately. I do apologise for not doing more about it here - yet. It's coming though, trust me, along with plans to install some sort of forum so you can all send each other mental with your own messages of love and smart remarks.

Meantime, my exceedingly old pal Dr Peter kindly sent me Series 3 of Entourage on DVD. I don't think it's hit TV screens in the UK yet. Anyway, watched two episodes back to back tonight as I munched my Chinese takeaway and slurped the requisite amount of red, and already it's clear that it's the best yet. Not entirely happy with the fact that each episode always has a happy ending but very pleased with the rest of it. Yo Vince, keep it coming, bro. And as for Ari... hey, dude, I mean I like totally relate. Seriously. I got wood...

No blog yesterday because by the time I got back from London and actually got some work done it was gone midnight. Now I have to go back again this morning. Quick, quick, quick then, had an interesting lunch with Damian my accountant and James from the BBC about... well, this blog actually. And how we can make it a bit more all-singing, all-dancing. James is the one with the good ideas, Damian is the one with the money and I am the one tip-tapping this twaddle out.

If it turns out even half as good as James was saying it could be, we might all be in for a treat. And if not, well, it was a very good lunch at Jo Allen's, though there appears to be an alarming trend there at the moment in waiters as opposed to waitresses. The waiters all have stubble, long serious faces, soap star good looks and seem averse to flirting. Bring back the smooth-faced kind, I say, who aren't afraid to smile when they speak to you and wear skirts. You would have thought Covent Garden was full of pleasant young women like that. Not at Jo's at the moment though. Boo, hiss, etc...

MUCH LATER...
It's always the same. Because I knew I had to get up especially early this morning I couldn't sleep a wink last night. And then when I did all I did was dream about getting up early and heading off to London. That is, until approximately 10 minutes before I was actually meant to get up, when suddenly my body fell into a chasm-deep sleep. I fucking hate having to get up especially early and go to London (or anywhere).

Of course, I had this grand plan about working out before I left, in order to get me razor sharp for my meeting. Yeah, right. Instead, I crawled into the shower, nibbled on some toast, slurped some tea and fell into wife's car, who then drove me to the station as I sat next to her, a grumbling, broken man.

At least I got to the meeting on time. It was at a swish suite of rooms in Cavendish Square where all the head honchos of Planet Rock were meeting to discuss the website. That's two trips to London in two days, both times to discuss websites. This was no cosy lunch at Jo Allen's though. This was a full-on, round-table, all-day discussion with about half a dozen different people (including, bizarrely, me) giving 'presentations'.

It all seemed to go well, though. Except that by the time it ended six hours later I was so exhausted I fell asleep on the train home and nearly didn't notice it was a dud and that they would have to throw us off at Reading, where we were left to endure people having fist-fights on Platform 4 as they battled to be first onto the endless stream of amazingly late trains that (eventually) arrived to semi-rescue us. Conclusion: another so-called 40-minute journey that took longer than Laurence crossing Arabia on an effing camel (with one dry hump).

Well, I'm home now. Frankly, I fear for any bottles of red wine within grappling distance. I'm gonna sleep tonight. And that's no lie...

My solemn pledge to make Mondays my one day off a week was broken yet again. I really had no choice, though. Well, I did. I could have had the day off and sat about worrying about all the things I was supposed to do and not done, ignoring the phone calls and emails, or I could just fall into my office and try sorting things out. In the end, I drove to the coffee shop, bought a huge cappuccino, came home and set about the laptop and mobile.

Not that that was what I wanted to write about here today. What I actually intended to do was relay and comment on some of the amazing emails I've received lately. Including some very touching, funny and in some cases quite sad ones I've had about my sudden burst of hyperactivity last week. But it will all have to wait, I'm afraid. Time is not my friend right now. We're supposed to be going down to the cottage in Dorset for a few days in a couple of weeks and the clock is already ticking. So much to do in order just to run away and do nothing. Or rather, run away and pretend you're doing nothing. When you've got three kids and the oldest is only six, there is no such thing as either running away or doing nothing. Not even in sleepy Dorset.

Gonna hit the sack now. I have to go to London tomorrow - and again on Wednesday - and for that I need my rest. Considering I was born and lived in London most of my life, it's amazing how wearisome the rotten place is to me now. There are still parts I love. Soho (except for Saturday nights), Covent Garden (for the piazza and the passing girls - and Jo Allens), and bits of Primrose Hill and the furthest reaches of West London. But mostly I like that bit on the train coming home again when the world outside the window stops being grey and full of charmless buildings and turns green and (almost) empty. The irony is that in order to get there you need money and the only place I know where to get money from is London.

A different, much better sort of day. Got up in time to enjoy a roast dinner for breakfast - I was late rising and the lunch was early because we had to go to the girls' school fete this afternoon. Eldest daughter was appearing in an outdoor production of Grease and youngest girl and boy were in a hurry for balloons and ice-cream. Just the change of scene I needed. Of course, it rained a bit but then the local weather forecast had said we were in for the hottest day of the year so no surprise there then.

Wandered around and saw quite a few friends. It's amazing how many friends we've made since we had children. I lived in this country town for seven years before becoming a dad and apart from the bloke in the liquor store and the old feller in the Chinese takeaway, I knew practically nobody. Now I feel like I know half the town.

Well, one near-perfect performance of Grease later, several balloons, no ice-cream but many hot dogs and burgers and teddies and raffle tickets and fun dog shows and bouncy castles later, we went home again. If I'd then been allowed to lie in the garden and read the papers with a large pot of coffee next to me it would have been like one of Lou Reed's perfect days. Instead, I had to jump into the car and ride it down to London. Which wasn't too bad. Sundays are so much nicer than Saturdays in London. Almost human.

Almost...

After the crazy high... the crash. So predictable. Mind you, it wasn't helped by all three kids hitting us with the triple whammy in the night. Baby crying, eldest girl suffering from "bad dreams" and youngest girl wanting something called "a cuddle." None of which is too much to ask - except when it's three in the morning. Why is it always three in the bloody morning? And why does it last till six? Always.

Then driving into London today for the show... shit, I can't even be bothered to describe it here. Fucking nightmare. Still, the show got off to a good start - until the computer went mad and decided it was going to play the same Deep Purple track (Burn) for the entire show. Got a lovely voice mail from Trevor on the mobile about that cos obviously it was my fault. Though he did text later once it had been explained to him saying he forgave me. By then of course I'd thrown the metaphorical towel in. Can't even remember what was played on the rest of the show.

God help any small furry creatures lurking on the roads on my way home tonight. With the luck I'm having today they'll all be nothing but dark ugly stains by morning...

Suddenly out of nowhere a tremendous burst of energy. This despite still being an insomniac who spends most of the small hours lying there sweating thinking of things he should have stopped thinking about hours (sometimes years) ago.

It all began when I was woken by the mobile ringing. It was Chris, calling me from my accountant's office, to tell me about my latest bill. A grand's worth of national insurance I'm going to have to cough up "pretty soon actually" for my assistant Linda. Normally this would not be the start to the day likely to make me leap from the bed and straight into my office. But for some reason this was. By 9.00a.m. I had actually fired off about six Very Important Emails - and tidied my desk. I mean, fuck's sake, I hadn't even had a cup of tea yet.

From there I found myself bouncing up and down like the fucking maniac I had suddenly become on the stepper machine, hairy arms pumping like hairy pumping-type things. Before I knew it, I was showered and dressed and ranting on the moby to Trevor at Planet Rock, making all sorts of exciting plans for the future, including a serialisation of the Axl book on the station when it's finally out.

Then it was downstairs to make food for me and the kids and wife. Christ, I thought, I'm in a good mood. First time all year. What's happening, did wife put drugs in my morning cuppa? (I can dream...) Next thing I was in my office finishing off a 7,000-word article for a new German magazine on the upcoming 20th anniversary of Appetite For Destruction. The sort of thing I've been piddling around with and putting off for days, now suddenly all attainable - and all before lunchtime.

Did it, sent it, then raced down to the coffee shop in the MG for a LARGE FUCKING CAPPACINO IF YOU PLEASE! Raced home again and drank the bastard down while having a sustained crack at finishing off the first hour of a TV - possibly film, possibly who knows what - script I have been secretly working on for months now. Don't ask, it's a secret I said, didn't I?

Finished cranking that out, printed the bastard out, all 60 pages of it, then hopped out the door to mow the front lawn. I feel like a speed freak, I thought merrily, except without the speed. Perhaps I've died in the night and for some mental reason this is my idea of heaven. Or possibly hell. I was so fucking happy it was hard to tell. Anyway, mowed the lawn, then had a go at plucking out the giant killer weeds that have lined the driveway for, oh, months now. Just went at the cunts, on my hands and knees, the sweat dripping from my nose like a leaky tap.

Did all that then threw the lot into plastic bags and drove it up to the local dump - and dumped it. Thought about having a well-deserved glass of wine when I got home as it was now past 7.00pm. But for some reason when I got home I didn't fancy it. Instead I jumped in the shower for the second time today, then jumped out again and ran downstairs to make dinner for me and wife.

As we sat eating it I couldn't stop chatting to wife, who kept looking at me funny. Seems she was trying to watch TV and my constant happy chatter was, as she put it, "a pain in the arse, what's wrong with you?" At 10.00pm she gave up and went upstairs to bed to watch the repeat of Eastenders on BBC3 in peace. Which left me here tapping this out. So what's the deal? Have I gone mad? Is it some form of nervous breakdown, perhaps? A form of mania?

Fucked if I know. I'll probably be back to being a weary bag of shit tomorrow, dragging my aching bones down to London to whisper wearily into the microphone on the Planet Rock show. And then again, who knows? Perhaps this is what NORMAL PEOPLE feel like all the time. Perhaps someone can write in and let me know. You know how - mick@mickwall.com

Now I've really got to go. I want to put another load of washing in the machine before I hit the sack. No, really...

No blog yesterday because by the time I got back from London - three hours to get there on the train, almost the same coming back, this for what they bill as a 40-minute journey, ha-fucking-ha, and all because of something called signal failure, pull the other one, it's got stress-related thrombosis, thanks - I was so exhausted I only had the energy left to slump in a chair, my sweaty shirt and jeans consigned to the floor, quaffing a glass of red and watching Robson Green give a master class in TV acting in Wire In The Blood. That is to say, I was fucked. And all I did was go out to lunch. But then, that wasn't just any lunch.

The last time I saw Maureen Rice was about 10 years ago, at a very different sort of lunch in a very different sort of time and space, physically, emotionally, you name it. But so what? That's not what made our latest get-together so momentous, for me anyway. It's that she is, in a far more enriching and deeply significant sense than the real thing could possibly be, the big sister I never had. Like me, she's from a pig ignorant family of Irish renegades. Like me, she somehow survived all that, scars carefully concealed (or not so carefully, in my case). Like me, she became a writer and journalist, though a much more successful one, doing proper stuff for the Observer and so on. Unlike me, she's very wise and always has been. I don't believe her eyes have been near a single strand of wool since she was about six.

I can't tell you what this means to me. Except to say that, despite the years between, we always seem to just pick up the conversation wherever we left it as though it was just yesterday, although it never is. And we probably will until one of us pegs it. Which, let's be realistic, means Maureen will be the one without a lunch date one day.

Now I don't know if any of that explains anything to the outsider, but seeing her yesterday left me feeling utterly exhausted. Thrilled and ticklishly delighted but thoroughly knackered. Hence the lack of headspace for any blog-writing when I got home. What was nice, also, was being able to tell my wife all about it. I don't know if she really gets it, either, but it was great just to talk to someone about it. About seeing Maureen again. And about not really knowing what it all means but just being very glad it's there. To mull over. And write about here. And keep safe in my secret old heart, knackered as it is.

Too tired too late in the too long day to tell it all right now. In miniature then: both my girls had their schools sports days today. The little 'un won literally every single race she was in. EVERY SINGLE ONE. We are now entering her into the 2012 UK egg-and-spoon-race team. While the bigger one was one of the stars of the winning 'yellow' team at her sports day and got her picture taken with the rest of the team holding aloft a very impressive looking trophy.

Oh, and the boy managed to run off into some trees where two teenagers were smoking a joint - until they saw me coming. A true sign of age: when the very sight of you (admittedly scarpering after a toddler) coming lumbering through the trees is enough to poop the party for the young folk. Another sign: when you're genuinely pissed off at the little fuckers for SMOKING DRUGS anywhere near my PRECIOUS BABIES!!!

Going to lunch tomorrow with Maureen Rice, famous editor of Psychologies, the scary thinking woman's magazine. Really looking forward to it in a scary oh-my-god-where-did-the-years-go sort of a way. Also, because she's like my older sister and sees through me in a second. Less. Which means I better go to bed now, cos I'm gonna need the full eight hours in order to cope...

A day-off. Well, even God took the day off once a week. And in my case, it never turns out that way, anyway, as anyone with three small children will tell you. Today even more so as I had to do a phone interview with Geezer from Black Sabbath. I didn't mind though as I always enjoy yacking to Terry, as his wife and friends know him. Like me, he was brought up in a nutty Irish family where God and the Devil were regular visitors to the sitting room, especially after a few drinks. He's also very funny, once you coax him out of his shell.

As soon as it was over, though, I turned off all the phones and went for a lie down in the garden, which was actually sunny for once. Not that I got much peace, as the middle girl - Satanicus, as she is known to those of us that must love her - was home from pre-school and determined to do anything and everything she could think of to piss me off.

This is the first time I've been on-line all day, and judging by the bitter emails flying around out there I am not going to be here long. Why can't people be nice to each other? Or just polite? What does all this sarcasm achieve? So much sadness in this cunt-filled world. Thank god for children's early bedtimes and good red wine, that's what I say.

Absolutely hideous driving home through Soho last night. I was reading an extract the other day from a biography of the original policeman, Robert Peel, and how he objected to the night streets of London being left to 'drunken women and vagabonds'. Well, whatever his true legacy was, he certainly never made any impact on the night streets of London - drunken women and vagabonds everywhere as I tried to nose the car s-l-o-w-l-y through the shitty streets of Chinatown. I swear, it's like Dawn Of The Dead out there on a Saturday night. Except these zombies are even worse cos they're all drunk and off their faces - and you can't run these ones over with impunity the way you can movie-zombies.

Shame, cos it's the only thing that spoils the show for me on a Saturdays. I look forward to that drive home like I look forward to having my arse buggered by baboons. Anyway, I'm on my way back there now. Sundays aren't so bad, though. Soho is still a shitehole after dark, but it's a less crowded shitehole. The theory of relatively wins again.

Live Earth day. And...? See, back in the hateful 80s I had 10 years living with an environmental fundamentalist and as anyone who was ever kept prisoner by such miserable cultural terrorists will know, having something shoved down your throat 24/7 will eventually make you sick. I mean, hey, the Earth will survive with or without us. As for cheap travel around the world, I'm all for it. I think it's one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves. See the world before we all die. And anyway, it's really not our fault, people. None of it. Don't get me wrong, I want my children to live long and prosper. I just don't think they need an old hoor like Madonna preaching to them about it. They'll know what to do, trust me.

OK, rant over. On my way to London now for the Planet Rock show. Gonna rob a few bottle banks on my way...

Got a very kind and patient email from Debbie in America, explaining to me what MySpace is actually all about. So now, after nearly a year of asking everyone from my beloved brother, who actually set up the site but can barely be bothered to answer my emails or phone calls anymore, to you out there what it all actually means - someone finally explains it to me. I feel genuinely humbled too. I mean, clearly, most of the people wanting to be my 'friends' are lunatics. But then what's new? Rarely being of totally sound mind myself these past 40 years, I can relate, you know? Even to the goth chick from Norway who wants me to 'come into' her 'chamber'. I'm sure she's just a daddy's girl, deep down inside.

Speaking of which, had a very proud daddy-daughter moment last night when I went to see my eldest girl receiving her yellow belt for Karate. Considering she only started doing it a couple of months ago, she's well on the way to becoming a Master. Wife has started doing it too, as will younger girl and boy when they're old enough. Which I suppose means I will have to take it up sooner or later myself. Either that or get used to being pushed around in my own house. Or more used to it...

Spent the whole day doing little things - paying bills, sorting out emails, making phone calls, checking and rechecking stuff - hoping they would add up to a more meaningful big thing. They didn't. Finally gave in and went with wife and children to the dentist's where the girls had a double appointment with Dr. Nick. Lovely fella, best molar messer in town. Always time to chat as he administers the needle. Felt so good went mad and booked myself an appointment. "You'll only cancel it, I know you," said wife as we walked home. But this time she's wrong.

Got back and messed with my MySpace page. Still don't really know what it's for but I did notice I seem to have about 400 friends, including, bizarrely, about half a dozen people I actually know! So that's one more email hang-out I'm now going to have to deal with, along with the other dozen or so connected to the site and/or Planet Rock and/or Classic Rock and/or just me.

Best news of all today: Cookie and Maureen got back in touch, though only one is promising to have a meal with me now. Cookie still says she'd like to but has given up because either she or I always cancel. Maureen also gave me a hard time about cancelling but I begged her and so now we're actually - no, really - having lunch. Next week. At Jo Allan's. I think she might even be paying, being a rich famous editor these days. It's years since we last saw each other and I'm actually quite nervous. But as long as she doesn't beg me to run off with her, that should be fine.

I should say a quick Happy July 4th to all my American friends here too. I know what it means to all of you. Well, actually, no, I don't. But I'm sure it's important and hope you all have fun. In fact, I'm sitting here whistling the Star Spangled Banner in your honour as I write this. Well, actually, no, I'm not. But I do mean well. About half the time anyway, which isn't bad compared to most people I know.

One of those days which we writers periodically have to suffer and which annoy us greatly - that is, a whole day stuck behind a desk actually writing. Putting something together on Black Sabbath for a forthcoming Classic Rock special on... wait for it! ... heavy metal. Oh, yes. Feel like I've been sat here all day reinventing the wheel. Or rather, writing about how it goes, er, round and, er, round.

Could be worse, though. I could be sat here writing about Bad Charlotte or Dawn Patrol or whatever the fuck these so-called 'new' rock bands are called. What fun that must be, writing about a bunch of middleclass young poofs all copying their lyrics and writing their riffs straight out of the rule book. I bet even their drug-taking is dull. Let's face it, it's all been done to death a very, very long time ago. At least I get to write about the days when it all seemed to mean... something. And before everyone felt the need to dress like a comic book alien from the crap lagoon.

Spoke to Ross earlier, fresh from his latest sojourn with Metallica. Made me feel nostalgic for the days when we all rode the range together. One of the last times I ever saw Lars was in LA in the early 90s, and he was tucking me up in bed after a long night on the gottle of gear. I bumped into him a couple of years later when they did Milton Keynes but my head was in pieces by then and I had forgotten how to speak in English. Then the next time we chatted it was the mid-90s and he had a fountain in his backyard bigger than my house. I was never any good at staying in touch with rock stars. The bigger they got, the more uncomfortable I became.

I wouldn't mind seeing him again now that I've grown up, though. I spoke to Kirk on the phone a couple of years ago for a piece I wrote for Guitar World in America about the 20th anniversary of Master Of Puppets. It made me realise how little I actually discussed music with those guys back when I knew them. Too busy chasing skirt, snorting krel and drinking till we dropped. That's all I was looking for from a story back then. It never occurred to me there might be more to write about than that. No wonder I was always so bored...

A so-called day off, meaning I had the all-clear to stumble out of bed somewhat later than the crack of dawn. Still had to sort stuff out, though, for Classic Rock. Then drove to the optician for an overdue and very long eye-check. Read the board, is it clearer with this lens up your arse or this one, and so forth. Then they blew air into both eyes, made me do a test on a spot-the-flashing-dot machine, then put drops in to dilate and freeze my pupils before blinding me with photographs of both eyeballs. Came out looking like the bloke in Cradle Of Filth, big black saucers where my beautiful blues used to be.

Got home half-blind, couldn't even look at the computer screen so went outside instead and mowed the front lawn. Just before the monsoon started in May wife put some special stuff on it to try and bring it back to life. What with all the rain we've had since then, it now looks like a fucking magical green forest. Filled six bin liners collecting all the mown wet grass, sweat pouring off me. Also got to do that thing I really love and chat to all four surrounding neighbours. Actually, most of them are really nice, especially the women. I just always feel a freak talking to them. Like they do real proper jobs and bought their houses with real proper money and I just sort of found mine in a paper bag on the backseat of the bus on the way home from the pub one night. Sort of. You know?

By the way, thanks to all of you who sent me happy birthday emails. It was very sweet and unexpected. Except it wasn't my birthday this weekend - it was last weekend. Apparently, my brother entered the wrong dates on my stupid MySpace site. Perhaps that's why neither he nor any other member of my family living or dead actually bothered to send me a card (or even an email). I don't mean wife and kids, they all made a huge effort, bless em. Just the so-called brothers and spinster aunt. Such nice thoughtful people. I must remember them in my will.

Mad driving into London last night. Police vans whizzing by firing off their sirens. Made you think it wasn't just Glasgow where something crazy had happened. I kept waiting for the explosion. Seriously. It was not the night to be trying to drive into the centre of Soho. By the time I got to the Planet Rock studio I couldn't get my head straight. Consequently, I didn't really feel I got the dog by the balls, show-wise. But then, I'd been half expecting that because last week's Saturday show went really well - I thought. And whenever I feel that the one after seems to fall strangely flat. Oh well. Just play us a good tune, never mind the personal crack-ups.

Just about to leave for the drive back for tonight's show. At least the rain has stopped. Caught Quo on the radio doing Rockin' All Over The World at the Diana concert. Sounded good, actually. Pity, though, about their pre-show interview with Chris Evans. Francis and Rick should drop the comedy double-act thing. It's just not funny and Francis ends up coming across as a knob. Evans: "So, 40 years in, will you be nervous going on stage today?" Francis: "No." Followed by an embarrassed gap. Followed by Evans gurgling: "Brilliant!" What Francis should have said was: "No, not nervous. But it is going to be exciting. We're really looking forward to it." No laughs in that but no cringes either. And at least listeners would have got the feeling he actually gave a fuck about being there, which is important whatever he really feels about it. Otherwise, why bother?

It's so easy to know what other people should do, though, isn't it? So much harder when you're the one with the microphone stuck up your arse. As I am about to prove yet again tonight...