Star Blog

Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse... it doesn't. A beautiful day, actually. Got up and ran like a bastard on the treadmill (well, mainly walked but ran for longer than usual and didn't feel like my legs were going to drop off at the end). Showered then sat down to eat toast with boy on my knee, feeding him big buttery pieces. Girls were weirdly well-behaved, wife seemed reasonable sane. Cat purring. I checked but no, I wasn't dreaming.

Stuffed a chicken and threw it in the oven. Then things were getting out of hand with the TV (Highschool Fucking Musical up my arse 24/7 at the moment, even the boy loves it and sings along), so I made everybody come out for a walk through the local park. We were gone an hour. Two different cats tried to follow us home. (What is it with cats and us right now? Have we acquired the sign? The smell? What???)

Got home too late to save the chicken from overcooking and falling into hot pieces but that was OK too. Because I didn't have to rush to London to do an pre-records like the last few Sundays I hung around longer than usual and we all actually ate Sunday lunch together for the first in ages. Is it still lunch if you don't finish eating till 5.00pm? It was today.

Then drove on in. It was dark when I got there, the first time that's happened since before the summer. Made me realise how late it is in the year suddenly. Not my favourite time of year. I'm a summer baby. Good time for writing books, though, hunkered down in the dark, ignoring the phone and the door. Sure, enough, that's what I'm going to be doing for the next few months. More of which... later...

Did something good yesterday and went shopping in Oxford with wife and boy. Not for food this time, just... things. Stuff you don't know you want until you see it. Bought two shirts and some trousers. And a couple of plain white tees. And some school trousers for youngest daughter. And some other things I don't even remember buying, they just spilled out of the bag when we got home. Then wife took girls swimming after school and left me with boy and cat. I fell asleep in the armchair like the old fart I am and woke up with boy on one knee and cat on the other, the TV blaring out Dora The Explorer. Excellente!

Wife came home and I went to bed. At 5.30 in the afternoon. So what? Regained consciousness a couple of hours later and fell down the stairs again. Wife and children were being extremely understanding and well behaved. I made tea, tried to wake up, phoned Ross, who'd left messages while I was asleep, and sat back in the chair wondering what the fuck.

Came into the office to write this but got put off by some of the emails I've been getting. A great many demanding Ross and I do the Great Fuck Off Book. Nearly as many telling me to cheer up, what a great life I have etc etc. I agree with you all - about the book and the life. But nothing is that easy, reading it, writing it or living it. Maybe this blog makes it sound fun. But then, consider this: I leave out most of the REALLY shitty bits because I still need to work and if I didn't no-one would employ me.

Anyway, who the fuck wants to read a blog full of happy thoughts? I accidentally read one the other week written by a well-meaning friend in the so-called entertainment business and it was dull as dog shit. Thanking the fans, bigging up the bands, going gosh wow about every damn thing. Fuck all that. It will be 30 years ago exactly this coming week that I had my first ever review published (a live review of The Lurkers at the Red Cow in Hammersmith) in Sounds and one thing I can tell you from those 30 years is this: not one of your so-called heroes I've been so-called 'privileged' to have worked with is worth a flying toss to you when it actually matters. No more than the bloke at work really gives a shit about you, either.

I cringe when I hear people talking about what a "nice guy" some rock star is just because they were nice to them for the hour or so they had to deal with them. It's pathetic. And I'd rather moan about things here than be the kind of cunt that goes round telling other cunts what a "nice guy" some twat in a band is, was, will always be. It doesn't mean there aren't any or that I haven't met some. Not fucking many though. Fingers, one hand, geddit?

Shit, how did I get into that?

Gotta dash. Gotta drive to London for the show tonight.

Find me from 9.00pm UK time at www.planetrock.com

And if I sound miserable, well, maybe I have a reason to be... OK?

A day off. Official. Except for the half-dozen phone calls and dozen or so emails obviously. And this. But still. Went shopping with wife and baby son, bought £132 worth of stuff at the supermarket, including two bottles of very good red. Then took the new kitten to the vet's. Came out with a kitten inoculated against leukaemia (apparently very prevalent amongst cats, especially when they fight, which boys do) cat flu, and all the stuff he needs to keep him and the rest of them safe whenever we put him in the cattery. Plus worming pills, natch. And an appointment for three weeks time when we have to do a lot of other stuff too. (I wasn't really listening.)

Came home and between those few phone calls and emails got ready to take eldest daughter to karate. Did that then came home and hung around exhausted while the other two ran riot all over the house. Didn't care. Well, did, but didn't. Not enough to shout about it anyway. Much. Ran and walked fast on the running machine. For 40 minutes. Came off and spent the rest of the evening hobbling.

Then got in the car and went and picked daughter up again. Came home and uncorked the first bottle of red, then broke out the steaks and began hitting them with a mallet. I like cooking. Especially while drinking good red. Kids actually went to bed without world three breaking out, which made a fucking change. By the time the steaks were ready wife and I actually got to eat and stare at TV alone for once. Watched an episode from series two of Entourage. Seen it two or three times before but it still doesn't spoil the pleasure. A great programme for eating dinner in front of. Later we watched Billie Piper playing a call girl in Belle De Jour. Not sure if I liked it or not. Liked watching Billie Piper in stocking and suspenders obviously. But the rest... ah, who cared?

Tomorrow is bin day and they coming fucking early so after Belle we took the bins out. Wife kept talking about the cat. And talking and talking. Was still yacking about it - (we have the best kitten in the world, apparently) - when I came in here to write this. Now I'm going upstairs to see if I can find that copy of The Word I haven't read yet. Everyone I know hates The Word. I think it's the best monthly music mag in the world. So there. Things have been so low-key today (apart from when I tried talking to Ross about our great book idea, he is having troubles and wasn't in the mood) that I think I might actually sleep tonight. Famous last words...

Well, wife finally got her way and twisted my arm into buying her a kitten to replace the stray which still hasn't come back (we fear the worst). 10 weeks old and pretty as one white and tortoise-shell coloured little mush-cat can be. Already house trained (litter tray friendly) and eating solids (kitten solids anyway). We just needed to properly de-flea it, which we did with the usual pills and ointments. Wife also bathed it with baby kitty shampoo. You'd think she'd given birth to it herself. House full of cooing and sighing and so on and so forth. Kids LOVE it of course. And naturally it has become yet another excuse for me not to get any sleep. Last night (its second night as one of us) it actually slept wrapped around my head on the pillow. Woke up in a sweat, like I was wearing a furry hat.

Had to get up early today anyway as I was due in London to record the final two Jack Daniels shows for Planet Rock. Did them then jumped in a taxi and went for lunch with Chris Ingham, capo de capo (or however you write it) at Classic Rock. I was 40 minutes late and he didn't give a shit. My kind of guy. Sat there eating pork and mash and drinking Pinot Grigio. The timing was perfect. It was just the job after finally finishing the daily album shows. He told me about his days in the military. And I thought I had it hard at the same age doing my duty on the road with UFO and Thin Lizzy.

Turned out we both hate our fathers. Except mine's dead, thank God. And he just wishes his was. Turned out we had a lot of other things in common too. Which is weird as none of this stuff ever came out when I was editor at Classic Rock and he was editor at Metal Hammer, sharing an office, and seeing each every day. We finally finished 'lunch' at about 5.30p.m. We could have carried on for longer but today is actually my wedding anniversary so I thought it might be a good idea to get home before I started slurring my words.

Needn't have worried. Turned out wife has had a long day too, doing tea with the kids and some of their school friends (and of course the new cat). Although we both gave each other jewellery, we'd actually done that days ago. By the time the big day rolled round neither of us had found the time to get things like cards or flowers or whatever together. Ah, the joys of long-term relationships. I'm gonna go upstairs now and see if I can surprise her in bed. By actually getting some sleep for once...

Been getting a lot of emails suddenly from people, all urging me to do the book with Ross where we TELL ALL. Linda Asquith, Colin Irwin, Guilo Motto, Cynthia Hudson, Tim Batcup, Tim McMillan, David Wright, James Summerson, Kriss from Across The Pond, and Jonathon Kardasz, to be precise. Many of you also came up with some great suggestions for titles. My favourite so far, I think, is Heavy Metal FTW - which came from Jonathon Kardasz in Bristol who tells me the FTW acronym stands for Fuck The World and was used by bikers when he was young. Don't know what Ross would think (too scared to ask) but it appealed to me.

A lot of you have taken pity on me too, telling me to take a day off if I'm so tired. Yeah, yeah, I know. I intend to. Especially once the daily album show on Planet Rock is finished, which it will be this coming week. It's the nights though that really get me. No Sleep Till Never. Maybe that should be the title of my next book and it should be about what's happening now. That is kids, (missing) cats, wives, houses, bills, cars, food, toys, wine, tax and VAT cunts, and all the rest of the hot rocking items that make up my electrifying days.

Drove to London early again to get two more shows recorded before the live stuff. Didn't make it in time tonight though so sat there after the live show was finished doing it instead. Finally got away at about 1.30a.m. At least the roads were empty on the long drive home. When I got there wife had kindly left me a Sunday lunch in the microwave. I was just sitting down to eat it at about 3.00a.m. when she came downstairs and joined me. She couldn't sleep, she said. Jesus, it must be catching. Finished lunch and went to bed. It was gone four a.m.

As I lay there in the dark trying to sleep it suddenly dawned on me that today was the 21st anniversary of my mother's death. One of these days I'm gonna go and visit the crematorium where we said goodbye. I don't know why, it's not like her remains are there. I would just like to go one day. Maybe now would be a good time as it's near Kew Gardens and the Henry Moore sculptures are now on display, and I'd like to see them too. Should take wife and kids. It would be good for all of us. Lay there thinking how good it would be, not sleeping, when the alarm went off. It's a school day today (I mean, tomorrow, whatever...)

Got to London early so that I could record two more of the Jack Daniels Legendary Albums shows. In this case, Tommy by The Who and the first Van Halen album. About as different, in terms of turning them into hour-long programmes, as you can get - Tommy being so long you can't fit all the tracks in, Van Halen being so short you have to have really quite long links. An interesting exercise in radio technique. But a bit weird when you're also supposed to be getting ready to go on air with a live broadcast straight after. Got it all done with 15 minutes to go before the start of the live show. Sat there trying to get my head round the running order, what to say etc, while stuffing a cold once toasted ham and cheese sandwich into my mouth. Then spilt a full cup of coffee right by the studio door. Despite using several trees worth of tissue to wipe it up it still left the most horrendous stain. The show began almost immediately after...

Then wife rang me up halfway through to tell me how upset she was that our stray cat seems to have gone missing. We haven't seen it since yesterday, which is weird as it has been a guest here every night for the last three weeks. We think either it's been run over by a car (possible) or retrieved by its rightful owners, who must have been appalled to see someone had put a collar on it (probable). The shame was that the little capsule with our details inside had fallen off the collar the same day it went missing, so we don't actually have a clue what's happened. We had bought it a new one and now wife is very tearful every time she sees it, fearing the worst, one way or the other. Me, I'm too tired to care that much. I liked the little critter too but I'm just... too tired all round. I mean, I hope it comes back. But then I hope a lot of things come back. One day.

Got sent copies of High Voltage today, a Classic Rock special featuring mainly stories by me and pictures by Ross. The Bad Dream Team. I wasn't sure how it would all look, the past being another cunt and all that. But I was taken aback at how classy the whole thing looks - it even made me want to read it. Especially Ross's bits, of course. I read some of them out loud to my wife and even she laughed and she doesn't know or give two shits about any of the bands in there. It's made Ross and I talk about doing our own proper book collection again - less interviews with bands though and more tell-it-like-it-is stories. I think we're ready. I think you readers probably are too. You know deep down inside that your heroes are all wankers, right? Just like me and Ross know what wankers we have been and can still be too. Wouldn't you like to read about it? I mean, properly?

Actually, I have made a little start with a collection of brand new short stories called War Stories which Scott Rowley at Classic Rock encouraged me to do. I've given him five so far and he says he loves them. He says the only reason he hasn't started running them yet - he's talking about one a month - is that a new page would have to be designed and in his words it's "too much like fucking work."

I hope he gets to it soon. Whether he does or not though, I think Ross and I are going to do something ourselves. He wants to call it The Bread Don't Fit (Spinal tap reference, think about it). But I'd like something easier to get your head round straight away, like Never Forget: They Are All Cunts. Or, an old favourite, Heavy Fuckin' Metal. Somehow I can't see either being taken up gladly by a mainstream book publisher. Maybe you can think of a better title. Let me know, either here at mick@mickwall.com, or via my MySpace page, where you can leave comments or just leave blog messages (this blog gets reproduced there too.) Or you can just have a gander at all my beautiful friends. I know I do...

V.tired. And the reason being... actually, it's hard to pin it down. Repetition, day in day out, I think is the main cause. That and not getting enough sleep because of the boy wanting to get into our bed. He's very, very Daddy sick at the moment, can't get enough of me. Plus the stray cat has made a bed for itself on the bed too. That doesn't leave a lot of room for one stressed out old fart. Then about 3.00 a.m. the boy starts moaning for his bottle, then about 6.00 a.m. the cat wants to be let out. Then at 7.00 a.m. the alarm goes. Then some time after that, just when it's time for me to jump explode from the bed like hot lava from the mountain top, I finally feel the sleep coming in like a heavy tide.

Fuck it. I'm dying. I must be. Every day is starting to look the same. Every day is the same. Even the good ones start to blur when they all look the same, smell the same, sound it, feel it, are. Gotta have a day off. Maybe next week, when this legendary albums show is finally finished. I've really liked doing them. But we've been back from holiday about a month now and I haven't had a single proper day off. Sound like fun? It did to me too until I found myself asleep at the wheel one day, typing up... something, God knows what, just waiting for the sun to go down.

I read in my stars that this week was going to be one where patience and fortitude would be needed - that and the ability not to allow smaller, weaker people to get into your head and make it itch like lice. And it was all true. But you know what, I don't care, because there's nothing I can do about it except not allow myself to ever become that small. Which isn't easy but, hey, someone's gotta try. Like Ross. A big man in a world much too small. We are the ones that will die younger than the rest, maybe even poorer, financially, but at least we will have lived larger than most. Argued harder than most and fucked off more than most. And it will be a good thing because life would be so much... less... without the likes of us.

Meanwhile, back at the unruly mess I call my desk, I received a very illuminating email from Rebecca Simpson, which I am too embarrassed to reproduce word for word here, except to say she told me to for fuck's sake cheer up, then gave me lots of good reasons why. Thanks Rebecca, you are right of course. Your email made me squirm and glow at the same time, and only good friends can do that, which I now count you as one of, even though we've never... you know. Though I do reserve the right to be a thoroughly miserable prick when I feel the occasion demands it of me.

Also, Judith Williams, who wrote giving me excellent advice about what to call our stray cat should we decide to keep him/her (we're still not sure which). Again, thanks Judith, that did cheer me up. The fact that you are from LA also put a glow into my buttock cheeks. The thought that someone so far away should care about these things... well, it makes life almost worth writing about. It also inspired my wife to go out and buy the damn thing a collar with a little tinkly bell. (I assume it's for the cat.)

And finally, a word from our sponsors. I have been talking on the phone with another inspiring woman, Annie Beaver, who is editing the Digital Music Awards which for some reason I have been asked to appear on (filmed, that is, God forbid anyone should actually invite me). I don't know why this happened or who she is but I feel talking to her as though I've known her a long time. Perhaps a past life? The 1980s maybe? Women are so great like that, better looking than men and always - always - better to talk to. Maybe if I'm really good for what remains of my pitiful life I will come back as a woman. For I believe that that is God's reward to men that deserve rewarding: womanhood. Wouldn't that be cool? Then I really could do as so many of my most ardent followers suggest from time to time and go fuck myself...

5.00pm UK time for the Jack Daniels Legendary Album show - today Free - Fire And Water

9.00pm UK time for my live show

all at http://www.planetrock.com/

5.00pm UK time for the Jack Daniels Legendary Album show - today Def Leppard Hysteria
9.00pm UK time for my live show

all at www.planetrock.com

Day got off to a tedious start when I read the pathetic review of my Axl book in the new Classic Rock. Written by a so-called 'Axl expert', so of course no-one knows as much as he does. But then tossers like that always miss the point, which is this: the book isn't written for so-called 'Axl experts' (what kind of cunt would call himself that?), it's written for people who enjoy reading well-written books about subjects they don't feel they know everything about already. That's the problem with letting T-shirt-wearing fans review books by the grown-ups, they keep thinking it's about music. It's the same whenever there's a TV or radio documentary, too. There's always some grubby little twerp peeping out from under the hood of their anorak writing letters that begin, 'I think you'll find...' and using words like 'actually'. While the rest of us just go, hey, cool programme. What's for dinner?

Then the phone rang and it was Ross, which always cheers me up. He's the Godfather of Rock and no mistake. And very fond of calling a cunt a cunt. Which I admire tremendously. We talked again about doing the Ultimate FUCK THEM ALL Book only this time I really want to make it happen. I'm gonna talk to Robert my agent just as soon as I get the chance. See if he can rustle us up a disgustingly large advance for what would be the sort of book I could die happy after writing.

On another plain, some quick mentions before I go. Firstly to James Summerson, who sent me a very encouraging email yesterday, sensing my blues, but telling me how much he enjoyed certain lines from the last blog entry, which he called poetry. I don't know about that James. More like the babble of a man on the verge of a mental pipe-burst. Also, Rhys Parry who wrote advising me about the stray cat we seem to have adopted. I'm sorry I don't have time to quote you both here but your words were extremely welcome.

Oh, and Dr. Peter Makowski, who has kindly been furnishing me with Entourage DVDs and several other cinematic items of high repute lately. You are a very kind and generous man who should also write the Ultimate FUCK YOU ALL Book one day. In case you have forgotten, Peter was the Rock Star Writer of his generation without whom I certainly wouldn't be writing excellent books for sad little tossers to dribble their inconsequential chat-room thoughts over. I owe you, Doc. Big time...

Spoke to my old sister friend Maureen Rice today. That is, in the modern way - via email. So good to hear from her. Of the many acute things she had to say, one of them was that this blog has seemed a mite "distracted" lately. Very true. And in which case, my apologies to regular bloggites. It's not you, as they say, it's me. Things just keep running away from me. Mainly the days. The nights remain slower than ever, so slow I fear for my mental and physical health - one and the same, actually, I now realise. But the days go like rockets, up up and away before bursting into showers of sparks and dead particles. Gone and forgotten far too quickly. Sign of age? Oh, shove it. Sign of life, way I see it. Long life, short days, old nights, new pains, long lines, grey face up against the window. Sending emails. Writing blogs. Walking round the house wondering.

I hear Zep finally made the announcement. Everyone with their knickers in a twist. How entirely predictable. Wonder what the folk-country-new-world-old-age singer Robert Plant makes of it? Wonder if he's cringing already. He shouldn't. Why not reform? Look at the Who and the Stones. Look at Dylan. Why not? And Jimmy and Jonesy will give it their all, he must know that. So, hey, why not. It could actually be good. Not that I'm likely to be given any free tickets. Not like the old days. And especially not since word got out I'm supposed to be writing the Great Book about them. Unless Cookie's feeling brave, god bless her. Anyway, it's all over the radio and it's already a yawn. I hate such excitement. Turns everyone into a mental midget. And I hate that word 'yet'. Have you seen Harry Potter YET? Have you got tickets for the O2 YET? Have you sold your soul down the river for a hopeless view that costs too much and pays out too little of a certain dream you once had, oh, fucking years ago YET?

No, not yet. But I probably wouldn't take much persuading...

The cat, which has now been 'crashing' at our place for about 10 days - which cats will do if you keep feeding them, as I have tried explaining to my wife and children who don't seem able to hear me - slept on the bed last night while wife slept in the boy's bed as he was dreaming of monsters or something (what's wrong with that? I dream of them every night). You wouldn't think a skinny purr-machine could take up so much room or would be so hard to move once it had settled and dug its claws in but this thing was harder to shift than our old dog and she was a motherfucker for that sort of thing. Woke up with a pain in my left shoulder that felt like I'd dislocated it.

Had to rush to the doctor's early for my annual is-he-dead-yet blood test. Blood sugar, cholesterol, pulse, hardness of dick, all that sort of thing. I don't remember having to do this when I was living out my Amy Winehouse years but there you go. Just another one of the gurning ironies and sordid humiliations of growing older(er and older). Insurance companies won't touch me, drug dealers call me daddio and young girls think I'm 'nice'. What a terrible load of wank.

You wait, fuckers, your turns will come...

Bad accident on the M40 on the way in to London today. Fortunately, not to me but some other poor bastards going in the opposite direction. Ambulances on the scene, cop cars, helicopters. Traffic in both directions ground to a complete halt, people turning off their ignitions and getting out, walking around. Then I saw the bridge, which happened to be near the scene, full of people all craning their necks to get a sight of the blood and mangled bodies. What a way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Our side eventually broke free and we drove on, but the poor sods on the other side of the highway were backed-up for miles, their cars dead, everyone standing in the road wondering what the hell. Then as you drove further along and the other side thinned out you passed the cars all driving towards the jam, not knowing what they were in for. You wanted to tell them to turn back but there was no turning back. Just straight ahead to doom. Metaphor for life, I thought as I fiddled with the dial on the radio and came up with Johnnie Walker playing Otis Redding. That's better, I thought. Hope they clear up this mess before I have to drive home again tonight.

(They had.)

Drove to London early so that I could record two of the Legendary albums shows before getting ready for the regular Planet Rock show at nine. Listened to the Scotland game in the car, sounded good. Put me in the mood to watch the England game later. Except that was when I was in the studio. I used to enjoy watching football. Ever since I started doing the weekend Planet Rock shows though I haven't seen a game. And I never catch Monday night football either as that's karate night for wife and eldest daughter, leaving me to 'hang' with middle daughter and rock boy.

Live show went well last night, I thought. The clock dragged near the end though. I'd been in the studio solidly for seven hours by the end of it. Too long for anybody, even the biggest ego. The drive home was a nightmare too. I thought I'd lucked out at first, sloping out of Soho much faster than on a normal (awful) Saturday night. But something was bunging up the A40 and I had to detour. Long story slightly less tedious, by the time I'd swung round it and got back on the motorway it had added another 40 minutes to the journey. Got home just in time to pour myself a glass of red then fall asleep in the armchair before I'd had a chance to neck it...

Hard to keep the blog going this week things have been so hectic. The main thing that has been occupying my waking working hours is this daily Legendary album show on Planet Rock that we're doing throughout September. After driving myself and Liz the producer crazy with my first fractured attempts at it, I've now got the knack - sort of. Which means I can enjoy it at last, which I am doing when no-one's looking. It's just so time-consuming. You wouldn't think it takes so long to write one of these hour-long things but it takes me ages.

Anyway, it's all good, as they say on American TV, which means we all say it now, but then there's the other stuff. It was eldest dearest daughter's birthday this week - special lucky number Seven. Which was great. We had our friends Lyn and Tom and their kids Charlotte and Alex over in the evening, plus Nanna and Grandad earlier in the day. I even got back from London in time for some of the fun. Drank waaaaay too much red wine though and so the next day turned into a day off. Except I've got no time for a day off. Which just made Friday even more 'interesting'.

Anyway, it's all been a bit of a blur since then. In a good way, mostly. It's just that I'm too old for rollercoasters and I feel like I've been on one since the day we got back from holiday. Tomorrow same thing. I've got to leave early for London to record the next couple of Legendary albums shows, then grab a sandwich and get ready for the regular Saturday night show.

I know, I know, it's better than being unemployed and skint or washing dishes with a sharp stick poking out of both eyes, all of which I am far more familiar with than I want to remember. But still. What I could do with a couple of weeks on a desert island running around naked with a gang of grass-skirted girls to feed and water me...

Another day-off that wasn't. Was going to jump on the running machine first thing but made the foolish mistake of checking my BlackBerry first for messages. An hour later I was still sitting at my desk, sorting crap out. Eventually gave up on the idea of running, threw my smelly trainers in the corner and took a shower instead while wife fixed me a very nutritious bacon banjo instead.

Spent most of the rest of the day rewriting the Jack Daniels Legendary Album episode on Cream's Disraeli Gears for Planet Rock. I already did this once but when I came to record it in London last Friday I found the album was so short that I hadn't written nearly enough stuff to fill an hour. Fortunately, there are a lot of stories to tell about that album. Unfortunately, I had to do this on the one day of the week when I really do need some time off. Oh well, the wine will taste all the sweeter tonight when I dive into it. That's if I stay awake long enough. Was so knackered last night I crashed out with a full glass of red sitting on the table next to my chair, as though mocking me. Woke up and threw it down the sink. Well, the sun was coming up and my days of chucking booze down my neck at dawn are looooooooong over. Gonna see if I can make up for it tonight though.

Meanwhile the big news in this house is that we seem to have acquired a cat. A skinny young thing that just came running through the front door when we opened it one night last week, obviously lost and tremendously grateful for the tuna we laid down for it. White with sexy brown patches, and a very desirable talent for purring all over you and not using the inside of the house as a litter tray, we're gonna see if we can find its rightful home but if we can't or we do and they don't want it, that's it, we're gonna keep it. Well, it doesn't have a collar, so whoever's lost it wasn't doing their job right. And you know how it is with cats, sometimes people just bin 'em, poor blighters. Kids love it, of course. Like a walking talking purring teddy. All we need now is a name for it. Any suggestions? Right now it's called mush-cat. (As in moosh-cat for those of you with American accents.)

Planet Rock 5.00pm today UK time for the second in the Jack Daniel's Legendary Album series, as written and presented by your favourite blogger - today's album, Billion Dollar Babies by Alice Cooper.

Planet Rock 9.00pm today UK time for the regular Mick Wall show.

All at www.planetrock.com

Well, you gotta plug this shit, right?

Which reminds me: W.A.R. - W. Axl Rose: The Unauthorised Biography - everything you ever wanted to know about rock's greatest recluse, and fuck what his arse-crawling lawyers say.

No blog yesterday because I was back in London and didn't get home till really late. Spent the whole day re-doing the opening two links and repairing a couple of other, uh, misdirected moments, for the six programmes I've already recorded for the Planet Rock Legendary album series, which actually starts today at 5.00pm UK time - www.planetrock.com for those of you who don't own DAB radios or Satellite TVs or simply don't live in the UK. Episode one: the story of Led Zep IV.

Then I was supposed to record four more of the shows - only to discover that one of the albums, Disraeli Gears by Cream, is so short I still had 12 minutes to fill at the end of it. And there was I thinking those boys used to like to stretch out when they played. How was I to know most of the tracks of the damn album are two minutes or less long?

Anyway, it'll all be all right on the night. That's what I keep telling the worried-looking producers anyway. Meanwhile, aside from that, I also have my own show to do tonight, which kicks off at 9.00pm UK time, fight fans. Like you've got anything else to do with your Saturday nights...