Star Blog

Monday was the usual mental ghost town. Which was OK, actually, if you can embrace it. My way was to go to Waitrose in the afternoon with wife and boy while the girls were still at school, wandering around like we were free birds, grabbing the good red wine and those scrummy steak and ale pie things that come in porcelain pots. God knows what you're supposed to do with the pots when you've eaten the pies. We've got about 20 in the cupboard now, completely useless. Fuck-ing good pies, though.

So good, in fact, we decided to have an early dinner - 5.00pm. A new world record for us. Actually eating with the children, God help us. Chaotic but... nice for a change. Then I glugged a couple of glasses of red while wife bathed and bedded the girls, leaving the boy bouncing on my knee, watching The Simpsons on TV together. I was in bed by 10.00pm, reading The Damned United, brilliant, brilliant book by David Peace about Brian Clough's 44 days as manager of Leeds United in 1974. You either get it or not but for me it's like travelling back in time. Realised reading it that I actually know more about English football then than I do now. I can barely name the Manchester United first team these days. back then I could name the starting line-up for all 22 teams in the division.

Then today it was back back back to work. And how tedious that was. Was cheating today, not doing anything on the Zep book, and writing a long article for a German magazine instead on Bruce Springsteen. The story is coming out surprisingly well. But God was I bored out of my mind by about 3.00pm. Rang Jon Hotten and killed half an hour talking about Entourage instead. Was outraged to discover from Jon that I didn't have all of season three on DVD - bastards broadcast a season three (part two) in the US last April! Eight episodes I didn't know I could have had! Like being a junkie and discovering you only got half the gear you paid for. I'll be crawling the walls till the DVD I hurriedly ordered off Amazon.com arrives from the US. (Meanwhile, if you're reading this, Dr Peter, and you can 'get' me season four, I will gladly be your bitch.)

Now I'm off for a glass of the medicinal red. We ate early again this evening so I'm hoping for another early night with Brian Clough, if you know what I mean.

LIVE!! NAKED!!! (NO) GIRLS!!! JUST ME IN ME UNDIES!!!!

From 9.00pm UK time at www.planetrock.com

Live, baby! From 9.00pm UK time! At www.planetrock.com

One of those frustrating days where you try and get a piece of work that shouldn't take all day finished quickly which ends up taking all day. Partly because I keep sitting here staring out the window at the leaves falling to the ground, partly because the boy keeps bursting into my office and jumping onto my lap - something I love but which kills the time like no other distraction - and partly because I keep finding other just as important things to do like repeatedly checking the email, drinking coffee and holding my head in my hands dreaming of something... else.

Still, nearly got the shouldn't-take-too-long job done. That is, it'll definitely be finished in time for the big gig tomorrow - Tweenies live in Oxford. Oh yeah. Fuck the dinosaurs roaming the O2 arena in London, this is the Big One in the Wall household this month. Rock AND Roll, you know what I mean? Me and the boy and the three chicks. Should be quite a party afterwards too. Hope I don't get too wasted...

Went to London today for lunch with my new bank manager, Bob. A man who combines the good looks of the middle-aged Dean Martin with the charm of a Turkish prince and the manners of a foreign diplomat. All of which I mention here in no way to butter him up for that inevitable day when I will need the bank to come to my rescue but merely because he is such a truly lovely man. And he paid for lunch. Like I say, exquisite manners. And so well turned-out. Likes his music too, with broad tastes similar to my own. I'm off now to go and frame his business card, which if I do say so myself is spectacularly classy and attractive. Like Bob himself in fact. Indeed, with him now overseeing my occasionally - as we say in the trade - 'shaky' finances, I feel certain I will sleep well tonight. If only all bank managers were like Bob. But then, not everyone is as lucky as me.

Anyway, I better stop now. I'd hate to think he might read this one day and think I'm only saying these things because I'm a hopeless pillock who couldn't save a penny if his life depended on it, which unfortunately it does more and more as the years go by and the children keep multiplying. No, that wouldn't be right. I wouldn't want Bob to get the wrong impression. For I foresee a long and profitable relationship ahead of us. Like a glow in the dark that just keeps... growing.

Was woken up early this morning by the most disgusting of loud noises. No, not the girls, though they did have the High School Musical 2 DVD blaring out of their bedroom at an insane volume. Nor even the boy hitting me with a mineral water bottle. No, this was even worse: the sound of my own farts.

I'm sorry gentle reader if that image is an unsettling one. Imagine though what it did to me as I awoke to the sound of what felt like two-ton bombs being unleashed from between my legs. I swear, the duvet was hovering six feet above the bed and the windows were rattling. Fortunately for wife she had already abandoned ship so wasn't there to be caught by the thunderstorm. But I was.

It must have been that smoked salmon and scrambled egg sandwich I ate last night, I thought. Fucking Pret A Manger, trying to fucking kill me with their hand-crafted disease-ridden crap. I immediately took evasive action and made a leap for the en suite bathroom. Just in time. 10 minutes later all the contents of my stomach plus most of my small and large intestine had hurled themselves from my body. Along with my heart and lungs. That's what it felt like anyway. Pretty, it wasn't.

When wife came upstairs half an hour later to find me writhing in pain on the bed, she of course laughed, as wives tend to do when enjoying the spectacle of their men in dire need of medical assistance. Fortunately, she gave me a magic tablet designed for such occasions and a couple of hours later I was able to force down a restorative cup of tea and just a small plate of man-sized breakfast, thanks.

Good job I don't really work on Mondays. Not that I get let off other duties of course. Today that meant driving to Oxford to score hot tickets for the Tweenies live show at the Oxford New Theatre this coming Friday. Front row, dress circle, aisle seat, no rubbish. I had my orders.

The best part was it meant I could sneak off on my own to Waterstones for a mooch amongst the Christmas-coming best-sellers. As if on cue I got an email on my Blackberry from the New York publishers of the Axl book, asking for an author photograph, and letting me know the thing is actually being sent out to journalists, broadcasters and other arbiters of good taste in the US media this week.

Felt so pleased I immediately made for the 3 for 2 section and bought a handful of paperbacks: the latest instalment of Clive James's autobiography North Face Of Soho; David Peace's factional version of Brian Clough's short but cataclysmic time in charge of Leeds United in the 1970s called The Damned United; and Richard Ford's latest in his Sportswriter trilogy (sort of) The Lay Of The Land.

Of course, this is a foolhardy move at a time when I am just beginning to write my own new book, as I can't help but be influenced by anything I read that might be good. But fuck it, when half your arse has just fallen out and it's your only chance to have a wander around your favourite book shop ON YOUR OWN probably till next year some time, well, you know...

A typical Sunday in that my mind is a complete blank about what happened or what I've been up to. I know it was sunny and that I took my daughters to the shop to buy them some absolutely much-needed new dolls' prams. And that's about it. Somehow I managed to drive all the way to London with both eyes closed. Fortunately, they did open up long enough to do the Planet Rock show. Which was enjoyable. But now it's over I can't even remember that... much.

This is what happens when I don't get enough sleep at night. I sleepwalk through the days. Tomorrow it's back to the Zep book though, which I've finally got a handle on. It's just the telling of it. I'm secretly quite excited. Reading everything else that's ever been written about them it's remarkable - and very encouraging - how little anyone else seems to have really got what was going on there. Well, stand by, kidz, cos I'm gonna tell it this time. That's what I will be telling the long-suffering publisher anyway, who has kindly invited me out to lunch next week. In order to make sure I know there is a very big gun against my head and this time the fucking thing's loaded.

Meanwhile, I'm off to my car now for the usual fun drive home through the lunatics-on-the-grass...

Been MIA for a couple of days, blog-wise at least, due to the pressure of work, don't you know. Well, sort of. Thursday morning Trevor White, the Godfather of Planet Rock, drove out to the house for a visit. Sat around drinking coffee while listening to wife bringing him up to date on all the local goss, then we went to our favourite village pub for lunch. I'd love to tell you more about the pub because it really is the finest food-serving village pub in all of Green England. But you might start turning up yourselves and taking my favourite seats and table, and that would be that. So far, I've never once known it full in all the years I've been going there to hide, and I'd like to keep it that way, cheers.

We had the full monty, natch. Starter, main course, apple pie and ice cream for desert. That and a couple of pints of ye olde ale and I was ready to come home and spend the rest of the day catching flies in daddy's armchair. Fat chance. Within minutes of waving cheerily goodbye to Trev, who drove off remarkably steadily in his flash Merc, I was shoved into the back garden where my own hot rod was revved and waiting. That is, I found myself being pulled across the lawn by the motorised mower the gardener souped-up for us. Within seconds I could feel the ale and pie seeping out of me in converted sweat as the neighbours all looked on from their upstairs windows and sneered.

If that wasn't arduous enough, I then had to look after the two youngest Wall-ettes while wife and eldest off-cut went to their karate lesson. I took the responsibility seriously though and quickly found something good on the telly to plonk them down in front of while I fed them heavily buttered toast, the combo of which worked like whiskey on a priest and the two hours went by in something almost like a flash but not quite.

The only really bad part of the day came later that night when wife tried to show me her new karate move. "Throw a punch at me," she commanded. Oh, gawd, I thought. Not again. (She's always asking me to do this after her karate lesson.) Anyway, I did so, but thought I would surprise her - thus giving her a chance to really show off by blocking me and aiming a dig squarely to my solar plexus (something she is sickeningly good at) - by giving her a surprise right arm over the top as she moved in.

A great idea. Or would have been had she not missed it completely and taken the blow on the side of her jaw. OH SWEET BABY JESUS! Tears! Cries! Admonishments! "What the fuck did you do that for?" "But I barely touched you!" "Fuck off, you really hit me!" "No, no, I would never do that, darling..." "WIFE BEATER!" "For god's sake, don't shout, the neighbours will hear and think it's true..." "IT IS, YOU FUCKING HIT ME!" "You told me to!" "Not like that!" "But darling..." "I HATE YOU!!" And that was Thursday.

Then yesterday I spent the whole day on the phone again. Is this the start of a new trend, perhaps? Because that's twice this week I've been on the phone for hours on end. Which is twice more than that's happened in about five years. I did finally get some proper work done though when wife and kids all went off to an end-of-term school disco. It had a Halloween theme which meant eldest girl went as an orange pumpkin, youngest girl as a witch and the boy as a spider. Which is odd as that's how I tend to view them most of the time anyway.

I ended up feeling quite proud of myself, because not only did I get three really good hours of book work done but I also got to slurp red wine at the same time, as well as throw the makings of a bolognese into a huge pot and throw a match under it, thus taking care of work, human spirit and dinner all at the same time. That's medal-worthy in my book.

Now it's Saturday and I'm off to London in a minute for tonight's show. Join your wife-beating, wine-slurping, book-dodging host live from 9.00pm UK time at www.planetrock.com

Woke up at 4.00a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep. Boy woke up not long after so wife went and slept in his bed. I switched on the light and lay there reading. Finally, at around 6.00a.m. I felt I could sleep. Just in time for the rest of the kids to start waking up and making noise. Was so groggy by then it hardly made a dent, though, and I passed out until gone nine.

Got up, wore out my poor legs on the treadmill for 45 minutes, mostly uphill, showered, shaved, ate, and was about to tiptoe into my office when wife collared me about helping her buy a carpet shampoo cleaner thing from Argus. No biggie, I would work late is all. We went, got it, picked up a humongous cappuccino from the usual place, brought it on home. But as soon as I finally sat down in my office the phone started ringing. And ringing and ringing. It was like the 80s all over again - for an afternoon.

I did finally - finally - get some Zep book work done but it was just scraps compared to what I should have accomplished, a whole day in front of me. Now it's night time again and I'm back here hiding from the boy who refuses to go to sleep. Wife and I ate on the floor in front of the TV and he ran around like a headcase. Now he's on the couch with her and I'm staying put until the little bastard closes his eyes long enough to convince me it's safe to return.

Best part of the day: speaking to Robert my agent, who called me out of the blue and stayed on the phone for an hour and a half talking about stuff. This is the longest phone conversation we've ever had, I think. By the time I got off the phone I had agreed to do three more books, a TV script, a film idea, a bit of poetry on the side and... oh, yeah, leave the agency and run away with him to a much better new company he is starting. No problemo, I said. Cos I love Robert. He is absolutely the Nicest Man in the World - official. And possibly the maddest. But then who the fuck else would want to be my agent? His place in rock'n'roll heaven is assured, even if I have to sacrifice my own soul to guarantee it for him. Yes, he really is that good.

Now, if I can just get some sleep tonight...

I don't remember yesterday. Mondays are dead days to me. Still so tired from the weekend's late nights I just try to hang on till it's OK to have a glass of wine. Then fall asleep, drooling over myself in the armchair, before I've finished it.

Today was back to the bone. Began pleasantly though with a phone call from Ross, who has just returned from LA and was in a surprisingly good mood. I wanted to join in but for some reason I'm not feeling my usual heroic 100 per cent self. Bad guts, weird head. Pain in all the wrong places. Still tired? Maybe, but not from the weekend. From all the other weekends that stretch back to the 70s more like.

Been pecking away at the Zep book, of course. Still sifting through all the millions of tiny pieces of the jigsaw before I leave for my hotel hibernation. Just when I think I've got a shape figured out, though, something else turns up that leaves me sitting here staring into space for 10 minutes, knowing I've simply got to work it in somehow, but not knowing quite how. It'll come, I don't have any doubts. It's just this gun against my head marked DEADLINE that's the bummer. Same old, same old, for us old word-vets, obviously. But that don't make it come any easier.

Stop bothering God and come and listen to the Devil's disciple instead, live from 9.00pm UK time on www.planetrock.com

If you absolutely can't help yourself you can also email me live at the show on mick.wall@planetrock.com

Fuck the TV or going out enjoying yourself like you've got a life, find me live from 9.00pm UK time at www.planetrock.com

You can also email me at mick.wall@planetrock.com

Dreadfully uninspiring day. Started good then went straight downhill form there. Had my first foray outside all week by joining wife and son on a little trip to Waitrose, which was nice. Then bought fish and chips for lunch from very cool place in Wallingford, which was also surprisingly nice. Things went wrong after that though as I tried to get down to some work.

Kept misjudging situations all afternoon, via email, phone and in person, trying to be funny and just coming across as sad, trying to be reasonable when all reason seemed to desert me, trying to be doing things when I feel like doing nothing. End result: bad vibes all round, man. Wife pissed off, kids confused, me hiding in my office, struggling to get my head into gear. And tomorrow's Saturday, which means back to London. Hooray. Don't get an old git wrong, I love doing the show, I just hate being in the heart of London on a Saturday night. It just ain't me, babe, and I look forward to it like a condemned man to his last meal.

Still, could be worse. I remember the days when I used to spend Saturday nights washing dishes in a burger joint. Fucking long time ago in years, just like yesterday sometimes in my head though. Gonna stop now and see if I can still salvage something from this evening. As a wise old man in a Chinese Takeaway once said to me: peace is so hard to find, war so easy.

Well, here I am descending slowly on my hands and knees down the long dark tunnel that is the Zeppelin book and, so far, feeling fine. Anxiety attacks kept at bay by deep immersion into the research detail, of which I have what feels like several ton or more to wade through. Not looking down is the key. Or rather, not looking up. Sometimes, of course, you just can't help it. You yawn, stretch, look around your cell and feel the pain. Get up for the 100th time to go to the toilet just for something to do. Glance at the email to see whose sent messages (answer: no one). It's weird how the world seems to have largely left me alone since I started to get seriously stuck into this. A couple of phone calls a day, a small handful of mostly meaningless emails. Nothing to do but keep on keeping on.

Good. For now anyway. If I can keep this going another few days I'll be ready to bugger off to the hotel and start actually writing the thing properly. Looking forward to it and not looking forward to it. It's a horrible feeling having to fill those first few empty pages. Looking at what you've done and feeling it's nothing like you wanted it to be. Like a permanent Monday morning in a new job that goes on longer than a recurring nightmare.

Anyway, enough already. My day is done. I've been here nine hours and that's long enough. Off now to find the bottle of red and kiss it. Oh, and to those people (all women, so far) who have emailed in asking why so many of the Top 40 Friends on my MySpace page are scantily clad women... as opposed to what? Weird blokes with wispy beards standing there with guitars slung round their necks inviting you to listen to their demos? As Hemmingway once put it: "If I must be visited by new friends, let them be female, young and carrying a bottle of champagne..." Right on, Papa.

Not much of a blog for you today, I'm afraid, as the serious book work has begun and how do you describe that? It also rained like a bastard ALL day, which meant I only went out once, for the obligatory life-saving coffee. Having picked up on the fact that I go to London every Sat and Sun evening for work, the nice Spanish lady asked me what I did for a living. "Security?" she guessed. I couldn't bring myself to say, "I present a radio show, actually," as I would have felt like a knob. So I just said, "Journalist."

"Dentist?" she said, mishearing me. By now there was a queue of people behind me also waiting for the answer.

"No," I said. "Journalist," then stood there fanning my hands up and down on an invisible keyboard. She looked at me like I was either a retard or simply lying. Perhaps she is right and I am both.

Then I came back here and buried my head back in the 1960s, when the mighty Zep monster first began as a caterpillar. The rough outline of Chapter One is already longer than the actual book itself is meant to be. I think I could be here for some time...

The calm is eerie. Actually, I think it's me. Or rather, it's the running machine. First it took my old legs, now it's devoured my even older mind. The more I run, the less I have to say for myself. Which is how the rest of the world seems to like it. I just keep smiling, saying nothing, just feeling the pain in my pins, and people keep smiling back and filling in the blanks for me. Seriously. Have I stumbled onto the secret of a successful life? I don't know, but I'm going to keep with it as long as I can.

Even the long drive in to London for the show tonight didn't ruin my mind the way it usually does. Something bad is obviously on its way cos things are going too well. That is, the shit's flying around the way it always does, but it isn't actually sticking the way it normally does. You can tell what I mean by all this by the way I don't seem able - or particularly bothered about - trying to explain properly here.

It, like, just is, what it is, bro, sis, y'dig? Naw? Fuck it then. Maybe I'm just on the way out. God knows it's been coming for a long time.

Meanwhile, find what's left of me live from nine UK time tonight on www.planetrock.com

Straight, boring, dedicated to doing the right thing sort of day. Writing, shiting, fighting the bore-dum. Getting it down little by little. They come along like that sometimes. What can you do, though, other than do what you can. Funny how those straight lines seem to offer you up a little bump here and there, though, by way of reward. In my case, it was hearing that youngest daughter had excelled at dance class this morning. She's the best tiny dancer I've ever seen but she has the diva's temperament to go with it and doesn't always play along, y'dig? Then eldest daughter showed what she was made of and blew our heads off with her clarinet practise. This time last week she sounded like a cat being neutered. Today she sounded like a butterfly kiss.

Then leaving for London, when I stopped off to buy my usual GIGANTICFUCKINGCAPPUCINO the ladies behind the counter slipped me some free sandwiches and sweet pastries. They said it was because I'd turned up as they were closing and the stuff was only going in the bin otherwise but deep down I knew it was because they are both in love with me and my winning smile. God bless them both.

Even the drive in wasn't as shit as usual. My car radio is somewhat fucked after the roof ariel got bent in the car wash the other day but somehow it still didn't dent the day. Only London itself could do that and, sure enough, she has had a right good go so far. Cunts everywhere, fuckers flying off their faces even as I write. Everyone all in my way wherever I go. Fuck it all forever. I don't care. Not tonight anyway. For I am here to do my gig and I am going to do it come what fucking may. Oh yes...

Find me live from 9.00pm UK time on www.planetrock.com - or cry trying...

Been working on my next book - a biography of Led Zeppelin. This is something I actually began the research on a long while back, before the Axl book even, before time began it feels like at the moment. I've been interviewing people for it and doing enormous amounts of research for nearly two years now, in fact. That is, between all the other stuff. Now the time has come to try and nail all the zillions of pieces together. To paint the whole blood-spotted picture. It's a much bigger project than the Axl book, in that it's obviously not just about one man. It's also very much about the era Zeppelin sprung from, recreating the milieu of the 60s and 70s. Trying to see it for what it really was, as opposed to what juvenilia like Hammer Of The Gods tell you it was about.

Written at the height of the 70s-hating 1980s, HOTG was a hoot for what it was. Really boring and outmoded now, though. Hey, the band took drugs?!? Shagged groupies?!? JESUS! Who woulda thunk it? The starting point of this book will be OF COURSE they took drugs. What kind of fucking band would they have been in the late 60s, early 70s if they hadn't? OF COURSE they shagged groupies. Has there ever been a group in the history of the world that didn't?

This will be a book written from the back of the limo, on its way to the bottom of the pool, a coke spoon dangling rakishly from its neck, a syringe twanging from its eyeball, its hair down to its arse, all guns firing out the windows, cocks getting sucked, arses being licked, innocent bodies piling up, while some of the most gloriously vivid and timeless rock music of the century is being made - on the spot, as it is all going on. Now!!!

Sort of. Actually, like all books, it's going to be a journey for me. But I do feel like I know what it's meant to be, anyway. It's just a case of trying to deliver it. Like I say, I've been working on it behind the scenes for a while now. It's just a case of finally putting all the sticky-out pieces together. Which is why I'm fucking off to a hotel again for a few weeks. Probably. Just while I get the hardest part of the nut well and truly cracked. That's the cunning plan right now anyway. Wish me luck with that and I'll keep you posted on how it goes.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, no, it's got nothing to do with the O2 show, which I'm sick of hearing about already. This is about doing something that should have been done a long time ago. Writing the kind of Zeppelin book that puts them right up there with the Stones, The Who, Dylan and the Beatles, where they belong. Rather than writhing around with the mudsharks of heavy metal, which, actually, no, they didn't invent. Zeppelin was always about much more than that. Much, much more. Wait and see...

Sometimes, having been around so long, the body knows best and, if you're lucky, just takes over. That's my excuse anyway for the fact that, apart from the weekend shows at Planet Rock and a few no-way-to-avoid-them emails and calls, I haven't done shit work-wise this past week. Unable to sleep at night, I have taken to going to bed in the middle of the day. Being of sturdy working-class stock and in no way a shirker herself, wife is tolerant of this only up to a point, and I feel that point may have been reached today. She acknowledges the fact that I haven't had a day or night off since we got back from holiday in August (in itself a wretchedly exhausting affair). But she is starting to make those sorts of remarks you get when someone is getting just a leetle bit impatient with you. Stuff like: "It's all right for you, who've been in bed ALL FUCKING DAY!"

This is clearly unfair. Three hours in the middle of the day is not all day. Just the best part of it. I admit that when it also takes you another hour to shit, shave and shower, then come downstairs scratching your big hairy belly wondering what's to eat, it can probably get a little bit irritating for everyone else in the house who isn't you. But hey, what can I do? Gotta catch up on the lost dark hours somehow.

Anyway, feeling better now. So back to work. First thing tomorrow. Actually, probably the day after, now I come to look at my diary. Tomorrow I'm having lunch with Simon Porter, Status Quo's manager. Lunch with Simon usually lasts even longer than one of my day-time sleeps. And then there's the driving there and back. Before you know it, that'll be another day shot in the head and thrown in the pile of bleeding dead-day bodies. In truth, I can feel the anxiety building about the lack of book work but, again, having been there so many times over the long (long) years, even that isn't stopping me from indulging in the big mooch this week.

You wait and see, though. Now next week, that will be another story...

This day-off business is addictive. Did nothing yesterday, work-wise, and barely anymore today. Not that I've got off completely. There are always kids, cats, wives, insomnia, etc to foil me at every turn. I just don't seem able to get any... work... done. The weird calm before the godalmighty storm.

I'm off now to London, where I've been invited to the Digital Music Awards. They interviewed me for the ceremony, caught on-camera gassing away about life, the meaning of the digital universe and anything else I managed to think of. What it all means, though, remains to be seen. Will there be free drinks? Dancing girls? Executive admirers all lining up to meet me in person and offer me top-dollar jobs... yeah, well, not if any of my loooong previous experience is anything to go by.