Star Blog

Went wild and crazy with freedom and decided to extend my day off to (most of) today. Let rip doing heavy rock shit like clearing out the garage IN THE RAIN, then taking SEVEN SACKS OF SHIT full of old toys to the British Heart Foundation shop in the highstreet and getting TWISTED on pure squeezed orange juice. FUCK Scott Weiland, if I was in Velvet Revolver they'd be cowering under the beds they never sleep in. And you know why? The KIDS. That's right, I do it all for the fucking kids, man, and don't you EVER let me forget it...

A day off. Yay. Well, finally finished another chapter of the book yesterday - longest, hardest chapter so far, don't ask me why, but I always knew it would be - and so celebrated today by officially saying Sod It. Went swimming instead with wife. With the girls at school and the boy at pre-school, it meant we actually got a couple of hours on our own. We swam 18 lengths together - four more than we managed last week, so we're feeling smug as well as fit. Then afterwards drove to Cholsey to the Best Butcher's In Oxfordshire and bought a much too big piece of prime beef for dinner. Which I cooked to resounding cheers from one and all, including the cat.

I suspect this is all sounding rather too smug and dull, and I should bloody well hope so. I feel I'm owed a bit of smug and dull right now. Of course, it's back to work tomorrow, blank page one of the next chapter, which is mentally and emotionally about as far from smug and dull as I am able to travel. Right now, writing this though, I intend to make the most of it. I'm not begging you to care...

Was just on my way back to the cottage this morning when posty arrived with the new issue of Tight But Loose, the dedicated Led Zeppelin magazine that Dave Lewis has been doing for about 20 years now (longer probably). The problem with these sorts of ventures is that they are invariably light on criticism and heavy on applause. But that's the nature of the beast. Where they really score is on the wonderful detail. It's no surprise to me that John Paul Jones once said Dave knows more about Zep's story than he does.

The latest issue has Bonham on the cover, as it would have been Bonzo's 60th birthday this year. Good god! Or rather, Old God! There's also a nice piece on the people behind the scenes who put together the extraordinary back projections for the O2 show - one of the best things about the gig, I thought. Anyway, if you want to check it out, you can do so at http://www.tblweb.com/. If you're partial to a bit of Zep, definitely worth a gander.

Speaking of which... off now to try and write something of my own about The Great Saga. First, though, to the supermarket to load up on tea, coffee, juices, water... all that good stuff I need to keep me going on the book. Or as Johnny Cash once whispered to Bono, "Sure do miss the drugs..."

Worked out Tuesday, went swimming Wednesday, worked out today (Thursday)... I'd like to say I'm turning into a body fascist but I still have my huge gut and I appear to have now entirely lost the ability to sleep - or at least, not without instantly being plunged into movie-length nightmares. Last night was typical. Slept for approximately two and a half hours, in which I was with a gang of vaguely threatening people I didn't know but who I was involved with in jumping from world to world, not just simple alien worlds but this world - only different. Oh, and we could fly. Or rather, jump from scene to scene, a massive green sunlit field one moment, a dark tunnelled metroplis after dark the next, then back up into the sky (like jumping onto a couch) the next.

Found myself wide awake and sitting up straight on the edge of the bed looking at my Blackberry which said 4.23 a.m. Funny thing is, I don't feel mad. I don't even feel that tired. Well, I do, but no more than usual. What with the weather being so beautiful and all (I include the rain, I love the rain, especially when it's followed by intense sun - and then more rain) I even feel quite up in a summer's-coming-I-really-am-fucking-mental sort of way.

The Zeppelin book? Yeah, that's coming too. Feel quite good about it at the moment actually cos I've really been putting in the hours. I still won't be finished on time but if you put in the hours there's not much else you can do except fret about it and I did all my serious fretting on the other 20 books I wrote before this. Good old me. Mad old me. Old, old, old me...

People ask: haven't you finished that book yet? What's taking so long? They imagine me, no doubt, sitting there churning out pages all day long and can't understand why after all this time I don't have enough yet to write those magic words 'The End'.

If only... It's not just the research, interviewing, transcribing, editing, organising, reading (of other people's books and articles on the same subject), emailing, phoning, copying, scanning, talking about and just plain thinking. Often it's just down to the fact that you can't remember how to write. Some days I get up, work out, shower, eat, prim and prime myself so that by the time I get to the laptop I'm so ready to rock my fingers are already dancing, my head full of great thoughts on How To Proceed.

Then I sit there and turn the damn thing on and that's when it happens. Tiredness. Yawning, Inertia. Staring into space. Like the whole pain of existence descends suddenly, a blanket thrown over the budgie cage. And that's it, I'm off for a lie down. Or, worse, I struggle on, clock-watching, wondering when I will be able to excuse myself for a... cup of tea, coffee, glass of juice, wine, water... lunch, dinner, TV, piss, shit, shave, whatever. Anything and everything except the ability to actually place one word next to another, that makes any sort of sense.

This is why so many so-called creative types take drugs. Drugs are such a big help in these circumstances. That is, to begin with - say, the first ten years. After that, even they don't work. You find yourself stuck where you were ten years before, churning out the same stoned spiel. Good but...

Which leaves me here. 30 years in and still no idea how the fucking deed is actually done. People write in: I want to be a writer, what tips can you offer me. I write back: I don't know if there are any. Other than general madness and arrogance and misplaced ambition and a yearning not to leave the house for days and weeks and eventually years at a time. But if you do find any tips that don't involve drugs, pass them on. Please. Cos I got the monkey up my crack...

Made the fatal error of extending my supposedly fleeting visit home yesterday into an all night stay. Always a mistake. Instead of leaving first thing, a la The Great Plan, got suckered into domestic chores meaning I'm still here the following afternoon. None of this helped by the fact that the astrological charts must be up their own arse again as the whole world seems to have gone mad (again). Letter from the VAT people telling me my latest payment has not been made, asking me to call their Grand Inquisitor. This at the same time as latest bank statement arrives telling me self same VAT payment went through electronically as planned. Conclusion: FUCK THEM ALL!!

Also... a letter from my accountant asking for payment on an invoice he well knows is not mine to pay. Same accountant who was late sorting my VAT, meaning I had to pay the thing electronically through the bank, leading to that very special letter from the VAT cunts this morning. Same accountant who has been going to ring me back since before Easter. Same accountant I have known for 20 years, have sent dozens of clients to, is a very good mate... and is plainly having some sort of mid-life meltdown. All of which I can live with. But not this sodding invoice. Conclusion: FUCK'S SAKE, MATE!!

And then... a package arrives. It's a copy of the new Axl Rose paperback version of the book (updated UK edition). That is, ONE copy. Well, thanks a fuck of a lot. Conclusion... none. I can't be arsed anymore. I'd say Thank God It's Friday but I will be working again this weekend on the Book That Will Not End so no respite for wicked little old VAT-tickling moi. Conclusion. FUCK ME!!!

Someone, please...

The trouble with not doing a blog regularly is that so much goes on between times you never know where to start. Or rather, you can never summon up the enthusiasm to try and shoehorn everything in. Not that I've been doing anything particularly, just working on the damn book. But things still go on that you would write about if you were doing it day-by-day, instead of just once or twice a week like this. So instead, I'll answer a couple of emails.

Richard Young from Leicester wants me to know how much he - quote - "really fucking loved the Axl book, couldn't put it down" - unquote - and asks: "Do you think they'll ever release 'Chinese Democracy'?" If by "they" you mean Guns N' Roses, Richard, first off - there is no "they" just "him". And yes, probably he will release it. The real question is: will anyone care by then? Like many thousands of other around the world I already have a bootleg of dozens of the tracks. And it's really good, you know, yawn...

Jessica Bone from Phoenix writes: "Dear Mick, love the blog, why the big gaps, though?" Well, Jessica, if you love the blog so much you will know I am hidden away most of the time at the moment in a small cottage trying to finish the Led Zep book, and that I can't get online there. Or could if I knew how to use Wireless but that's another story. And anyway, after two solid years of blogging a little break isn't doing me any harm at all. Come the summer I should have the book finished, at which point I'm having the website completely overhauled. And then there will be blogs aplenty. Lucky you.

David Morein from Cardiff writes: "Hey Mick, I'm sick of hearing about your family and your health problems and your arse and whatever. Tell us some rock and roll stories, dude!" Fuck off, David.

Angie Lane from Melbourne writes: "Hey babe, keep doin' what you're doin'. We love ya!" Angie also sent me a pic of her sitting in a bathing suit on a beach somewhere. Looking hot. Anyone else wants to send me this sort of thing is greatly encouraged. Not that I'm some old perv or anything. Oh all right, whatever...

Got back yesterday from Delightful Dorset but still too tired to write anything meaningful about the trip. It was a better time than usual, I'll say that though, and it's nearly always good. Just somehow less stressful, even with the three kids going at it full-tilt from 6.00am every day. Bought a lot of stuff we probably don't need, as usual, too. A couple more big hand-carved Buddhas, and some deep books and other dream-catcher type stuff that smells of incense from Crystal Sense in Blandford (our favourite oasis of enlightenment, run by Dee, a woman with so much positive energy she could free Tibet on her own). And discovered a great beach called Lullworth Cove, which if I knew how to add pictures to this page I would let you have an awestruck look at (gonna get round to that later this year just as soon as Webmistress Julie is free and I'm financially flush again... maybe). And got stuck into Moth by James Sallis.

Back to reality now though and packing to leave for the tiny cottage on the hill up the road from here where I ABSOLUTELY FUCKING MUST get on with finishing the Zep book. Sort of sad. It was good to be back in the bosom of the mad family for a whole week, doing nice mad family things, even the shouty bits. Best not to think about it. Or as Ross always says not all that helpfully in times of crisis, Just Do It.

I suppose I better had then.

Last post for a few days. Going into deep hibernation, also known as a quick trip to the holiday cottage in Dorset with wife and squiddly-diddlys (and laptop). They say you should never mix business and pleasure but then they say a lot of things, don't they? Fuck 'em, that's what I say. Anyway, Big Davey and his even bigger dog (our house-sitters) insists he needs a break himself and you don't argue with Big Davey. I don't anyway. Just checked the weather forecast and they reckon it's going to be windy and rainy down there, possibly turning to snow. More good things to look forward to then...

Been obsessing over the cover of the Zep book. The publishers sent me something they liked which was OK. Especially if you're a hip book cover art director. But not necessarily the thing if the book happens to be about Led Zep, a group the aforementioned art person doesn't seem to know much about, judging by his or her 'creative choices'.

That's not to be unduly snide. It's a snazzy piece of work, just not really what I think would work best in this context. So... off with my writer's hat and on with the picture researcher bib and tucker. Meaning, I lost the whole day trying to find the right sort of photos from the zillion mags, newspapers, books and god knows what else I've gathered together in so many boxes over the past two and a half years of working on this, off and on. Then sitting here from late afternoon till late evening scanning the best of the bastards I could find and emailing them off

Now it's done I'm glad it's done, because there are some great shots out there. Whether any of them will actually end up making a better book cover we will have to wait and see. One thing I'll say about Orion though, they've got smarts, and they do listen to the author - unlike almost all the other book publishers I've ever worked with. If they don't get it right then no one would have. That's the life-raft I'm clinging to. And they've never let me down yet so, hey, maybe this will all work out fine in the end of the end. Whenever that is.

Now I'm off back to the cottage, lucky me. At least wife will be pleased to see me go. Done nothing but rowed today, and not sure why really. I blame the sudden change in weather. Well, it couldn't be me could it...