Star Blog

Sorry kidz, no more blogging for a few days as this week is The Week It Must All End. Well, before the editing, lawyers, and the rest of the awful oar-sticking-in that always goes on after a book is finally - finally - delivered. So-called normal service will resume just as soon as I'm able to open the lid on my basket again... OK?

Found myself, for various reasons, going through a pile of old mags and papers from the late 60s, early-70s this morning. It might be nostalgia, though I doubt it, but what a better world it was back then for the music press. These days the only mags that do really well are the ones devoted to banging on about how great the bands from those days were. At the time, though, most critics worth a damn spent most of their time telling us what a load of rusty tin pots these so-called wondrous idols really were. Zeppelin? Not even as good as Cream or the Who, apparently. The Who? Nowhere near as good as the Stones and Hendrix, it says here. Jagger and Jimi? Not fit to wipe Lennon and McCartney's loveable backsides, obviously. While everyone knew that neither of those two came close to matching Bob Dylan for lyrics that, like, really meant something, man.

Now whether you agree with any of this or not it's still more refreshing to read stuff like this than the arse-licking gobshite you get now. Hence the dreadful fawning over the Zeppelin O2 show last year from people that wouldn't have been seen dead listening to Houses Of The Holy when it first came out (and have probably still not heard of it now) or the disgusting drooling over the very nice but not that good Paul Weller album currently by people that, again, would be extremely hard pushed to name even one of his previous solo albums, let alone which of them was actually worth more than a desultory ten-pint fuck.

I also like looking at the adverts for the new 'cutting edge' TEAC tape-recorders, the interviews with various gurus, Meher Baba my arse, Pete, what the fuck were you on? (No, wait, I remember now...), and of course the endless references to politics, drugs, and sex which back then went hand-in-hand with most Important Interviews. Pre-Heat days, you might call them. Or pre-Internet, pre-MTV, pre-mobile phones, pre-now, in other words. And no, not such a great place to live always. I certainly don't miss the lack of showers, central heating and TV channels. But if you want to read some real rock journalism as opposed to the illiterate, cowardly cocksucking that goes on now as yet another load of old tosh from the past is eulogised and resold on box-set and DVD, then Rolling Stone, Melody Maker, NME, Street Life, Trouser Press, Creem and - going right back - Friends and International Times were absolutely the places to do it. Why doesn't someone start a mag like that now? It doesn't have to be so earnest. It could just be... you know... honest.

Hey, did I mention I turned 50 this week...?

The old jazzers - the generation I dig, Miles, Coltrane, Ornette, those guys - always said you couldn't even begin to think about improvising like a pro until you knew how to play the damn instrument really properly first. In other words, you can't expect to run really fast before you know how to walk tall first. It's the same with writing. Or it is for me. Lately, after more than 30 years, 20 odd books, the devil only knows how many millions of words in magazine and newspaper articles, and then just the shit you do to amuse yourself here and there down the increasingly rocky road - unpublished poems, short stories, even those five chapters of the novel you never finished (yet), or just ideas to your agent you spent weeks and months on but he never got back to you about - I have learned to improvise. For example, been doing it all day today. Not writing, but flying. Fingers moving so fast they're just a blur. Like Charlie Parker in a hurry - and for those of you unlucky enough not to know, Charlie was FUCKING quick. Me, too, now. Maybe even faster. Course, it means a lot of red ribbon will need to be cut before I can send the whole cake off. But that's all right. The important thing at this worryingly late and weird stage of the funny old game is to get the fucking cake done first.

Meanwhile... I've caught my daughter's chicken pox. Never had it before, thought I'd wait till I was 50 and just days away from trying to finish the most important book of my career first. Improvising, see? Like the doctor that prescribed the anti-virals which are keeping the worst of it at bay. "We only give these to cancer or AIDS patients, usually," she said. I didn't know whether to be pleased or not that she gave them to me too but they do seem to be helping.

Now... I've gotta go. Got a long solo coming up and I don't wanna think about it too hard first...

In case you've missed the international TV news bulletins, it is my 50th birthday today. Naturally, the phone, email and front door have not stopped going all day as gifts, cards and messages of goodwill arrive from all over the world.

Axl Rose: Happy Birthday old friend. Love ya!

Jimmy Page: GOOD LUCK WITH THE BOOK!

Ozzy and Sharon: Happy Fucking Birthday You Old Cunt!

The Queen: My husband and I congratulate you on reaching this great age...

Actually, I binned that last one. But it was nice of so many others to message in. And then there were my three brothers and spinster aunt. They all sent their usual birthday surprises. Well, not so much surprises, actually, as they always send the same thing to me as they send my children on their birthdays: fuck all. All that is, except for my youngest brother Danny, who is a prince and NEVER forgets his nieces and nephew, bless him, though sadly even he seems to have forgotten his big bros big number.

Never mind. I'm used to it. And check out this one from Jon Bon Jovi: "I never usually acknowledge anyone from my big haired past but hey, like, you know, country music is great, isn't it?"

Yes, it is Jon. Not that you'd know.

Also, REAL THANKS for those MySpace friends - realer than reality - who really did send greetings. You are all mad, virtual, and often undressed, and I thank you all.

Just sitting here now waiting for my very good friend Ross to call. He won't forget me, I'm sure...

Long weird day. Didn't work at all last night, even though I was supposd to. Wife made the fatal error of being kind and leaving me to eat my dinner alone and in peace while watching the football - the first game I've actually seen of the Euro 08 comp - Croatia vs. Turkey. But it was so boring and I was so tired I fell asleep. And didn't wake for another thousand years. Or three hours, to be more precise. At which point the towel was well and truly thrown in and I went to bed.

So today... big work, no messin' allowed. All that. Wife even took kiddliewinks round to nanna and grandad's to get out of my way. And it worked. Been here for nearly eight hours straight now (one sandwich and various drink and toilet breaks aside) and though the brain has well and truly gone now another chapter IS DONE. That's got to be worth a life, hasn't it?

Got an email in the middle of it all from Nigel who owns the cottage telling me the place is empty again and would I like to come back? The only reason I left was they had a prior booking starting in June which was supposed to have lasted a year. But now things have... changed. Oh Nige, if only I'd know a month ago. As it is it's too late to turn back now. I'm stuck here like quicksand, praying for a lifeline but expecting only a mouthful of sand.

Finally ran out of steam today. Just couldn't manage to get in through the office out door, if you get me. Was up by 8.00am and back in bed by 11.00am. Not sleeping just dreaming. Dragged my body back out of the sack a couple of hours later, ate something, then sat there staring at the wall. Not unhappy, just blank. And aching. How does it work that sitting at a laptop for long (long) periods can make you ache from head to toe?

Anyway, back in here now. Just in time for the return of the kids from school. It's all right, I'm used to that again. Not used to having to try so hard to do the simplest thing though. One good sitting today and I'll have another chapter done. One good sitting a day for the next three and I'll have another, and so on. All the leg work on the final chapters is done, dots on the page, just need to join them together. But now my own legs have gone. "Have a day off," says wife but there aren't any days to have off left. I've said it before, but this is where the drugs used to come in handy. Fucking handy, actually. Not that I'd ever go back. That would be like drinking from a baby's bottle again. Not a good image to project for a so-called grown man.

So. Kettle on then, I suppose...

Have now officially and unofficially Cancelled Everything until the book is done, or as done as any book is until the editors/lawyers/sales-wizards have had their evil ways with it. Living in permanent midnight. Even worked right through bathtime for the kids last night which if you have small kids you will know is like working right through the London blitz in world war two, or perhaps an Iron Maiden concert circa 1985. It's my 50th birthday on Monday but not even that matters anymore. Not to me anyway and never mind all that significant landmark bullshit, if wife goes insane and tries to throw a secret party for me or anything uncalled for like that there will be blood on the bedroom floor, trust me. Now I have to go. Or rather, not to go, just stay here, doing You Know What. Don't try and follow me...

These late nights have meant I'm listening to a lot of music again. I mean, there's always music on somewhere round here usually but it's only when I'm on my own sweating at the desk that it starts to really seep into what's left of my so-called soul. Between 11.00pm and 1.00am most nights that means Late Junction on Radio 3. I wish more stations would do shows like this - weird, slow, slower, slower still, late-nite shadows full of stuff you've never heard before but just sounds right at that time of night. Years ago Radio 1 did a chill-out zone at about 4.00am every Saturday night/Sunday morning, fronted by Weird Annie Nightingale, which was also good but who the fuck needs it at that time? 11.00pm to 1.00am, puuurrrfect...

The day time is different obviously. Lately I've found myself back at good old Planet Rock. Now they've pulled the rabbit out of the hat and saved the day by finding a sweet Sugar Daddy to help keep them afloat they've been absolutely steaming. Or maybe it's my imagination but the energy coming off there is fair crackling right now. The world really wouldn't be as round without them now.

Early evening is more about my own CD collection. On my desk right now that means the first Crosby Stills & Nash album - gotta love 'Guinnevere', man, like 'Jar Of Flies'-era Alice In Chains but better sung, and played, and written and... dug. Looking down to my right I also see Miles Davis' 'Sketches Of Spain' (so far out he really didn't come back), Zeppelin's 'Presence' (the best worst album they ever did, stunning in a gun in the mouth sort of way), the first Spirit album, Joni's 'Blue' and the Flying Burrito Bros 'Gilded Palace Of Sin' and... lots of other shit. The main thing is mood music right now. I need the mood - and the vibe and the luck and the right kind of air in the room - to be with me as I rush to finish the Mighty Zep on time.

Jimmy Page whiplashed the band through 'Prescence' in three weeks, once they'd written the songs. That's what I hang on to as I try and finish this bastard before my birthday, which is this coming Monday. I won't make that deadline but I'm gonna try and make this all end later that week. And all without the benefit of drugs or any other vital stimulus besides coffee, juice, red wine, noisy kids and the occasional grope from the wife. Get me, the old fuck with the future all up his arse. He thinks...

Father's Day. Woke up in my son's bed wondering why, then groggily remembered. He'd been asleep in my bed with his mum when I'd finally staggered up the stairs at about 2.00a.m. All part of my night owl shift trying to finish the Zep book. If it means sleeping on your saddlebag, so be it, I don't care. A man's gotta do, blah-de-bleeding-blah. Came down stairs to some cool homemade Best Daddy In The World cards from the kids and one expensive shop-bought one from their mum. Sweet as.

Then as I was trying not to spill my tea it started. The fights and arguments and mental torture of a normal Sunday morning here at Wall Castle. I used to think having girls was better than boys cos the boy has destroyed half the house and what he hasn't destroyed yet he wants to climb on top of and jump off, the higher and more terrifying for his parents the better. But I've changed my mind. The boy may be a lunatic but at least he doesn't squeal and bitch and moan and turn on the waterworks at the slightest thing.

"Daddy!"

Sip tea, try to ignore it.

"DADDY!"

"Yes?"

"She took my [insert toy/book/comb/piece of toast/whatever]!"

"Only cos she hit me!"

"Cos she hit me first!"

"Only cos she turned off Spongebob..."

"Cos she stole my drink!"

"Cos she wouldn't shut up!"

"Cos she..."

Now seriously spilling tea: "SHUT THE FUCK UP BEFORE I KILL BOTH OF YOU WITH ONE MIGHTY BLOW FROM MY BROADSWORD YOU WITCHES!!!"

At least, that's what I would like to say. Instead I find myself affecting this would-be calm, strangulated voice that tries to be reasonable even as my poor tired wrong-bed blood boils.

"Come on now girls, it's daddy's day and we don't want to spoil it by fighting, do we?"

"I hate you!"

"I hate YOU!"

"I HATE you MORE!!!"

"I HATE you MORE times TEN!!!"

"I HATE you MORE times A HUNDRED MILLION!!!!!"

"I HATE....."

By which point I find myself tottering back up the stairs under the pretense of needing a quick visit to the toilet. With the Sunday newspaper. And another unspilled (as yet) cup of tea. But wife sees me and issues a curse - unrepeatable even here, but a warning about not spending all day in there, as if I would (anymore).

And so begins another wonderful working day for the best daddy in the world...

This being back home malarky is starting to wear thin. Oh, I love it all right, in terms of spending time with the wife and kids, even just sitting there looking at four walls that belong to me and not someone else. But in terms of getting any work done... Christ on the cross, now I remember why I left here for the cottage in the first place. I really could have used another month there. Except the cottage is gone. There is no extra month. Only this.

Thinking seriously about becoming a night worker, sleeping all day (with ear plugs in) and toiling through the darkness. That's how I used to do it in the Old Days. Except without the ear plugs. Back then I'd be so fucked from working round the clock I didn't need any help sleeping, I just closed the lid of my coffin and out went all the lights inside my head. Now I practically need someone to inject me in the eyeball with heroin to ensure a half-decent doze for 20 minutes. Unless it's the middle of the afternoon, of course. And then I can sleep standing up. Or sitting at the laptop. Or could while I was at the cottage anyway.

It's the kids, mainly. It's not their fault. Screaming and crying and laughing and crying and shouting and crying and making things go BOOM! at the most unexpected moments then repeating the process endlessly before crying again, it's what they do, right? Or in the case of my boy, just keeping coming into my office to check on me, followed by his mother, also screaming and making things go BOOM!

I wasn't joking about the ear plugs, by the way. I actually sent wife out to buy me some today. And she did, throwing them down on my desk like I no longer have any reason now to complain. "Just put your fucking ear plugs in." She doesn't actually say that. But I know she's thinking it...

And the day started so well...

Finished a couple of pieces on Iron Maiden for the Planet Rock website that I've been working on for the past few days. Should have been doing the book but I'm skint and I like Planet Rock and want to offer encouragement, especially now that they've managed to escape being shutdown by GCap by finding a friendly rock-loving multimillionaire to buy them. I predict great things.

Anyway, did that then took wife and boy out to Millet's Farm, which is a great place to go on a hot sunny day, especially during school time when the kids-to-parents ratio is low. Boy loved feeding the goats and ducks and sheep and whatnot. Even mummy and daddy found time for a nibble. Then got chatting in the swings-and-roundabouts area to a nice Californian woman with two boys of her own, one our lad's age and one a bit older. She's here on holiday and it was really nice to talk to someone with two monsters to contend with as opposed to our one.

Then we hit the much too expensive farm shop and bought some much too expensive minted lamb chops for din-dins. All very lovey-dovey sing-song. Drove home holding hands as boy slept in back. Perhaps there is a God?

Got home and began clearing my office of the debris from the move back from the cottage at the weekend. Emptied nine bags of Zeppelin books and magazines (and CDs and DVDs and print-outs of weird shit I can no longer remember why I thought I might need). Put it all on its own special shelves in the garage. Came back in and realised that only leaves another four huge boxes and about six bags full of god knows what to go. Then - finally - came back in with a big mug of coffee and sat down to Do Some Work (on the Book). A small but not insignificant smile on my ugly old face.

Then my Blackberry started flashing. An email from my accountant's office. Could I sign and send something back confirming some fictitious and unfeasibly large amount of money I'm apparently supposed to be paying them each month. You fucking what? Anyway... I don't want to get into it all again here as my blood pressure has only just started to settle again and things like that matter at this getting later by the minute stage of the game. But in a nutshell: my accountant is someone I have known for over 20 years. He has always been A Good Guy, even when I was a Bad Guy. He has Never Let Me Down. One of these days I'd like to put a statue up to him. Really.

That is, until recently. Every time I hear from him lately (like the last six months) it's bad news. Weird invoices I have no idea why I'm being sent. Letters from companies threatening me with court actions if I don't send them cheques I didn't know I owed, late payments of tax and etc. And then when I do want to hear from him he never calls me back anymore. Never.

So I have issued new 'instructions' to my accountant's office. Which if he doesn't call me back this time will mean new instructions to a new accountant as well. All very unsatisfactory as we say in the accountancy world. And all such a wind-up I can't work now because my brain is still boiling over. The moral: just when you think it's safe to give a shit...

I hadn't realised until just now that it had been a whole week since I'd last blogged. But that tells you about the week I've had. Been sending chapters of the Zep book off to the publishers. Not because it's finished, just that it's so far behind schedule that they're resigned to taking it off me piece by piece, in the hope that by the time they've read what I've done I'll have finished the rest. It may even work out that way, too. The problem is this has meant actually reading the chapters back, one by one. Very weird, very time-consuming, very scary, very exciting (sometimes) and just very... you know. Especially the early ones, as they were done over six months ago. Yet are somehow meant to seamlessly relate to everything else written more recently. Which they do, mostly. Or do better now I've had a week of bashing them around.

The question is: is it any good? The answer no longer lies with me. It's all now in the lap of the editor, a fine chap named Ian. I just hope he's more God than Hammer, when it comes to Passing Judgement. I don't want to end up in the Dead Sea. Not after all this time and effort. And love and hate. And fucking of the head and heart. You know what I mean.

Went to see my doctor this morning for an ongoing road report, re the old Farmer Giles and other misspent youth-related ailments. Told her I would rather eat Satan's own arse for breakfast than go through the hell of any more of this 'banding' business, where they drag out the debris and tie a bloody great big rubber band round it, then send you hobbling off to wait for the offending dead meat to "drop off." All that happened last time was that I couldn't walk, or sit, or... you know... ANYTHING... for a week. And still no dropping off, as far as I could tell. Certainly no improvement. She smiled weakly (of course, it's a she, the torture wouldn't be complete without it being a she) and told me she would advise an operation, which "isn't pleasant" but will sort the problem out "for good." That's OK then...

As for this ongoing stomach pain and unease, she now diagnoses an umbilical hernia, which may also "require surgery" or might just be something I "have to get used to." I sat there listening to this with one of those fixed smiles on my face strictly for the doctor's benefit. She is an awfully nice woman, as it goes, and I wouldn't want her to think any of this, like, bothers me, obviously. We chatted for a bit after that. Turns out she and her family are holidaying this year in the same spot me as me and mine are planning to. "Perhaps we'll run into each other," she said chirpily. "Bring your scalpel with you," I said, "Just in case..."

Meanwhile, seeing as so many of you have emailed in asking, here's that gay boy on Mullholland Drive link to Youtube. If this doesn't work, type in Hard N Heavy / White Lion and it's the third one down.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCZrATBFJmE