Star Blog

Been working again today, sorting out material for these AC/DC stories for Planet Rock. Shouldn't complain, especially as they're both actually good ideas (wait and see). But the dog had me up at 4.00a.m. wandering round the garden in the rain waiting for her to piss and etc and I never got back to sleep again afterwards. They might call it Puppy Love but I'm not in my teens anymore and this kind of thing plays havoc with an old fart's schedule. My insomnia is bad enough anyway without this added aggro. Wife promised me faithfully if I bought her a new pup she wouldn't put me through shit (literally) like this but... um... yeah...

Better times tomorrow hopefully when esteemed Classic Rock publisher Chris Ingham has the pleasure of taking me to lunch. I will of course be wearing my drinking shoes as it's really not worth going to lunch with Chris without them. I like these occasions as we both sit there putting the (rock) world to rights, gossiping about You Know Who and What They Did You Know When. And of course there's always the chance Chris will ask me to take charge of some wildly exciting project which will make both us millionaires by Xmas.

First, though, tonight, it's the season finale episode of the season four DVD of Entourage. Not having watched it for months, it's been great getting back into it. Kind of ODed on it late last year, watching seasons 1-3 back-to-back for literally months on end. Moving out to the cottage to write the Zep book this year put paid to all that though. Next thing I knew they'd aired a whole new season. Now, thanks to my exceptionally old but looking good for it friend Dr Peter, I have been able to, er, 'access' the whole of season 4 many moons before its official UK release. And yes, it's been more than worth the wait. Possibly the best season yet. So much so I'm gonna go back and watch the whole thing over again as soon as it's finished. Starting with season one. Again. Or as Ari says, "Time to man up, baby..."

Definitely getting into this not working thing. It's been almost a week now and already my mind is not so slowly turning to mush. Not sure what happened to the weekend, it sort of just slipped away. I remember Saturday morning, we took the girls to a new stage school. The dance classes had become boring and they were both moaning about having to go so we thought we'd try stage school instead. Eldest girl did a year of this at another place when she was four and was really good at it but we didn't like the gaff. That is, the haughty bitch who ran the gaff. So dance it was instead. Youngest girl never stops singing or dancing or acting anyway though so we thought she might like this too. Result: too very happy small people who haven't shut up about it since. Plus I now go to sleep every night with 'Dancing Queen' playing on my mental radio. Nice.

And that was Saturday, more or less. Our friends Kevin and Yvonne came over in the afternoon with wine and cake to celebrate our previous day's anniversary but they only stayed a couple of hours. Next thing I knew we were all staring at Merlin on the TV (it's the new Dr Who. trust me) and eating Chinese and wondering when it would be OK to go back to bed. (I was anyway.)

Sunday was... similar... I think. Except no friends dropping by, and no more cake or wine. The sun was out though and wife had gone insane and decided to "do the whole house out" - code for clean the hovel up. So I got into the spirit by offering to go to Tesco's and do the shopping - code for get the hell out of Dodge while insane spouse runs amok.

I was gonna cook in the afternoon but couldn't be fucked, frankly, my dear. Couldn't even be bothered to read the Sunday papers except for my horoscope which predicted Bad Things I Have To Address. (It may be a loved one, it may be a work colleague or a friend... Oh fuck off!)

And now here I am today, at the start of another so-called working week. Lookin at my diary though, there doesn't appear to be much of that sort of thing on. Got a lunch on Wednesday. Got to pick up kids from school today while wife has her hair done (hiding the grey, at least she's still got hair though) and... er... that's about it. Thank god for Planet Rock, who have just phoned to ask me to write a couple of features on AC/DC for their website - www.planetrock.com. It's AC/DC month at the station and all I need to do is think of a good idea for them. Um...

Whoops, what happened there, did I lose a day. Or was it you? I don't know. The last couple of days have been like that for a lot of people I have spoken with. Maybe it's just the stars but I feel like an astronaut re-entering Earth's atmosphere. I came in a bit too fast and nearly burned up with the flu. Now I feel like I overshot the re-entry point a little and almost skidded back off into black space.

Speaking of which... Was sitting in a meeting with my agent Robert the other day, that is, me, Robert and Russ the TV director, when Robert came out with one that had me holding onto the chair thinking I really was dreaming.

"I know," he said, "How about... Quo In Space!"

"Quo in space?" I replied. "Hahahahahahaha..."

Russ looked at him but didn't laugh. Not out loud anyway.

"You're serious?" he asked.

"Yes," said Robert, "I am! It would be brilliant! Can you imagine it?"

"Hahahahahaha," I said.

Russ just looked at him. Then started laughing too.

"No, think about it," said Robert. "Someone's got to be the first band in space. Why not Status Quo?"

By now I'd stopped laughing and actually begun thinking about it. Quo In Space. Well, I'd heard worse ideas.

"Richard Branson says he'll have a ship ready for launch by 2010," said Robert, and by now even Russ was thinking about it. You could tell by the way he'd stopped shaking his head and simply begun shaking.

At which point we all turned to look at Simon - Quo's manager. Who was also there, but pretending not to be.

"Well, it's a possibility, I suppose," said Simon, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Was that it or can I go now?"

No wonder the next 48 hours passed by in such a blur. Today, though, has been different. I have been forced to wake from my space-induced slumbers by the fact that it is my 10th wedding anniversary today. No big party though. Wife and I have so been there, done that, wiped our arses on the invitation, that we couldn't actually bring ourselves to buy each other cards, flowers etc. I already gave her a diamond ring a few months back, which was supposed to be an early anniversary gift. And I couldn't think of anything I really wanted from her.

So we wrote each other letters instead. My idea. I just thought it might mean more. Which is why I have to go now. We're about to do the reading. That is, I'm gonna open her letter and give it a squint before I hit the hay and she's going up to bed now to read mine. I don't care what you think. This is how we've decided to 'celebrate' our wedding anniversary and I'm into it. Not the writing so much (I am seldom interested these days in anything I have to say) but the reading. To think a babe like that might want to write me a love note after 10 years of actually putting up with me. It's sick. In every sense of the word, modern and historical. And it's true. God help us all...

To London yesterday for three back-to-back meetings, all within walking distance of each other in Soho. Just as well as my walking shoes feel like they are still under six feet of flu-induced sand. Would tell you all about it but as they all come under the heading of Exciting New Projects it's really not exciting enough to talk about. One thing you learn after your first 50 years in this business is that all potential new projects are exciting - until they come to nothing, often for reasons that never even get explained to you. I've had meetings with people that sat there and told me what we were going to do together was literally going to change my life - only to never hear from them again. Ever. Not a phone call, not a fuck off, nothing. On the other hand, I've had off-the-cuff, mini-conversations with people, usually only half-joking, then forgotten all about it, only for it to suddenly blossom into something that genuinely marked a turning point in my career.

So... fuck it. See if they call back. And if they do, whether they remember my name. Which brings me to today. Sitting here in the bomb wreckage that is my office, wondering where to start - paying the red bills or the new ones? Picking up the crap and finding somewhere to put it, or just tossing the lot in a bin bag? Things have been left so long to linger here they have slowly gone to ruin while I've tried to finish whatever work, work, work has been bugging me these past few months. Even the back lawn looks like it's having a nervous breakdown. I was in the middle of trying to mow it the other day when the phone rang and two and a half hours later when I put the damn thing down again it was dark outside and raining. Now it looks like it's had a mid-life crisis Mohican.

So I say to myself: what would I actually like to start with? And the answer comes back quick as a flash. I'd quite like to go to bed. And not get up again until after Christmas. That would be OK, wouldn't it? Oh...

Mainly spent the weekend drifting in and out of the world of nod. The Man Flu turned nasty on Friday night, couldn't sleep a sweaty, ache-filled wink. Finally conked out about five, slept on and off till midday. Sat up and felt... OK. Chanced it and took wife and kids and dog out to a wildlife park whose name escapes me but which has this long (loooong) nature trail. Glorious sunny day, good idea you would have thought for any flu-fucked man trailing wife and kids and dog. Except we got half way round before the flu bug finally woke up too and started hacking away at me again.

Got home at about six, in time to gaze woozily at emails from the Quo camp about last-minute changes to the Ear Book. Sorted that somehow then found myself lying face down on the bed again. Stayed there, more or less, all through Sunday, up till earlier today (Monday), when I was required to do more online ogling at this Quo stuff looking for errors. V.hard when your whole head is in flu-fugged error. Throat so sore can hardly talk. Wife says go to doctor's. I say leave me alone.

Going back to bed now...

I am rivven with psychic bullets and my vest is wearing mighty thin. But so what, I'm a big boy now, I've been there many times before. Meanwhile, back on the purely physical realm, I have a v.bad cold, the sweats, the blocked nose, the sore throat, the aches and headspins, the full Man Flu hocus-pocus. I also have a v.painful tooth wiggling around wanting to fall out but intent on fucking with me first. And last night in my half-sleep I pulled a muscle in my left leg that hurt so bads it has left me limping. I have been working since 8.30 this morning and it is now nearly 8.00pm.

So what, as Miles Davis said? You can only eat three meals a day and wear one pair of soiled trousers. And besides, the new DVD of Entourage season 4 is waiting for me in the other room. Along with a tired woman and a half-decent bottle of red. I'm all set for the weekend. Yippee.

Long day yesterday, too long to talk. Still trying to finish the coffee table book for this Quo project, and had to go to a meeting with their manager Simon and the design comapny making what they're calling the Ear Book for a look-see at the early proofs. Gotta say, it's looking really good. Every credible band from Metallica to Zeppelin to Quo needs to turn what they do into An Event these days and the Quo are better at it than most. Every year Simon manages to pull a weird rabbit out of a very tall hat and turn the latest Quo tour, album, whatever into a Big Deal. This year though he's excelled himself. Can't wait for the auction at Bonhams. There's a website that will be showing all the canvases soon and I'll put up a link to it then.

Meanwhile, speaking of Metallica - and links - check this one out
http://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/programmes/the_beat.shtml for your old mate talking about the new Death Magnet album on the BBC World Service. I ain't saying it's the greatest, I am saying it's the World Service though and that is the greatest, god bless Auntie. The programme - The Beat - has been one of the best arts magazine progs on radio for a long time. Mistajam, the presenter, is one v.cool dude too.

Meanwhile, back at the happy homestead, I was supposed to take wife and kids to the circus tonight but the circus going on in my office has taken precedent - again. Wife not best pleased though doing her best to at least pretend to be cool about it. Kids couldn't care less as long as they get to see the clowns. The ones with fake red noses anyway.

Too busy to blog? That's just too damn busy. The shame of it is I wasn't doing anything wildly exciting either. Spent the whole weekend ploughing through the final chaps of the Zep book proofs - and trying to listen to the new Metallica album in preparation for my world-changing review for BBC radio on Monday. As a result I had a splitting headache round-the-clock from Friday night to Monday afternoon. Not saying it was the Zep, not saying it was Metallica. Am saying they didn't exactly help, and that it was weird that the headache vanished into thin air - like that! - as soon as I'd finished recording the Metallica piece for the World Service on Monday.

The old and rapidly getting older head felt even better after I dropped off the final pages of Zep proofs. So much better in fact I found myself in Henry Pordes' book shop in the Charing Cross Road looking at their expensive signed first editions. By the time I walked out I'd spent a small fortune on an original signed first edition of The Naked Civil Servant by Quention Crisp, an unsigned but rare first edition of Play by Samuel Beckett and a signed copy of No. 4 in a limited edition of 100 of Too Far From Home by Paul Bowles. Naturally, I bartered with the nice old fruits behind the counter (David Walliams and his French-accented father they looked like) but that still left me £160 lighter as I trotted out the door. Well, it was a beautiful day, my head was better and the BBC producer told me I was "excellent." Powerful intoxicants...

Crazy days, hazy nights... Yesterday really was mental, though. Up and writing stuff for the Status Quo project by 6.30a.m. Finished it just in time to quaff a quick bacon banjo before I jumped in the car at 10.00a.m. to drive to London for a meeting with the Zep book editor Ian Preece. We had to choose the pix for the book and go through the libel report. I wasn't looking forward to either as I thought I'd seen every pic ever taken of Zep at least a thousand times already, and as for the lawyer's report... I can't even bring myself to sum up what a pain in the piss pot that always is.

Behold, though - the pix were actually really good! Loads I'd never seen before, plenty I had. By the end of the day, though, we had three plate sections for the book - including 35 black-and-white and colour pix - that actually look... good. Weird.

Then we got onto the lawyer's report. Cue old head in withered hands, raggedy arse clenched much too tight. Fucking lawyers. All they ever really seem to do is cover their own arses by mentioning every little thing - "What if an alien came to earth and objected to you characterising him as a - quote-unquote - little green bastard?" It's like a quiz they set up for you. You start out trying your best. Three hours later you find yourself screaming "OH, FUCK OFF!" I do anyway.

In between, Ian treated to me a very nice lunch at an Italian in Soho, and allowed me to load up on Horrid Henry books (which Orion also do) for my kids. Finally got home about 9.30pm, in time to put the bins and recycle crates out for the dustmen in the morning, neck half a glass of very tired red and then to bed where my head bobbed for a few minutes over the newspaper before the lights finally turned themselves out.

Up again this morning at 5.00a.m. No fucking kidding. Mainly cos I couldn't sleep. Mainly cos I had 35 Zep pic captions to write which had to be emailed to Ian by 9.00a.m. Just about made it, high on tea and toast and wandering around the garden with the 15-week old Springer Spaniel waiting for her to pee. Or worse.

Spent the rest of the day working on Quo. Simon their manager says no big deal, write about what you like but I'm too tired now. V.briefly though, it's 40 years this year since their first hit single 'Pictures Of Matchstick Men' so they've asked 40 celebs to paint a Quo-related canvas which will be auctioned off at Bonhams in London on November 5, all proceeds going to the Prince's Trust charity for underprivileged kids. And guess who's writing the coffee table 'art book' to go with it? Oh, yes...

Best bit for me is having to extract quotes from people like Tom Stoppard, Rolf Harris, Andrew Marr, Carol Smillie (who told me she did it in her bikini, an image I'm still warming to), Bonnie Wright from the Harry Potter movies, Harry Hill, James Herbert, and... well, you get the picture. The thing is, all the canvases are actually pretty amazing. And you know I don't say things like that lightly. I may not know about art but I know I'd rather be doing this than interviewing some old wrinkly (or young wanker) about his never-been-bettered new/old album.

The only teensiest-weensiest snag is... I'm still sodding working 14 hours later. And will be all weekend. The second half of the Zep book proofs still need to be read by Monday, at which point I will be going to London again to deliver them, then on to the BBC to review the new Metallica album for the World Service radio prorgamme The Beat. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd rather be doing this than twiddling my testicles, but when you find me - a lifelong creature of the night - getting up at five and six in the morning to work you know something is seriously not right with the universe. And may never be again. Meanwhile, if there is anyone out there who has actually heard/burned/borrowed/whatever the fuck it is you kids do these days the new 'tallica stuff, let me know what you think. It'll save me listening to it. (A joke, fuckhead. Put down the green electronic ink...)

Eye doctor yesterday. Foot master today. Oh yes, I don't fuck around when it comes to personal betterment. Unlike the Weird Old Hag at the opticians though, Paul the Foot Master is a joy to work with, the word's greatest podiatrist and that's official. If you've never had your toe-nails clipped, your hard bits sanded down and your feet oiled and massaged, you have not lived, pal. Better than drugs, more sensual than sex, you go in dragging your knuckles like a clawed cave creature and come out floating on air like a feathery floaty thing. Your feet feel and look and for once smell so nice you want to take your shoes and socks off and show everybody. I do anyway.

Meanwhile, while I wasn't doing that, I was trying to wade through this Quo 'thing' that I still haven't asked whether I can talk about yet but which is taking over my days and nights right now. That is, when I'm not trying to wade through the proofs for the Zeppelin book, or wife isn't sending me mad asking me to babysit while she goes to belly-dancing lessons. Yes, belly-dancing. Don't ask. Something about fitness. As long as it's my lap that gets the first dance, that's all I'm saying.

Also had a very interesting conversation with Scott Rowley from Classic Rock. We were talking Lunch. We were talking Big Bucks. We were talking maybe running some old stuff of mine!!! Take that, Mojo snobs and ageing female groupie queens! Say what you like about Classic Rock, it's a fuck of a lot better than it was 10 years ago, not the other way around.

Now... back to Quo. Chris Tarrant has sent me an email and it's all very exciting. (I've told him if I need to phone a friend to get me Holly Willoughby on the line...)

Nice start to the day. The postman rang the doorbell at 7.00a.m. delivering a huge package from my youngest brother Danny - belated birthday presents for his niece. What a sweetheart that guy is. A proper brother. One day I'll figure out how to repay him. Like there really is a god. Somewhere.

The rest of the day not nearly so nice. Must be something in the stars. Still working on this Quo thing, in the course of which I've been dealing with people I've never met before. Some - like Rolf Harris, Tom Stoppard, Gordon King - have been really nice. Others, like the stuck-up bint that handles a certain former rower who now has a posh title to go with his toffy-nosed secretary, have been a nightmare. "He's very busy! I don't even knmow when I'm next seeing him! What did you say your name was again?" And of course there are the inevitable old hags who do PR for certain v.old rock stars you have to humour - "Why wasn't I told about this?" I'm telling you now - but I'm used to that.

What I wasn't ready for was the 1950s throwback I met at the optician's today. She looked like she was covered in cobwebs and spoke like an old-time BBC announcer, then creeped me out by staring at my nose the whole time we were talking. I kept wondering if I had a bogie peeping out or something. But when I looked in the mirror, nothing. Just that same old fart looking back at me. She also squirted something in my eyes which meant I couldn't read for about three hours. Maybe she could get a job working for an old rower too.

It was eldest daughter's 8th birthday on Friday and we seemed to spend the whole weekend celebrating it. Friday afternoon it started, with the arrival of wife's friend Christina, and her baby boy, Oliver. Christina's sweet as but I was still working at the time, so couldn't really sit down and chat. But then wife's mum and dad turned up and I was forced to put in an appearance. Then our friends Yvonne and Kevin turned up, with their two girls and suddenly all hell officially broke loose. The party finally wound down around midnight.

We were just getting over that on Saturday afternoon when daughter's best friend from school turned up for a sleep-over. Cue: way too much noise for my tired old head. But then Yvonne and Kev came back for some reason I can no longer remember, and once again the party went on till about midnight. That left yesterday to get over it. Which we just about managed. I cooked a roast while wife sedated kids by sitting them in front of the Disney channel for about four hours. What you call an early dinner ensued. Followed by an exceptionally early school-tomorrow night for the squiddlies. And an utterly worn-out p.s. as mum and dad went to bed at about 9.00pm, to "read". (Yeah, right...)

Not even Holly Willoughby banging on the door to be let in could rouse us. Instead, I leaned out the window and told her: "Look, babe, you're a doll and all and I know you can't help yourself, but you're really gonna have to drop this obsession you have with me." She went off crying...

Thank god my daughter's mum and dad have friends and her mum a family with feelings as, once again, my own family couldn't be fucked to even send the poor kid a birthday card. I forgive my next brother down as we don't send his kids anything either, though only because for years his seriously pathological wife used to lie and swear the cards and presents we sent got "lost in the post", then repaid us by sending obviously secondhand items to our own kids - like the 'special garments for premature babies' outfit she sent our first child, who was actually born two weeks late and weighed nearly eight pounds.

Can't forgive next brother down after that, though, as he has no excuse whatsoever. But then he has so much anger in him he spends his days and nights writing looong letters of complaint to anyone and everyone he ever had any dealings with. One day he will wake up alone, still blaming the world for not feeling suitably sorry for him, and I will take great pleasure in not sending him a get well one day card about it. (He's probably writing me an uptight email or letter about it right now...)

As for youngest brother... I am genuinely perplexed. He has always - always - been the giant amongst the pygmies who never forgets a birthday, bless him. Makes me wonder... is he dead? Disabled perhaps? Or just too busy with... other stuff?

Then, last and definitely least, there is the miserable old cow that is apparently my aunt. Who knows what plague has been visited upon her but frankly I wouldn't care if I ever heard from the sad old biddy again. The bonfire awaits that witch and I stand by with my torch ready.

A good weekend then. So glad it's over...

I still don't know if I'm allowed to talk about what I've been doing with Status Quo these past couple of weeks, but I will say this: interviewing people like Rolf Harris, Carol Smillie, Roger McGough and Ian Reddington (from Coronation Street) is far more fun than listening to your average long-haired old man telling you how his new album is definitely his best yet and how much he's looking forward to his next (millionth) tour. Not that I can talk about it...

Meanwhile, yet another email from someone asking me about - gulp! - music. As in what rock hard classics am I listening to at the moment? Um... looking at the desk mess tells me I've been slipping CDs of the following into my laptop lately: CS&N - Deja Vu; Gimmer Nicholson - Christopher Idylls; The Flying Burrito Bros - Gilded Palace Of Sin; Big Joe Williams - Pine Wood Blues; Muddy Waters - Electric Mud; and Mozart's Very Best Of.

Oh, and as I write this Holly Willoughby is waving at me from the garden in her bikini. She just loves this blog and really hopes you all do too. Like the babe said, keep those hits coming...

Slow, strange day. Kids back to school, which meant World III this morning, Earth Children vs. the Evil Parent-Robots. Expected that, though. Hadn't bargained for the eerie quite that fell after they finally left. Well, near-quiet. Just me and the boy eating Bran Flakes while squinting at Big Cook Little Cook - the Pulp Fiction of the Under-Fives - on TV.

Worked steadily till lunchtime then found myself going upstairs for a lie-down. Yes, I am 50. I have also had a very looooong year so balls to what you think of that. Just permanently fucked-feeling at the moment. Woke up at 3.00pm and went straight back to work, carried on like a zombie until seven or so. Was supposed to be back on the treadmill today but can't, that's all. Not today.

Reading Arthur C Clarke's 2001: A Space Odyssey at the moment. Having been hypnotised by the Kubrik film for years and years it's fantastic to finally read the book and get the detail on what's actually supposed to be going on. I'm not a huge sci-fi nut but this is the best read I've had in ages, since discovering James Sallis, in fact. The Arthur C is part of a five-books-in-one compendium thing I bought in the Oxfam shop in Blandford on holiday about a year ago and have only just got round to cracking open. Very much worth the wait. Like the man said, "It's full of stars..."

Meanwhile, back at the fucked-head foundation, what is the cure for terminal tiredness - does anybody know? And what does it have to do with insomnia? Apart from the obvious - obviously? Is there a drug perhaps I can take that will, you know... help? (I can dream, even if I can't sleep...)

Actually slept last night. This may have had something to do with the fact that I felt so rotten yesterday evening I went on the treadmill for 45 minutes. Only doing my usual half shuffling jog, half walking so fast I nearly fall off thing. But it does me good. It also meant I didn't fancy having my usual glass of red afterwards. Or even eating dinner. I made do with a sandwich and a bottle of iced water instead. So there you go, the secret of sleep - exercise, little food and no alcohol. God, life is dull, isn't it?

Back at the coalface today though, starting at 8.00a.m. by taking my car into the garage. It's been a lot of miles since it last had a good going over and it needs a full service, new tires, revamped a.c., some love and kisses, and that's just the stuff I know about before they take a look. It will of course cost a lot. Too much, in fact. But balls, I need a car that won't kill me - unless I tell it too or someone else bangs into it first. Then it was back here tapping away at this Quo project, which I still don't know if I'm allowed to talk about.

The last day of the summer hols for the kids, and therefore symbolically the last day of summer, it seems strange to be saying a metaphorical farewell to hot days and nights when you haven't actually had any. You just know it's got nothing to do with the 'typical' crap British weather either. This is something much more worrying. As the folks in New Orleans will tell you. I'm too old and fucked and couldn't-give-a-shit to really care about recycling - I do it and I don't depending on how much shit I already have on my plate - but there's no escaping the message the weather is sending out. We are all doomed and dying, friends. And there's nothing even Leona Lewis can do about it.

Which reminds me, I must mention Holly Willoughby - hope that's how you spell it - as I just read that blogs mentioning Holly Willoughby - or however you spell it - get ten times more hits than those that don't. Not that I care. I just want to see if it works. And of course because, like any hetero man out there, looking at her, I would...

Been very lax with the old blog. Reason being I usually write it last thing at night but the past couple of nights I haven't been able to stay awake long enough to do it. So tired I keep going to bed earlier and earlier but it's no use. I pass out for a few hours then - bang! - wake up and can't get back again. "Stress," says wife. "Bollocks," I say. I've done the 'stress' thing. I've just lost the exquisite art of knowing how to sleep well. (Plus a bit of stress too...)

Had a weird weekend. Saturday was so beautiful, sunny, the day spent in the garden watching the children trying to drown themselves in the big rubber paddling pool we bought them on holiday then hardly used as it rained so much. I actually found myself musing quietly about the nature of true happiness. How when you're experiencing it, as I was on Saturday, you can't imagine how or why you were ever unhappy. Then grey, rainy awful Sunday dawned and I had the worst day for a long time. Arguing with wife, kids, dog, even the cat who never argues with me about anything usually. Mostly fighting with myself though, pissed off at me for being endlessly tired, grumpy, ill-feeling, just plain wrong. Hating myself, hating them, hating it, in, out, everything, for ever, twice over.

Then today... landing on yet another planet. Not especially good, not too terribly bad. Just grey and boring and... job-like. Yes, back working. The only bright spark today talking to Ross on the phone for the first time in ages. Nicest chat we've had for a long time. Often talking to Ross it's more a case of listening to Ross, or talking about the things he wants to and skipping over the rest. Today was different. It's a shame more people don't get to talk to Ross when he's in this sort of frame of mind, they'd find out what a charmer he really is, instead of the nasty man they wrongly take him for (cos he likes it that way). It even made me miss the days when we travelled together and put the fear of god into the bands we graced with our presence.

He also read me out his latest blog entry, telling me off for daring to criticise his beloved Jimmy's - let's face it - bloody weird appearance at the Olympic Games. Ross makes the point that 200 million people saw Jimmy and Leona making sweet music together. I can't help thinking, that means 200 million people saw Jimmy make a prat of himself then. But I'm probably wrong. Read Ross's diary tomorrow to find out...