Star Blog

Back down to earth today, not so much with a bump as a squishy feeling, like a punctured bike tyre with all the air hissing out. Wife, kids and I were supposed to be going out for dinner this evening with some friends we haven't seen properly since before I started working on the Zep book. But wife and I just can't make it. We're too exhausted. Of course, she hasn't been the one getting lunched, so wife is even more crackered than I am, though given her 20-year standing start on me is inevitably holding up a lot better. It's not so much the past couple of days catching up with us, though, as the past couple of years, longer even. We look and feel like punchbags.

Don't know if our friends really understand, don't know if anyone does, really, including us. Just trying to explain what we mean leaves us only feeling worse and even more misunderstood. They think it's the three small kids. It is and it's not. They assume it's the three books I've done this year. Again, it is and it's not. They guess it's to do with my age, her demenaour, our dilemmas. Well of course it fucking is and no absolutely fucking not.

It's all that. And more. And less. And a lot of other stuff that somehow ends up jammed up our already jammed-up arses. Bottom line: we can't find the bottom line. It is an adventure, though. I just hope it doesn't end up killing us, or the best part of us. We'll certainly have plenty to look back on one day, if we make it. Meanwhile, I'm sitting here with a pile of black plastic bin liners wondering where to start in terms of tidying up the shithole my office has become again over the past few lightning-fast weeks, Bach playing in the background, sympathetic and regal and beyond all attempts to give a shit, god bless the genius old lunatic, helping with the rubbish as only he can...

Naturally, one good day of fine dining a week isn't enough at this time of year so back I went today to meet up with Chris Ingham, publishing tycoon and international business magnate of Classic Rock and Metal Hammer. I didn't drive in, though, as the place Chris had suggested - Goucho, in Piccadilly - is not the sort of place anyone spends the afternoon in and expects to be able to drive 60-odd miles home from again afterwards. And certainly not if they are 'lunching' with Chris. Indeed, arriving at 1.30pm it was gone 6.30pm before they finally threw us out, almost begging us to leave having threatened to extend lunch into dinner and beyond.

Good, though. Fucking good, you might say. Never having had the pleasure of Goucho before, I was deeply impressed by the half-dozen types of tender steak on offer. The only trouble was it was so noisy I couldn't understand a word the heavily-accented Argentinian waiter said, so plumped for whatever Chris had, which naturally also included the red wine, a fine (read: expensive) bottle or three of Tapiz.

It's amazing how easy it is to put the world to rights in such circumstances. Needless to say, Chris and I managed it without too much difficulty at all. Definitely "felt" the difference all the way home on the train though, gulping Cappucino in the wan hope the double-shot of espresso would kick-in and allow me to keep both eyes open as I reached home and did a passable impression of a man with nothing - absolutely nothing - to be ashamed of as wife and I settled down to our much later meal: hot Chinese and cold water.

This Christmas lark is good but I am starting to feel a little dizzy. There's a part of me that does really feel the need for a little socialising after the year I've had work-wise, becoming a virtual hermit. Not to mention all the family dramas that have ensued in that time, very few of which, those of you bored by such things will scarcely believe, actually get discussed here. So, yes, there's a big bit of me feels like this is all right, cheers all the same.

On the other hand... I'm fucked. Physically, mentally, all the other '...ally's. Looking at my face in the mirror in the train toilet on my way to see Chris, a knackered old man looked back at me, craters on his face where the deep lines used to be. And standing there behind me, not quite in the shadows, squinting over my shoulder, pretending not to but knowing I can see him all the same, Death. Like that's a surprise. Even that has it's upside, though. Like never giving less or more of a fuck. Like never being drunk, never being quite sober. Just one step closer to the table by the grill, the meat sizzling gently in the fire, just how you like it. Or not. And then, of course, the bill.

To London and a "celebratory" lunch at The Ivy with Malcolm, the boss of Orion, who published the Zep book, Ian the editor, and Robert my agent. The last time we did this was four years ago when my biography of John Peel was storming up the charts. Surely, I thought, as I rattled along to London in the car, the Zep book can't be doing as well as that. Well, if the venue is anything to go by, it might even be doing better - the upstairs private members club of The Ivy called The Club.

Malcolm, who is a founding member, told me it only opened in September. I sat there suitably impressed, especially when one of the unusually alluring young women that greet you at the secret door on the 3rd floor glanced at the Zep books Malcolm and Robert had brought along and sighed: "Cool book. I'm getting it for Christmas."

"Did you pay her to say that?" I asked Malcolm. "Not at all," he said, grinning like the cat that got his paws dipped in cream. "A lot of people are saying that." Then he ordered a bottle of champagne. Gosh. What, I wondered, do they do for people like Julie Walters whose own Orion title is currently selling 10 times the amount Zep is? Or Robert's other client, Dawn French, whose Dear Fatty is actually No.1 at the moment having sold more than 300,000 copies so far in the past few weeks? Fly them to the Bahamas for a week of sun, sea and sin? There are some things I suppose there is only one way to find out and therefore will never know.

It was fun, though, while it lasted, being wined and dined and treated like the proper writer I always dreamed of being back in those lost innocence days before I fell for writing rock'n'roll and not the so-called grown-up stuff. And what a gaff! Sir Dickie Attenborough seated over there, Robert Lindsey holding court over there... "It's the new fashionable meeting place for the cutting edge London media," Malcolm explained. "Oooh," I said, wondering even more in which case what I was doing there.

"Easy, boy," a little voice inside my head whispered to me. "You could get used to this."

"Yeah, right," said another, more familiar voice. "You should live so long..."

A fun day, for sure, for me and my plastic teeth. The first part found me and wife doing that so rare it's almost unheard of thing - going out together shopping. Long story short, our good friend Megan looked after the boy this morning while we drove into Oxford to parade around the shops and generally have... er... fun. Naturally, there were chores, there always are. And no, it didn't go so well in that respect. First off, the T-Mobile shop was, as feared, populated by louche teenagers intent on making us feel unwanted and unnecessary, and unnaturally old - even wife, who has 20 years to catch up on me - and who told us emphatically that, no, they would not be able to help with my ailing Blackberry as the T-Mobile customer service lady on the phone the other day had sworn a blood oath they would be able to. Fuck it. Not going to spoil our day and that's that.

So we crossed the precinct into Gap where I wasted my time trying on cool shirts and velvet jackets that would have looked soooooo good on me 20 years ago. Except I wouldn't have been able to afford them 20 years ago. From there we went to Pret and had a lunch of baguettes and vitamin juices which hit - the - spot - baby. Then round the corner into Marks & Sparks to see if I could find a reasonably priced suit for this Dining Club thing I've been invited to by a bunch of millionaire occultists and free masons. (Tell you about it nearer time, OK?) Which is where I hit on The Blazer. Or the Classic Blazer, to give it its full title. Single-breasted, gold-buttoned, full monty, blazer, fazer. Only they didn't have my - technical term - size.

But it was too late. I was too smitten by the idea and had to dig deeper. Which is when I decided what I actually needed was one of those rich dudes' tailoring gaffs where men of a certain background - and wallet - go for their blazers and whatnots. Oxford, I decided, must have at least one of those, surely.

Then we found it. Ede & Ravenscroft, founded 1689. Go inside, make yourself at home before the big roaring fire - I'm not shitting you - and wait for a man called John with more education, more class and just more everything than you and yours will ever have, cheers all the same, to come and - as they say ever so nicely in the trade - see to you.

Oh, I fucking loved it! Blazers? John had them coming out of his arse. None of that nice-but-you-know Marks & Sparks clobber either, but the real, let-me-adjust-the-arms-for-you-sir, three-gold-button deal. And the wool trousers (slacks) to go with it. Plus the hand-made shoes and white shirt "with just a touch of herrigbone in it, sir." Most of it now sent off to be "altered" and "trimmed" and otherwise made into a Mick Wall-sized shape.

Unfortunately, there was also a bill to go with it. Wife turned pale and fainted when John finally - finally - came to utter - whispered almost - the dreaded words. Even I reached for my credit card with a shakey hand. But it was too late to turn back now. We were, after all, in Ede & Ravenscroft, founded 1689, beneath the delightful shadows of the dreaming spires, and fuck it if I wasn't going to have some of that, my son.

Later, back home, sitting here in my office, with the box with my hand-made shoes in it, sitting beside me on the desk, I did about 13 interviews with different US radio stations about the new Guns N' Roses album... er, what's it called again? And I thanked God I was alive. Still. Just about. There was even good news to be had about wife. The hospital say she will be fine by morning. Quality, you see. You can't put a price on it...

Yesterday ended with a phone call at about five from the BBC asking me if I was "available" to tootle off to their studios in Oxford to appear "at short notice" on their BBC World News TV show - could I be there at 7.30pm? To talk about - what else? - Chinese Democrcay. Very weird. They sat me in front of a plastic backdrop "representative" of the so-called dreaming spires of Oxford, stuck a plastic contraption in my ear so I could just about hear the interviewer in London, and a mike up my shirt so they - and the folks back home - could hear me, and set a remote-controlled camera to work. Like being interviewed by a Dalek. Worst of all, they stuck a TV monitor within my eyeline so I could also get a gander of my lovely face as I sat there waiting to pontificate. All this in the corner of the local BBC news room, where half a dozen "others" were going about their not particularly quiet business. When I started talking my voice filled the airwaves - which I'm used to - and the roomful of people I was in, which I'm not. Went "really" well, they told me afterwards but they always say that even if you've been a complete Oompah Loompah.

Today was a very different vibe. Had the Big One at the dentist's - the start of the two "bridges" and four "crowns". Or is it five crowns and nine bridges? Or perhaps... something else. I try not to pay too much attention as it only freaks my already far too freaked out self out. But lo... I went there, had the heavy duty injections in the rotting gums and the pain did stop. Two hours later I walked away a free man. With a head full of "temporary" plastic teeth.

Now, as I wite this, the drugs have worn off and the pain is back. Not in my mouth this time though but my head. For wife has just discovered that water appears to be coming through the ceiling into the utility room, drowning everything, including my dreams of fleeting evening happiness. I am supposed to "do" something about it. Great joy. Think of me, battling against the elements, plastic teeth rattling against the chill wind of ill luck. And mysterious water.

Been doing phone interviews all day. Not for the Zep book though but about Chinese Democracy. Eleven so far today, all with US radio stations. Seems with Axl doing his usual hermit thing and not making himself available for interview, the media are going elsewhere for their goodies. I do think it's nice of me, though, to take up the slack for Waxy and do these interviews for him. And very nice of him to give me the chance, as it means I also get to re-promote my US version of the Axl book, W.A.R.

The thing that most surprises me is how many of the people I've spoken to say they don't like the album. For those mentally challenged Axl 'fans' that still like to 'chat' about me on the internet as though I was Darth Vadar, I say open your ears and eyes and take a listen to what the rest of the world is saying. Obviously, an advertising whore like Rolling Stone will say the album is fair and amazing - that review was written years before they got to hear the album - and of course some of the bigger UK mags will do the same, still living in the dream world where Axl suddenly wakes up one day and decides to give them an interview. But it seems the rest of us really don't care anymore.

Kind of a shame as the album isn't bad at all. Just too long, too expensive and too crazy by far, and of course it doesn't sound like Guns N' Roses, but then it wouldn't, would it, seeing as it's not actually Guns N' Roses playing on it.

Here's that link, by the way, to me talking about it on he Strand, the BBC World Service arts programme I apperaed on last week.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/arts/2008/10/000000_strand_thursday.shtml

Anyway, back in the so-called real world, been drooling over the Quo Ear Book which finally arrived today. Plush isn't the word. It's art, mate, innit? Proper, like. That's my third book of the year, and my third in a row that I'm inordinately proud of. Top is Zep, of course, how could it not be after the nine months I spent sweating what's left of my balls off over it. But this Quo thing is far out, too. Like I say, art.

Seeing as people keep asking: yeah, I think Chinese Democracy is not bad at all. It is what it is, you know, an over-reaching, self-pitying piece of inspired lunacy by someone who should really know better but is surrounded by weak-willied wankers too scared of and/or reliant on him for their paychecks to tell him the truth. 'Better' is good though. As is 'There Was A Time', 'IRS', 'Madagascar' and a couple of others. 'If The World' would have been a much better Bond movie theme than the awful shite Jack White and wassername came up with. 12 years and $13 million, though. Gimme a break. Sitting there listening to the 'finished' album in Universal last week the two things I kept thinking as it was playing were: a) Axl would shit if he knew his record company were actually playing me this, but then looking around at the kids working there most of them weren't born when Appetite For Destruction came out and probably think Slash is the singer. And b) yaaawwwnnnn, is it finished yet?

Seriously, it was such an anti-climax. Partly because I already knew nine of the tracks well from the internet bootlegs that have been circulating for at least two years and which the 'finished' album sound exactly alike. Partly because, come on, 400 years and $50 trillion, I mean, who fucking cares anymore? And where's Slash when you need him? Ultimately, what I'd like to ask Axl Rose at this point is this: like, what's for dessert, dude?

Saturdays are weird. You look forward to it cos it's a notional day off, then when you get there you keep waiting for the 'off' part to start. Or I do. Since I had kids, of course, there is no 'off' switch, just a different kind of 'on'. Writing this the following day, I can barely remember what we did, only that it nearly finished me off, as it always does. I remember starting the day by walking the dog on the Ridgeway in the freezing cold. Me and - though I didn't realise until it was too late - a herd of tweedy, nasty-looking game hunters and their guns and dogs. Don't know what they're like elsewhere in the countryside but round here they really are scum. Over-educated, over-priveleged, thick-as-shit pricks. With loaded guns. Best avoided if you can. I only just managed it. "Give you a tenner for it," said one, a moron with a flat cap and a shotgun under his arm, referring to my dog, a six-month-old English Springer Spaniel - the sort of 'gun dog' these old cunts specialise in, actually. "Fuck off," I wish I'd said, "You don't have enough money to afford anything I have." Except by the time I'd thought of what to say I'd already passed him.

Back home I found wife on the treadmill as boy kneeled naked behind it, running his toy trucks along the moving belt. Not safe. I freaked and wife freaked back. Things went back to normal, though, until the girls got back from Saturday morning Stage-school, singing 'Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds' of all things. Trust me, having three small kids around you 24/7 is much more of a trip than LSD ever was. Much, much more. I mean, LSD wears off, this hallucination just goes on and fucking on...

I can't remember the afternoon. I assume we went out somewhere but the brain really has buried it, whatever it was. I do remember eating wife-made cottage pie for dinner, then hoofing it over to the lounge with the whole menagerie to watch Strictly Come Dancing on TV followed by Merlin. Well, try and watch. Again, having three small lunatics running around at the same time means you only ever see about 1/10th of what's on-screen and spend the other 9/10ths screaming at them all to SHUT UP!! STOP FIGHTING!!! NO HITTING!!!! PUT THAT DOWN!!!! I'M WARNING YOU!!!!! Etc-fucking-cetera.

When they all finally went to bed so did I, except I was still sitting upright in an armchair. Woke up drooling all over myelf - as usual - a glass of untouched red wine somewhere in the vicinity, telly blaring, clock gone haywire.

Crawled up the stairs to bed. Thought momentarily about making sweet, sweet love to the ever-loving spouse who was certainly sending out 'signals' but... well... you know... tired... and... zzzzzzz....

Still on the treadmill, just not the one that gets you fit...

Did five more interviews yesterday for the Zeppelin book. One for Ireland, two for Australia, and two for I can't remember who or what, a mix of radio and newsprint. Meanwhile, with the Guns N' Roses album finally released this weekend, when I'm not blathering about Zep I'm being invited to give it loads about Chinese Democracy. So far, I've managed to save the good stuff for the BBC World Service, which I'm leaving in minute to drive to London to broadcast - doing it live at about 3.30pm today if you're interested, on a programme called The Strand, then available via the net for a week after (I'll stick up a link when I get home) - but because I've had nine of the 14 tracks as a bootleg for a couple of years now, and because I wrote the Axl book (out now in paperback in time for Xmas in the UK and US, fight fans!) I could recite you the story behind it in my sleep, even sing you most of the songs, long before the official playback the other day. Hence the long line of magazines, newspapers and radio stations asking me for chapter and verse. (So far, the best version I've given is the one that will be in the next issue of Metal Hammer.)

Ultimately, the question is: is it any good? And the answers is: yes, it is. Not as good as Waxy thinks, obviously. And not, sadly, as good as the previous GN'R albums (the so-so covers album aside), but still... good. So now you know.

Meanwhile, Robert my agent finally got back to me about the story idea I sent him last week, and the verdict was, as predicted, that it didn't cut it. Fortunately, in explaining why it didn't work he pointed out very succinctly what I needed to do to make it better. I got so excited I banged the damn thing out in about 30 minutes. Then sent it back to him all a twitch and a twitter with excitement.

Now waiting back to hear what he thinks. There goes the next week then...

Ever had one of those fuck-arsing days? One where nothing goes right and everything you do or say is just plain wrong? I'm having one right now. The strange thing is that, astrologically speaking, my stars are all nicely aligned, apparently, and I should be surging ahead (it sez here in the Sunday Times). In reality, even my farts don't smell right.

For instance... I've been waiting to hear back from Robert my agent for about a week now about a story idea he asked me to outline for him. At the time, it sounded urgent. Rather urgent, in fact. So I got to work immediately. Even though I was unsure what I was actually doing and not very happy with the results, I sent it off to him post-haste, assuming that was the correct thing to do. I did add a proviso, though, that if it was a load of cobblers he would let me know immediately in order to give me the chance to have another crack at it. That was nearly a week ago. Since then, despite several emails from me to him that tried hard not to seem too needy but were clearly desperate, I've heard absolutely nothing back. Zilch. Zero. Rien. Consequently, I'm left with the terrible sinking feeling that not only was the story outline rubbish of the first order but that it was so bad there is simply no way back, and therefore no point getting back to me about it. In fact, why don't I just go and shoot myself and save us all a lot of bother.

And then there is the question of the new mortgage I thought I had sorted out last week. Indeed, was assured over the phone it was All Sorted and only Awaiting Paperwork to be signed by me and returned in the post. This time, however, I have heard back and the news is Not Good. First there was some oaf on the phone this morning telling me the cost of this new deal would be £7,000. Fuck off, I told him. That's not what we discussed. Oh yes, he said, after sloping off to 'check', that's right, ha ha. His mistake. No probs. I would hear no more about it. Paperwork on the way. Then I got another phone call this afternoon. From a different person from the same place about a different thing but with basically the same outcome. Fuck off, I told her. That wasn't what I agreed. What is fucking wrong with you cunts? Has the financial meltdown turned all your brains to dogshit? OK, she said, that's fine then, I'll send the Paperwork out. Just sitting here now waiting for the next phone call from them...

Other little things are also going south. Last Thursday I was told by the Quo office that I would have my copies of the Ear Book, wot I wrote, and the CD-DVD package, wot I also wrote liner notes for (and appear in) first thing the following morning. It's now Tuesday and they are not here. So I sheepishly sent them an email, asking if they could help. No probs, came the reply, just sending them to you now. At least in their case there are no evil undertones, as with the mortgage people, it's just par for the course. Nothing is going right at the moment. Or not today anyway.

Then, to top it off, I got an email from Scott Rowley at Classic Rock asking me about a bit of nonsense I wrote for the GN'R story in Metal Hammer. Scott was checking the legals, as they say, and had to be thorough. No probs, I said, and told him where I got it from. (Something he once wrote actually.) No, he said, that's not what I wrote. So where did my story come from then, I wondered? My arse, by the sounds of it, I finally decided. Where most of my stories come from, there are some people out there will tell you.

I shouldn't care but I do. Like I say, one of those days. Now I'm off to talk to wife about youngest daughter's latest school assessment. She met with her teacher this afternoon and is bursting to tell me all about it, though I'm half-expecting to be told they've discovered she's a secret member of the Bauder Meinhoff gang. And yes I know that's probably not how you fucking spell it...

Went to London today where I was given a listen of the Chinese Democracy album, which I'm reviewing for the BBC World Service. I'd love to tell you all about it but it's an exclusive for the Beeb, for a programme going out this Thursday so I really can't. Come Thursday though... well, I'll put up a link to the programme.

Went from the record company - who obviously had no idea who I was ("The BBC World Service, does that mean it, like, goes all over the world?" asked the exceptionally intelligent young man who put the CD on for me) - straight to another radio interview at a studio in London, this time with the Dave Fanning show on Ireland's RTE station. Dave is Ireland's foremost music DJ and has been for years, so it's always a blast appearing on his show. This time, it was about the Led Zep book, which he claimed to have read all the way through and which I almost believe. He certainly asked the right questions but then Dave always does. He does talk fast though. Just to try and keep up you end up talking fast too. So much so I have no idea what I may or may not have actually said. Too late to worry now, it went out live at 7.00pm this evening, just as I was driving home in the rain.

Got home just in time to eat half a Chinese meal - very apt, under the circumstances - before the phone rang and it was a gruff sounding chap named Tim phoning for an interview about the Zep book for another Australian radio show. I like doing these and the Aussies don't fuck around, getting straight into it but having a laugh too.

By the time I'd finished though the food had gone cold. But that was OK as so had I. If I can work out how to do the links I'll put some of these things up soon. So far though the only one I've heard that Brendan, the very nice chap in Australia organising all the interviews, has sent me came on an MP3 that also contained a clip of a young Aussie couple naked on a bed together and doing what young couples in such situiations tend to do. Quite a pleasant surprise in many ways but no sign of the Zep book anywhere. Must be a blip on Brendan's part. Or mine. I'm still working on it...

This from the Sunday Times out tomorrow. Obviously a man who knows what he's on about...

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/non-fiction/article5146789.ece

And then there's this from The Age in Australia which my mate Robert Logue sent me...

http://blogs. theage. com. au/noisepollution/archives/2008/11/when_giants_wal. html

Do I agree with any of them? Yes, mostly. It's surprising, in fact, how often reviews do get my books right. Or, in the case of the recent Telegraph one of Zep, even when they criticise, I could still see where the bloke was coming from.

As for the occaisonal real stinkers I've had, they've usually been right on too. Thankfully, none of those for the Zep so far. But then I haven't always lavished the time and space on some of my books that I did the Zep.

Anyway, whatever, if you fancy, have a look. And don't forget, if you're looking for something nice for Xmas, you can also go here...

http://www.amazon.co.uk/When-Giants-Walked-Earth-Biography/dp/0752875477/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1226770153&sr=8-2

Been getting up at 6.00a.m. a lot lately. Partly because it's impossible to sleep anyway with the dog and the boy (and the woman) all in the bed with me. Often because I have a story to write and it's one of the only times of the day or night when I can actually get any work done. Today I was up early for both reasons. Boy, dog, woman all sent me on my way. Writing about Chinese Democracy for Metal Hammer was what kept me there.

Only trouble was the phone kept ringing, the email kept pinging, then suddenly there they all were - the whole family - running like rabid dogs over a dungheap towards me. Still managed to get most of the Hammer story done but then I had to stop, in order to drive to BBC Radio Oxford where I was doing an interview for an Australian radio programme about the Zep book. Seems they've gone nuts for the Zep book in Oz. I was in there for nearly two hours before the bloke let me go, name of Rod. Good guy, actually. Sounded like he'd actually read the book. Between times, he also told me all about the famous Beer Wenches they have down under at their cricket matches. Made me want to get the next plane.

Felt so cheered I came home via Richer Sounds in Oxford where a very nice young chap named Ali sold me a new multi-regional DVD player. Came home and cooked a roast chicken dinner for all the family while wife, the family fixer in such matters, set to work setting up the new DVD. Then we all sat down as one big semi-happy family and tucked into the nicely browned bird. After that I was going to go back and finish the Hammer story but found myself instead sitting down with the unruly mob to watch the Children in Need fandango on TV. Our own kids were fascinated. They even tried to get me to phone in a pledge. But I explained that as we already give to the British Heart Foundation, the Blind charity I can't remember the name of, the one for African Children, the cancer one and the dogs and cats ones too, there was no pressing need to make ourselves feel even better by adding to the zillions already raised by the BBC for this one, though did find myself drying my eyes here and there as they cut to the true-life stories behind the charity. When, I wondered, did I suddenly do a Dr Who and regenerate into a do-gooder, if indeed that is what I (technically) am?

Was still pondering that - well, that and the eye-watering dresses of the delightfully dirty dancers of the Strictly Come Dance team - when I must have passed out. Woke up alone on the couch with the cast of Eastenders all doing some godawful musical sketch at full blast. There is a very definite down side to this getting up early business. Still haven't finished the Hammer story either. What will Uncle Axl say?

I am becoming fat again. That is to say, even fatter - again. Having been told by the doc three weeks ago that I'd lost 11 pounds since I'd last been weighed in the summer - something I can only put down to the fact of the treadmill I run (well, job... well, totter) on, wife then bought me such a cheap awful pair of 'new' running shoes, I pulled a calf muscle which has so far refused to heal, no matter how many massages and cold/hot creams I treat it with. This coupled to a rash of unexpected lunches, dinners, and towel-truly-thrown-in snacks I have found myself on the wrong if vastly pleasant end of, has meant those 11 pounds have all but returned. Or feel like it anyway.

The plus side is that I have also gotten to see some old friends like Maureen Rice, who I passed a very pleasant and nicely malingering lunch with the day before yesterday at Topo Gigio's in Soho. Topo's is not what it once was. The food is as good, the service possibly even better, but the place was empty. Of course, sitting there stuffing my face while staring into Maureen's eyes meant I hardly noticed who else was or was not in the room but as we left I couldn't help but take in the altered vista, so spare and utterly different from the rowdy place of quaffing and snuffling I have become over-familiar with these past 25 years.

Thankfully, Maureen and I are holding up somewhat better. Well, Maureen is. She just won another award for Editor of the Millenium or something but admitted she is so past caring it's all come that bit too late. Hasn't it all, I said. Then we got onto the really important stuff. Children, wives, husbands, parents, brothers, sisters, dead and alive. I left filled with her wisdom, and made my way, head up my arse, through the madness of London traffic to the Tube. The traffic had barely moved since I'd walked past it in the opposite direction three hours before. One thing about London, particularly Soho, I always enjoy myself there and am always delighted when I leave again. The thought of having to ever - ever - live there again would be enough to make me set the treadmill to 11 and never get off again...

Well... not sure where to start. The trouble with enjoying a little radio silence is the huge gap you feel obliged to fill when you finally switch on again. In my case, it's so big I almost feel like throwing in the towel. It's all right doing this on a day-to-day basis but trying to talk about a week feels over-indulgent, even for me. It becomes really hard to even remember why you should bother.

I'll clear up a couple of dead spots though. In no particular order... in amongst redecorating the bathroom and bedroom walls with my eternal inner (in this case, mainly outer) sickness, I somehow managed to find myself sitting at table, as they say, with a terrifically hilarious and charming couple of millionaires from the local village. He's nearly 70 and more ready to rock than a barreful of Axl Roses. She's half that age but wiser and definitely more far away than those hills Zeppelin sang about going over. How wife (and kids) and I found ourselves sitting there in the Big House I don't really know. One of our daughters is best friends with one of theirs. What a kick it was too. I mean, I've had lunch in some big fancy gaffs in my time but rarely have I enjoyed such a tasty slice of Old England. Half the guests were Etonians; the other half (me and wife) were straight from the gutter. It was, inevitably, a brilliant mix. 35-year-old wine you had to "warm in the mouth" and vintage bubbles "the colour of piss, that's how you know it's the good stuff," as I was told. We're doing it again this week too. Don't ask me how, only the kids really know...

And speaking of posh... I also attended the Status Quo auction of Quo-related paintings done by celebs of every stripe. It wa sheld at Bonham's in London, where £112,000 was raised for the Prince's Trust charity for under-privileged kids. A good cause and what a night. Personally, I felt like I'd drunk at least that much in champagne. Sadly, not the piss-coloured variety but certainly nothing to be sniffed at. One of those extra-jolly occasions where the waiters are so munificent you don't even realise you're actually drinking until you get up to leave and realise you've developed the ability to levitate.

The last seven days weren't all inebriated fun, though. In between the beloved cat dying, the even more beloved child undergoing her op - successful, thank God - and the computer still NOT FUCKING WORKING PROPERLY, and of course me being nonstop sick for three arse-wrenching days and nights which meant I had to miss the Zeppelin convention in Croydon where I was to have been interviewed publicly by Dave Lewis (sorry guys but you really REALLY wouldn't have wanted to see me in that state), the Blackberry exploded, the boiler threw in the towel, depriving us of hot anything for 48 hours until we could pay the boilerman his usual ransome to get it fixed, I also kept missing phone interviews for the Zep book. They're coming in thick and fast right now from here, the US, Australia, New Zealand and all points, er, easterly westish. And I keep missing them. And then... oh god, do you really care? I did at the time, but now... Not enough. Not nearly enough.

Oh dear. Not well. At all. That is, not well all over the place one miniute, the next feeling totally fine. An hour later, bad again. V.bad. You need details? No you don't.

Somehow in between all the mess, managed to fit in an 8.00a.m. phone interview about the Zep book with a radio station in Adelaide called 891 ABC, jock named Grant Cameron. Thought it would be one of those ha-ha five-minute radio jobs. Turned into a half hour interview with someone who was asking really good questions. Sat here afterwards drinking cold tea and staring out the window, thinking I feel OK actually. Maybe it was because the interview took my mind off it. One nano second later I was rushing to the loo. Made it. Just.

Had a shower after that. Had to. Which also made me feel better. Good enough in fact to do a 9.20a.m. live radio interview with City Talk in Liverpool - not about Zep this time but the Osbournes book, which is the lesser of the two books I've got coming out this Xmas. That is, lesser as in smaller, lighter, more fun-based, less deep (or supposedly) than Zep. If Zep is the mighty tome that contains some of my best ever work as a pro rock writer, something to put on the shelf alongside the bible, the Osbournes is more like this blog. Not over-considered. A stocking filler. Ha yeah ha.

Anyway, again I was astonished at how good the piece was. Not cos of me but the quality of the jock, in this case a guy named Duncan Barkes. Seems there's a lot of good radio out there if you know where to look. That I might also be featured somewhere on it is delightful. For me anyway.

Just considering that when... blllleeeeuuurrrgggghhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!

Jesus Christ, I felt ill again. Took a few spoonfuls of the magic potion the doctor gave me and went back to bed. Immediately - instantly - crashed out. Woke up an hour later feeling totally fine. Dizzy but fine.

OK... let's see. Checked email. Made a couple of calls. Found myself saying, "Yeah, fine," when people asked how I was doing. Laughed and joked and quite forgot about the evil bug lurking in my innards. Then as soon as the phone went down again, as if on cue... sspppllllllaaaattttttttttt!!!!!!!!!

Fuck this, I decided. More magic potion. More bed. Except this time I stayed there. The only reason I'm doing this now is because wife is changing the sheets and I need somewhere to sit. You want to know why? No you don't...

Things falling apart here. Things and me. Today that has meant the Backberry going doolally, all red lights flashing and controls not responding. Dealt with it in my usual hi-tech patient style and went to look for a hammer. On the way to the garage though my stomach began doing similar flashing lights-controls not responding things and I found myself running for the loo instead. Got there just in time to begin my now hourly impersonation of a human fountain. What has brought this on nobody knows. Food poisoning? Stress? Just general wankerliness? As usual, I await enlightenment with not quite baited breath...

A brief note from the author...

No, I'm not dead. Life has just put its gun to my head and shot away several days. Like that. I will get back to this with some of the sordid details later this week. Meanwhile, a brief summary: The Times ran a huge extract from the new Zeppelin book last Saturday. Chose the 'choicest' bits and made the book look like Hammer of The Gods x 10. It isn't. It's better than that. But that's newspapers for you. Even posh ones. I then found myself actually writing the cover story of the Times2 arts section for their Monday paper, which just shows what excellent taste they have.

Then our cat got run over and killed by a car. We got a phone call in the middle of the night and wife went berserk. I had to go and identify the body, if you know what I mean. Many, many tears in the house, not least from youngest daughter who loved her Mushcat. Then... the very next day same daughter was in hospital having a kidney operation. Last minute, taking advantage of a cancellation, very, very stressful. They put her under in my arms. Worse than 100 cats dying and one was bad enough.

Then... lots (really too much) of other things. Result: no sleep, not till Hammersmith or any other damn place. Including the Classic Rock awards, which somehow managed to struggle on without me. Though tonight I'm off to Bonham's in London for the Status Quo auction. In a suit. How weird is that?

After the week I've had, not very.