Star Blog

No, of course we didn't go to Maui. I wouldn't risk travelling with my lot on a 40-minute train ride to London let alone an 18-hour air trip to Hawaii. No, we are doing our usual thing for New Year's - nothing. Going to bed early, in fact. As usual. The only Auld Lang Syne or however it's spelt I have done these past few years has been done while lying in bed reading. Wife has even told me not to expect any hanky-panky. Well, pass the heart pills, there's a shock. And a relief. You know the scene in Shrek 3 where he and the wife finally get the brats to sleep then eye each other up and say, "So what shall we do now?" and the next thing you see them lying face-to-face on the bed snoring? That's us. Last time I mistakenly looked in a mirror I even looked like fucking Shrek. Only more green. And a happy new year to you too. (I was going to say crappy new year but I thought that would make me sound unduly sad and bitter and I wouldn't want anyone to think that. Obviously.)

End of the year. End of my rope. Tether. Thing. No blog for Christmas this year, same as last, only this. And yet, so much fun in there too, if exhausted. Kevin and Yvonne, the Lord of the Manor, Lyn and Tom and you and us and all of them. Strange unexpected messages from those once thought lost, and those once thought friends no more. Weird encounters with the small people. Clashes with the mighty self. All the wrong people reading this for all the wrong reasons, a pain in the whatsit, wanting to stop, except that then all the right people would go too. I keep being asked: what are you doing for new year? Oh, I'm going to the beach in Maui, me and the whole family, we're going to commune with the whales. Except there aren't any whales this time of the year in Maui. Or here, either.

So here it is, as Lennon sang, and what have we done? Well, you know me, any excuse to moan. But I have to say that, by and large, this has been one of the more interesting Xmas holidays so far, not that I've been on holiday of course. For this family, the whole thing kicked off in earnest with the surprise visit of my kid brother two weeks ago, to celebrate my son's 3rd birthday. Since then, without even trying, we seem to have been either visited by or been the ones visiting upon, a lot of surprise guests, family and friends, old and new. I know this is how Xmas is supposed to be but, frankly, I always thought that was for the movies. The really bad movies.

Instead, here I am on Xmas Eve, kids in bed, wiped out by the last few days of extracurricular godknowswhat, food in the oven, and a glass of way too expensive red wine on the sill next to me, trying to make sense of it, though not too hard. I'd love to give you chapter and verse but I am way past that stage, energy-wise. It's all been given away. A clue, though: today we - that is, wife and I - found ourselves sitting through a special Xmas church service in yonder village. The first time either of us have been in a church since the day we married, I was even wearing a suit and tie, and singing hymns. No, I haven't turned into the enemy, I am just going with the flow, seeing where it takes us. And as we had the Lord over for dinner and drinks last night and he invited us, insisted frankly, that's where we found ourselves. We weren't going to go, cos we knew the kids would run riot, then at the last minute we bumped into Kev and Yvonne, two of four people in the whole world we trust with the kids, who told us, insisted frankly, that they should look after them while we fucked off to see how the other half lives.

Then there was the other evening at Kev and Yvonne's, knocking back drinks and snacks, laughing till our sides hurt, then the night the Lord turned up unexpectedly and also turned our insides out with laughter. And... so on.

It was all fucking right, actually. But... hey, that's just a matchstick head. I really don't have it in me to tell more right now. Just to say, I also slipped and broke some ribs, all three kids have been suffering at intervals from this vomiting bug, yet another good friend is getting divorced, and that my thoughts went out tonight when we got home to Dave Lewis, TBL inventor, numero uno Led Zep x-pert and one of the most hepful and nice people I encountered while trying to write the Zep book. The store where he works, Zavvi, have just announced they're closing the whole chain which I assume means Dave is now out of work and currently having his shittest Xmas since whenever. So fun as these past few days have been for me, and possibly for you, broken ribs and vomitting kids notwithstanding, I hope this Xmas we do all remember it's so-called true meaning and think of those less fortunate. And, perhaps even more important, to thank our lucky fucking stars we still have ribs to break. It could be you? It so fucking will be one of these days.

Meanwhile, back at the laugh farm, that expensive red is calling. No, I can't afford it - who really can? - but I've had my share of shit Xmases too. Don't make it better or worse, just means I'm going to enjoy it while I can. Before Santa tries cramming his fat red arse down my non-existent chimney... again...

Hohobloodyho...

More shopping, more presents, more food, more cake, more wine, and somehow in between all that I got my final crown of the year put in at the dentist's, just in time for Xmas, and eldest daughter got presented with her blue belt in karate. Oh, and we bought some plectrums for her new (secondhand) guitar and she wrote her first song. There was also more stuff to put on the tree and... oh yeah, wife's car spent the day in the garage only to be told at the end of it there was nothing Ben the manic mechanic could do for her, not this side of the Big Day anyhow. And then I walked out of the arrogant village butcher's shop in Cholsey vowing never to darken their Topside again because the inbred old bitch who owns it treated me like a cunt. Oh, and we booked a holiday online for next summer at a cottage in Dorset we've never been to before and can't really afford right now. Then I cooked dinner, we laughed and rowed and sang songs, and there was nothing on the telly except The Two Jakes which as anyone who has read The Kid Stays In The Picture knows is absolute rubbish, if vaguely interesting rubbish for that. Oh, and Robb Fynn got in touch via his PR Michelle to say we would DEFINITELY talk after Xmas. So that's all right then...

Quite a weekend as weekends go. Friday night I went to my new mate the Lord of the Manor's house for Xmas drinks. Wife was invited too but the kids are taking it in turns to have colds and today was the boy's turn. She was knackered anyway so no biggie. Shame though as she missed quite a bash.

I love the Lord's gaff, not just because it's so stately home huge, but because he's such a wild card. They were serving mould wine in the drawing room when I turned up. I found myself sitting on a couch before the roaring fire, looking up to admire the oil painting of Margaret Thatcher on the wall, when Iris - a mad 90-year-old who has lived the sort of life Riley would have blushed at - prodded her dozing husband and began telling him how much she and I had in common. "We're both from LON-DON!" she roared, "We both lived in CALI-FOR-NIA once and now we're going to COM-PARE SEX LIVES!" Hubby opened one eye and gazed at me. "Jolly good," he said and went back to sleep.

Meanwhile, the Lord kept introducing me to all and sundry as "the famous authour of the best-selling book on the musical group Led Zeppelin." Which was also jolly good, it transpired. Then he grabbed me by the arm and introduced me to Tim. "You must know Tim," he said. "Tim, you must know Mike..." It was Tim Henman. "Tell me about this book you've written," he said. So I did, vaguely. "Gosh," he said. "Why would anyone want to tell all their secrets?" History, I replied. "You wait and see, people will still be talking about Henman Hill at Wimbledon for decades. Longer. The legend will just keep growing. Sooner ot later you might want to set the record straight. Or emboss it."

He looked at me thoughtfully. "It is true," he said, "that the older I get the better I seem to have been in people's minds." There was more of this sort of stuff but you get the picture. By now we were onto the champagne the colour of piss, as the Lord puts it, meaning the good stuff, and I'd stopped taking mental notes. Or doing anything too mental at all.

Consequently yesterday was like one of those barely remembered Saturdays from my life-before-children. Well, almost, as I spent most of it either eating or lying in bed reading - Ronnie Wood's autoiography. (Good but not as good as I thought it'd be.) Apart from the evening, that is, when I was supposed to be doing an in-depth interview over the phone with Robb Flynn from Machine Head. This was supposed to happen on Thursday night but Robb was asleep, and then he wasn't but was busy doing something else and etc, and so we rearranged it for tonight. Except he wasn't there when I phoned at 9.00pm as arranged, nor again when I phoned an hour or so later. So I left my number, again, and my email, and waited. I'm still waiting.

Then today I made up for it by taking the whole gang out for a day's mooching around the shops. There's this one place we sometimes go on a Sunday that is like a garden centre come antiques emporium come restaurant come field. The kids love it cos it's full of kids' things. Me and wife love it cos it's full of me and wife things, and somehow the mix works. as long as you don't mind flashing the cash. Today that meant buying a secondhand acoustic guitar for eldest daughter who is 'musical', some fairy dolls and doobries to decorate the Xmas tree for youngest daughter who is 'theatrical' and a racing car for the boy who is a boy. Oh, and an antique designer handbag made of the flesh of a baby yak or something for wife.

Got home and immediately taught daughter the chords to Wild Thing by The Troggs, Sweet Jane by the Velvet Underground and Can't Explain by The Who, i.e. the same three or four chords each time. Rather cooly, she picked the whole thing up just like that. Like I said, 'musical'. Then we sat down to yesterday's leftover spag-bol and now I feel sick. Which won't do as the phone will be ringing any minute now for another radio interview about The Book, and I need to sound on-form. Or at least alive. Which somehow I still continue to be, despite all this sodding Xmas cheer and the rest.

Finished off writing a review of the '35th anniversary edition' of Stormbringer by Deep Purple for Classic Rock this morning, scoffed some bacon and beans, then skiddaddled out the door with wife and boy for Oxford, to do yet more Xmas shopping. Girls were on a school trip to see a panto which meant they wouldn't be back till five so that gave us a whole afternoon of wandering around the bewildered Xmas crowds, looking for... stuff. Wonderfully, we ended up buying more presents for us than for anyone else. I got a new wallet and a couple of half-price books from Borders - the Richard Prior autobiography and the Ronnie Wood one. Wife got two tickets for the John Barrowman concert at the New Theatre in May and a BIG new bottle of Hugo perfume which like everything else this year was going for nearly half the normal price. Got to say, apart from the fact that the house is now worth less than the mortgage we pay on it, I'm quite enjoying this recession so far. But then i lived through the three-day week in the 70s. When we all start collecting candles and having weekly baths, then tak to me about hard times. Now I'm sitting here trying to phone Robb from Machine Head for a Metal hammer interviewer but the phone number they've given me doesn't work.

Wait... a text from Alex the editor. A new number to try. The night ain't over yet...

Another don't-know sort of day. Sent the last of my Xmas cards but cos I did it in two maybe three parts over too many days I couldn't remember whether I'd sent as many as I'd intended, or even who did or didn't get one. Sat here scratching my balls staring at the computer screen trying to figure it out before realising... I couldn't.

Next thing I was out shopping with wife for Xmas presents - not 'real' Xmas presents but the kind you get for worker-school-acquaintences-contacts-people-that-buy-you-them-so-you-have-to-buy-them-back type stuff. Mainly, this can be atteneded to by simply shelling out for some decent half-price plonk, which Tescos is full of at the moment what with the jolly old credit crunch etc. The rest can be done with a visit to the Bargain Store. But you still end up wandering around aimlessly not sure what you're supposed to be looking at and/or for who and/or what. Found myself heading back to the car at one point clutching some Xmas crackers that wife then pointed out contained such child-friendly items as corkscrews, scissors and... other crap stuff. No, of course I hadn't checked, I'd just seen them in the sale at some silly knockdown price and thought, yeah, that'll do...

Unfortunately, once submerged in it this attitude is hard to shake off and after I'd mumbled and burped through dinner, helped drag the kids to bed and stared at the telly for too long watching Nigella Lawson's huge breasts show me how to concoct lots of artery-hardening desserts for that special Xmas dinner I won't be having with friends, I was totally unfit for human consumption.

Unfortunately, this was also the time this evening when I'd agreed to do a live radio interview with ABC Radio in Australia about the Zep book. The trouble is, for them it was morning, bright and summery and early too, their listeners getting ready for work and school or maybe the beach, whistling no doubt as they squeezed into their T-shirts and thongs. For me, it was cold dark evening and I felt like a half-witted whale emerging from a whiskey swimming pool, bleary eyed and sounding like a rusty hinge. It started off OK but I knew I'd taken a wrong turn somewhere when I found myself blathering on incoherently about heroin and groupies and magick and god knows what else.

"Thanks, Mick, but we have to leave it there," the pleasant-sounding-if-faintly-appalled-sounding DJ announced abruptly, and before you could say Kashmir I was gone, just the professionally cheery producer to console me. "We have a lot of Led Zeppelin fans that listen to the station," she explained, tipping me the wink. In other words, what they'd wanted was, shucks, yeah, let's rock, which I'd have been happy to give them any day of the week if I'd had my head screwed on properly. Instead, what I gave them was death and darkness and the bleak prospect of no tomorrows. I'd have cut me off quick listening to that shit at eight in the morning. Poor buggers. Poor me. Us. It all.

So now I get to go to bed feeling like a cunt, all cut-off and stupid and inappropriate. Nothing new there then...

One of those pure rock'n'roll days spent in the office sorting out my accounts for the VAT man, how I love that wanker and all his headless children too. This stuff takes soooo long, though, it leaves me feeling nauseated. And shit. And, like, unhappy. Dude. The only light relief came this morning in the form of Norman the plumber. Wife discovered yet another hole in the roof where the endless rain was seeping through last week. Fortunately I was in the car on the way to London at the time, forcing her to do what I would have done anyway - call Norm!

Good old Norm. Semi-retired now, as he keeps on telling us, and a keen golfer who never misses his lunch, we're lucky he could fit us into his merciless tight schedule. Seeing as he made a special case for us, though, when he'd finished I offered him a 'seasonal' glass of Irish, which he was still politely refusing as he downed the glass (large). I nearly joined him but knew my fragile constitution would never hold up to something like that so early in the over-prolonged day.

Got to go now as the VAT shit is finally done and waiting to be spent Special Cunt Class to Damian my accountant, a man who will know exactly what to do with it. Meanwhile, wife and I are having an early dinner as I am taking eldest daughter to her Christmas choir concert, where she will be singing like an angel as I sit in the back row making peace signs and passing the chillum to the other parents of a Certain Age. Obviously, when I say 'chillum' I am being metaphorical. More like I shall just be passing the song sheet so we can all join in. Like I say, pure fuckin' rock'n'roll, baby. Move over Ozzy, somebody tell Jimmy the news...

A better day. Just about, though God was still punishing me for being too tired to give much of a fuck yesterday, as is His Wont. Still...

Surprised by how many responses the mention of the name Simon Cowell brought this blog. Does anyone out there like him? I mean, apart from the people on his payroll? And of course himself? Meanwhile, I'm sitting here with a picture in the paper of Diana, the Quirky One, in a sailor's suit and I have to admit it's doing not necessarily unwelcome things to my physical aspect, as it were. How long it will last though depends I suppose on how long anyone will remember her for? A year? Less? Christ, why am I even writing about it like I care?

In 'reality' I spent most of today reviewing CDs and DVDs for Classic Rock. Long time since I did this sort of thing and it felt good to be back in the saddle. Almost like being back in the loop again. It helps too that the mighty Metal Hammer, bless 'em, have a big feature by me in there this month - my little take on the whole Chinese Democracy saga, while Classic Rock has also run the first of what will be a series of monthly columns from me in their latest issue - war stories, the kind of which I tell here sometimes. What if I run out of stories to tell though? What if my testicles wither and drop off - again? What if I put this picture of Diana in her sailor suit in the bin and take my hand out of pocket? It's a crazy fucked-up, nautical world.

A horrible nothing day. It shouldn't have been but it was. I was too tired for anyything. Even a couple of hours in bed in the afternoon didn't help. Even wife and kids going out for a few hours to visit relatives didn't help. Had a fight with them all when they got back, cooked a bad-intentioned dinner then sulked in my office while they watched the interminable finals of sodding X Factor. Doncha just hate Simon fucking Cowell? Doncha wish he would just come out of the closet and stop giving the rest of us a hard time? It's not the music I hate - it's not a show about singing or music, or talent, obviously, it's just another reality soap opera - it's the fact that twat thinks he knows better than everyone else. Being richer and more successful doesn't mean he knows anything. It just means he's a closet bender in need of a good man to shut him the fuck up.

Anyway, who cares? I'm only pissed off because the day ended in such ruins, with me nodding off on the couch while the rest of the house fled upstairs, still yacking about what a travesty it was JLS didn't win and how horrible daddy can be sometimes. Often. Whatever.

Spent the day in the car it seemed. Drove my brother home to London, then picked my eldest daughter up from school and we went food shopping to Waitrose together. In their desperate attempt not to do a Woolies they had set up mini-stalls in every aisle to tempt customers into trying 'new things', supermarket code for 'spend more', giving out free samples of hams, pates, chicken pesto dishes and whatnot. As eldest daughter is like me and loves food we were in heaven, sampling everything then deciding it was sooooo good we just had to buy it. By the time we got to the cashout line I had come to my senses enough thankfully to start putting stuff back on the shelf. Not the chicken pesto and pate stuff, though. That's for some serious daddy and daughter bonding over Xmas sometime.

Cant remember the evening terribly well, except for the fact that Robert rang to tell me he actually liked the latest draft of the story idea we've been talking about. Well, likes it enough not to make me do it again. "We can flesh it out later," is what he actually said, which is agent-speak for it's-OK-we-can-fix-it-later-if-anyone-cares-enough-to-buy-it. Good enough, though, certainly for a dark and rainy Friday evening. We also talked about what I might Do Next bookwise now that the Zep book is out there living the life of Jimmy. There are Certain Ideas. But that's probably all they'll stay for the time being. Hey, it's Xmas tomorrow, isn't it? Or was that yesterday?

Drove to London to pick up my youngest brother, Little Danny. So-called because our father was Big Danny, though it should have been the other way around as Little Danny grew up to be the size of a house and Big Danny was, as my mother used to say, "quicker to jump over than walk round."

Anyway, Little Danny - or Uncle Danny, as he is now known to my wife and children and even to me - was coming to stay for a couple of days, to celebrate my own 'little' boy's 3rd birthday, which was today. The advantage of having a child whose birthday lies so close to Xmas is that it kickstarts the holidays in earnest. With no chance of getting any work done there really was nothing for it but for me to cook and cook and cook and, um, enjoy the very small, very occasional, just medicinal really half-glass of red wine. For that ticklish throat and slight cough I've been incubating lately. And then just to be friendly.

Wife's parents also joined us, which was nice as it's the first meal her mum has been able to sit upright and have with us since she became ill last year. She's still not 'better', because she's at that age where such concepts frankly no longer apply, but she's certainly doing better than she has done for over a year. This time last Xmas, in fact, it didn't look seem likely she'd still be here for the boy's 3rd birthday. But she is, and so is wife's dad, an amiable fellow given to telling long impenetrable stories about his favourite restaurants - country pubs - which always end the same way, with an invitation to visit said establishment - with him - at your earliest convenience. All well and good until you actually take him up on one of these offers and discover his idea of a 'good' place to eat is one where the food is exceptionally cheap but not entirely cheerful. Still, these stories are better than the ones he spends even longer telling in excruciating detail about about his permanently broken-down car, a heap of junk last fit for the road sometime back in the early 80s and to which he is woefully devoted, as only one car-lunatic can be.

Now you know why I spend most of my time in the kitchen 'cooking' at these family get-togethers. Boy - or should I say, Buzz Lightyear - had a good time though, and so did Uncle Danny - or should I say Zarg the Evil Emperor. They were still at it when I retired 'tired' and 'emotional' to my bed. Well, it had been a too long day. All my days are but this one was special.

Had to go to BBC Radio Oxford this morning for a 9.30a.m. live interview about the Zep book with their resident Wogan, a saintly sort of bloke called Phil Kennedy who just shrugged when I arrived late and put me straight on air before I'd even got my coat off. I was wondering if and when we might get around to this. After weeks of going to the studios for interviews with every other local BBC radio station in the country - not to mention a World Service TV interview at one stage - it seems only fair that I get to show off on my own local service. It went well, I thought, too, especially as neither Phil nor his jauntily named producer Harry Beer had actually seen a copy of the book yet. We faked it... I mean, improvised... nicely for that time of the morning, I felt, and me with only a half-cup of cold tea and a bit of cardboard toast to fuel his endeavours driving through rush-hour traffic to get there. Heroic stuff, you'll agree.

Then this afternoon I found myself actually writing something new. A very rare occasion. Well, working on a new slant for something that is now beocming a bit old, frankly. This story idea Robert my agent has been coaching me through and which so far I have spectacularly failed to come up with a draft for that he hasn't screwed up and thrown in the metaphorcial bin. This time, though, I think I've got it. Of course, I thought that the last two times but, well, I have this feeling, see. Isn't that rigt, Robert? Robert?

Meanwhile, the BBC's Radio 5Live have just been on asking if I could do a phone interview with them tomorrow morning, the producer bloke introducing himself with an email designed to flatter, full of details about my chequered past as a 'founding editor' of Classic Rock and - going right back here to Fred Flintstone days - my time on Sounds magazine (which folded about 18 years ago). Inevitably, I was deeply impressed. Unfortunately, I have heard nothing back since I told them I'd love to, but that I've got a dentist's appointment at 10.40 and, er, well, can we fit it in around that. Hearing nothing back is the professional way we have in the media of saying "Bugger off." So that's that then.

And now I've got to go and see if I can help wife induce a sleep-like state in at least two of our three children, in order to precipitate something we euphemistically like to call dinner round here but which usually involves sitting hunched over cold plates while at least two out of three kids swing off our backs, necks, fronts, sides, whatnots. It's a knock-knock life...

Was supposed to be spending the day sorting through stuff in my office, specifically, the mortgage arrangements, which I thought I had all done and dusted - until I opened the letter from the NatWest goons a couple of weeks back 'confirming' the new arrangements, details of which bear no relation whatsoever to what was actually said over the phone. Or not when I was on it anyway.

In the end, just couldn't face making that call, though. I've got a little cold, oh woe, and my throat hurts, my skin is clammy, my brain aching, my arse twitching, and... well, fuck it, wife had bought me a box of Xmas cards and told me to sign them so she could send them out before it's too late (again) and I did that instead. Amazing how long such things take. I didn't know I had so many so-called friends until I sat here scrolling through my address book, wondering who it would be safe to leave out. I do think it's a dying art, though. Not so long ago I used to get so many cards I had to hang string across the mantlepiece and walls to hang them all up. Latterly, however, a small window sill does the job more than adequately. Of course, this might not be unrelated to the fact that for the past few years I haven't exactly been - technical term - fucked to send any myself. But, hey, this year I'm making the effort so that's all right.

Meanwhile... got a nice email from Malcolm the boss at Orion mentioning the very 'nice' review of the Zep book in the new issue of Q, which I hadn't actually seen, not being a regular Q buyer. Wife went and got it for me though and - lo! - Malcolm was right (again) and very nice it is too. Thank you Peter Kane and Q. Sincerely. You have good hearts. Which brings me back to Xmas cards. Got as far as Jimmy Page's address and wondered... would he want to see a card from me this year or not? Decided that, on balance, the answer was probably no. Shame. Though he wouldn't acknowledge it, I'm sure, Jimmy has fewer more sincere admirers than this one. Just wish he would get back to making music again without all the palaver. What stuff that would be if he would only... will it.

A different sort of a weekend, starting with Friday night and my dinner invitation to the monthly meeting of the Old Gods. Can't say too much, obviously, old chap, except to explain that officially it was a meeting of the local Dining Club, to which my best new mate Brian had kindly invited me. We travelled to the 'gig' - a country house in Woburn - in one of Brian's big chauffeur-driven motors, me and Brian and Jamie the president, or 'Ron' as he is actually known to the other members, though it wasn't explained why. Really, I felt we should have been travelling in one of those horse-drawn carriages you see in old Hammer House of Horror films, but we still managed to arrive in style, just in time for the pre-show wine.

I got introduced to all the gang - sorry, can't divulge names, you know how it is, old boy - and they all asked the same thing: was I one of Brian's mates from Africa (where he used to own several diamond mines, or was it platinum...)? Sadly, I wasn't. Instead, I was introduced formally - at table - as the well-known author and bon-vivant, whose latest book, a splendid piece of blather on the celebrated rock band Led Zeppelin was currently available in the shops. As I was at least 20 years younger than the next oldest guest I didn't expect anyone to be terribly impressed by this piece of news. Instead, to my delight and mild horror, it was greeted with a chorus of ooohs and "We're-not-worthy"s. Clearly, nothing fazes this crowd. And everyone of them a wag with something funny and/or smart and/or both to say at the drop of a hat. For once, I didn't have to sing for my supper at all, just sat there between Brian and 'Ron' taking it all in. Not that my head was turned, obviously. Old chap.

The meal itself was fantastic: soup, fish, meat, tart, cheese, white wine, red wine, port, coffee, etc etc etc. The rather smart - and rather expensive - new blazer I'd bought for the occasion that had fitted perfectly when I left home could barely be done up more than a near-pinging gold button at a time by the time I was dropped off again several hours later. What a pip, as they say. Must do it again sometime, I begged them.

After that Saturday could only be a let down and so it proved, though in a nice way. Both girls were off for a sleepover at a friend's, which just left boy, wife and me. And dog. Which worked well. Dog and I had the for once gloriously sunny if fucking cold Ridgeway to ourselves in the morning, which allowed me to walk off my food-over nicely. Then after lunch I went back to bed for a couple of hours, always the sign of a good day for me. I remember my own dad used to do that on a Satuday afternoon when I was a kid and I could never work out why, Saturday afternoons being about as close to rock'n'roll heaven as I could get as a kid. Not anymore, gringo. I am finally at that age where the bed is the only thing that works for my head. Really works, that is. Bed, head, solitude. Not always, just often.

Which left today. All kids back so all hell resumed. Though again not in a bad way entirely. Decided to hold my own version of the Dining Club and spent the day cooking for everyone, cooked brekkie, light lunch and big dinner. Now they are all conked out snoring, and I'm ready to join them. Oh, there's been more to it than that, there always is when it comes to three small kids and one big wife. And dog. But whatever it was, it can't have been that bad or I wouldn't be here now, dizzy with contentment in that eaten far too much don't give a fuck sort of way. I even spoke to Ross earlier. He's just back from LA and already getting ready for his next trip. He's working a lot with Metallica at the moment, which remidned me how much I'd like to work with them again too. Speaking to Lars on the phone the other week for the piece in The Times was good considering it's been 15 years since we last did anything like that together. But then Lars has a memory like an elephant, as well as three kids of his own.

"Who'd have thought that time in Tampa [in 1989] when we were both fucked up out of our heads that one day we'd have six kids between us?" he chortled. "Now we're really fucked up, eh?" he added. I could only sigh in agreement.

No sleep last night thanks to a sick child-bad dog interface scenario. As a result, don't know what happened to today. Oh, yeah, paid some bills, sent out some invoices, tried to finish the Motley Crue story for Guitar World which is now officially late and woke up head pressed to the keyboard, looking at 500 pages of the letter 'Z'. Then drove into Oxford for a live interview with BBC Radio WM about the book.

Came home through murderous rushhour traffic and shoved some of last night's reheated spag-bol down my neck along with an unfinished glass of red. Then wrote a pleading email to Brendan, my best new mate in Australia, asking if we can put off tonight's interview, scheduled for 11.00pm, till another time, maybe. It is now 8.24pm and I am going to bed. Rock and roll all night, baby, whoah, yeah...

My turn for the dentist's today, getting two crowns and a bridge launched into my gob. What absolute beauts they are too. I can now smile with half my mouth, like Elvis eating a cheeseburger on the toilet.

Had to go into Oxford in the afternoon to meet with Andy and Geoff the TV twins about several secret projects we're just one good idea away from starting. Then off to pick up my v.expensive gentleman's suit and tie from Ede & Ravenscroft, founded 1689, for my big Dining Club date this Friday night. (Ssshhh, you know who...)

Back home after that for more phone interviews. The first with Buckethead, Bull and Prince at Real Radio in Orlando about Chinese Democracy. Well, that's what it was supposed to be about. We actually just bullshitted and calld Axl names for 15 minutes. My kind of radio. Then one from New Zealand about the Zep book, followed by a magazine interview with Michael from The Drum magazine in Australia. All good, even if it did interfere with my enjoyment of I'm A Celebrity Get me Out Of Here a bit.

Oh, and I also got some writing done. Well, a bit. I'm doing a history of Motley Crue for Guitar World. Great fun, if only I can steal the time to finish the job by tomorrow. Need the $$$ too as Nice Nick the dentist is taking most of my hard-earned right now. We're not celebrating Christmas this year, we're having Nickmas instead. What a half-smile, though. It's taken years off me. Well, days...

Was up at 6.00a.m. trying to finish writing the links for the Chinese Democracy programme I was recording today for Planet Rock. Also because wife had a Biggie Appointment at the Dentist's for 11.00 which meant I'd be looking after the boy for an hour and a half. Somehow got it all done, and was in the car by 1.00pm heading for London. Gave me a chance to listen to my new Bach CD which, I decided, I wasn't, um, that crazy about after all, actually. Bach is for the Big Brains of classical really, and while I dig his crazy shit a lot, man, there's also a great deal that leaves a poor slob like me far behind. Maybe one day. When I'm older and have grown a rounder head.

Switched to Van Morrison's Astral Weeks. Not, I hasten to add, because of all the fuss about it lately, what with Van doing the whole album again live and all. Just that I ordered it from Amazon in the summer in a 3CD box that also included Moondance and the early live one whose title escapes me right now. Thought I preferred Moondance on first hearing again after all these years. Now realise I like Astral Weeks better.

It also made me think, bizarrely about Axl Rose. How Van recorded the whole of Astral Weeks in three days, and how well it has stood up these past 40 years. Axl, who took 12 years to finally get round to 'finishing' Chinese Democracy, an album no one but Axl will care about in 40 years, should take a leaf out of Van's book. As should Jimmy Page, if you ask me. All this poncing about waiting for Robert Plant to say whether it's OK or not to do Zeppelin again, then tearing up your bus ticket when he says it's not and getting a New Singer (just what the world wasn't waiting for)... why doesn't he just forget the whole thing. Get a new singer, all right, but go in and make a bluesy, folky, Celticy, magicky album in three days, no fucking around, no tears or tantrums. It's not like he needs the millions anyway, right, so why the fuck not? You know, like a real musician, not some poncy rock star?

I mean, why not? Which made me think of me. I'd so love to go in and write a book in three days. Or, more realistically, three weeks, say. Just bash the shit out and type THE END. For good or ill. I mean, yes, I've done it already with the John Peel book a few years back and then, this year, the Osbournes book. But they were biographies. I'd like to do it with some of my own, home-made stuff. The gear that comes straight from the queer, if you know what I mean. Something to think about, maybe, as I drive to Oxford tomorrow for my meeting with Andy the TV director who wants to make... rock... things... while I'm still trying to make head or tail of Bach, the old fucking fucker.

Actually got some kip on Saturday night so Sunday went better than usually advertsied, though I spent most of it in my still shambolic office, working. Or trying to. Same again today, mainly trying to write a half-decent script for a show I'm recording for Planet Rock tomorrow on the story behind Chinese Democracy. So far I've managed to agree a running order of tracks with Lovely Liz the producer, and written precisely two links. Not good for a day's work. But then I've also been trying to play happy families at the same time, cheers, and get my car into the garage for its annual MOT, double cheers. Oh, and trying to stem my palpitations at opening the letter from NatWest with my so-called mortgage papers inside - all present and correct minus the teensy-weensy detail of the actual deal I agreed over the phone, triple arse-crucnhing cheers.

Now I know these people are having a tough time right now what with the entire financial world going down the shitter but it soon becomes clear why when you discover they can't manage something incredibly simple like sending me the right figures on a piece of paper for a deal it already took me an hour on the phone to agree to. In deference to Bob the bank manager who I like a lot and seems like a good guy, as it goes, I shall refrain from using the 'c' word but I'm fucked if I won't use this one about whatever tosser sent this to me from their mortgage department - WANKER!

Meanwhile, back at my desk, soft dick in one hand, hard laptop in the other, I realise the End of the Year feeling I always get at this time of year has once again overtaken me. Not only have I all but given up on exercise, healthy eating, and giving too much of a shit, so, it seems, has most of the rest of the world. I've still got a few more Zeppelin phone interviews to do, still got a couple more Chinese Democracy type things to get through, still got a rollcall of emails, meetings, phone messages and whatnots to endure before the end of this week. After that, though, right now, anyway, as far as I can squint... nada. (Except for beating up the prats at NatWest, of course.) Until the so-called new year anyway.

Here's hoping, at least...