Star Blog

Back on planet Metallica today, sitting here at the cottage, still coughing, still dropping, pecking away though on the black stuff. Thinking. One thing I really like about writing books like this is how much thinking goes into them. You might assume that would be the case for everything someone like me writes. Not so. Magazine articles are like eating ice-cream. Pile 'em high, make 'em look and taste good, and wait for them to be gobbled up quick quick quick style. Books are something else. Like feeding the five thousand three good squares a day for a year or so. Which is why every book I have ever written (the good ones anyway) has been such a journey. Usually I start out feeling I already know something about the subject, and usually I do. Once the serious work begins on the book though you soon realise you know nothing, really. That the truth really is still out there waiting to be discovered and that whatever you had or thought you had to start with was only ever one small square of the rubik cube. In fact, I'd say I spend more time sitting here thinking about these books than I do actually writing them. You can't put the pieces of the jigsaw together until you find out where all the pieces lie. Not that you ever come out with ALL of the pieces, of course, just enough hopefully to finish the picture you finally feel you want to paint, after all that thinking has finally joined up somehow in what's left of your mind. After you've finished fretting, farting, feeding and fornicating with it. After you've had all you can stands you can stands no more. Which reminds me, what are you doing for New Year's eve then? No, wait, don't tell me...

Two questions I always dread:

a) Are you all ready for Xmas? (Said with that horrible sickly smile.)

and...

b) Did you have a nice Xmas? (Said with the horrific glee of the truly evil.)

The answers, almost always, as follows, even if they're not exactly what I say, always.

a) Are you taking the piss?

and...

b) You are taking the piss.

Not that I hate Xmas, exactly. Rather, I just think it doesn't like me all that much. If it did why am I always left feeling lessened by it somehow? Physically, mentally, emotionally, but mainly physically. Over-eating, over-drinking, yes, of course, but all the other stuff too. The ghastly obligations, to smile, to be welcoming, to be nicer than you really are. The rotten telly except for those times when there are too many other people or children around to enjoy it. The sheer... weight of the damn thing. The crushedness of it all.

I like the end of year thing, though. That I don't mind giving in too. This time of the year is like one big seventh day to me. Fuck. It. All. And I do, oh yes. Before it can get the chance to fuck me first. Like it does the rest of the time.

It is also six weeks nearly since I was on the running machine, which also has something to with it. Six weeks nearly since headgate, followed by the Mother of all Flus, followed by X-this, X-that. Still, at least I managed to get back to the cottage today, working on Metallica, feeling right on top of it for the first four hours, then falling behind in the metaphorcial snow for the last two, tracks all swept away by the whitey X-stuff inside my head. I go now, to return to my Scott of the Antartic blizzard. I might be some time...

Some snow scenes from Xmas past...

Me and Ross, 19 and 20, running drunk through the snow outside Hammersmith Odeon one white-black night in... early 79, was it? Late 78? We had just been to see UFO, who somehow I was now working as a PR for and he was somehow now the main photographer for. Laughing, drunk, falling over in the snow, again and again, laughing like there had never been such fun in the world. "Fuck all that punk shit," said Ross. "You should concentrate on the heavy bands. They're more of a laugh and you'll make more money." I thought he was just drunk and he was but it was still good advice that I would eventually show just enough sense to follow.

Cut to six years later, Denmark, falling over again laughing in the snow, a couple of weeks before Xmas, me and Lars and the others skidding around outside Sweet Silence Studios in Copenhagen where they had just played me some of the new tracks they were working on for what would be their next album, already titled Master Of Puppets. Most of the tracks didn't have vocals yet but what the fuck, you could just tell this was the one. Then later drinking Elephant beer till we were nearly sick, unable to eat, then running around in the snow trying to get a taxi back to the hotel, them trying to stop you. White zombies, arms outstretched, beer-sick mouths open...

Add another 10 years exactly and suddenly there I am in the small country town I now call home but which back then felt like the surface of Mars, snow everywhere, feet deep, the old red Fiat completely whited-out, unstartable, fucked. Like me. Walking around wondering if it was always like this at Xmas in these parts, wondering what in hell I had gone and done now, if I'd make it or not, not so secretly doubting I ever could, fingers and toes like ice, carrot for a nose, birds shitting on my shoulders.

Right up till today, snow here again, so too laughter, so too the bird shit and the not so secret doubts, but no longer alone, quite, thank the old white gods and their devil-black friends. Still buried in it, but no longer frozen with fear. Quite.

First clear day for weeks. Nearly five weeks, in fact, including Headgate. Nose still running of course, throat still tickling and coughing and etc. But the worst definitely over with now. Actually fought my way through the snow and the hubris back to the cottage where I - gasp - got some work done on the Metallica book. Good work too. Solid. Enough to give me confidence and inspire me for the really serious push which begins as of now.

First though, there's Xmas to get through, same as for everybody. All gone mental out there of course, world gone wrong, fighting in the aisles of Tesco for breathing space, like the Big One just dropped and the food is disappearing from the shelves for ever. Hate that shit. Would so lurve to be able to get away from it all - somewhere hot. Saw a pic of Simon Cowell in the paper riding a water bike thingy somewhere in the Bahamas, looking his usual closeted gay self, like everything's going his way, stupid, never mind the RATM song and all of that, his big comforting hairy gay arm round little Geordie Joe's quivering shoulders. Anyway, point being, I liked Simon's Big Idea - getting the fuck away and leaving cold Xmas to the little people. The mental ones in Tesco and running round attacking each other in the street. The dreaded families closing in on each other in ways they're not allowed to other times of the year.

Like I say, feeling much better now, thanks.

"Come on," she said, "you must have some nice Christmas memories."

He took a sip from his drink and looked at her, thinking.

"Oh, come on!" she said. "It's all a big act! You love it as much as anyone!"

She was wrong there but he wasn't sure whether to admit it or not. Was there something wrong with him after all? Apart from the obvious?

"What about when you were a kid?" she said. "Getting lots of presents. You must have liked it then..."

Instantly he was taken back to several childhood Christmases at once. All left him feeling cold and lonely. Disappointed and lost. What good were presents when...

"What about with me? Are you saying you've never enjoyed Christmas even when you've been with me?"

That was easy. He had never enjoyed Christmas with her. He had never enjoyed anything with her that allowed her free reign to drink and smoke and carry on as much as she liked, inviting over every fucking dipstick within a five-mile radius. Dancing like a mental case, skirt over her head.

"Oh my god! Look at your face! You fucking bastard!" she screamed. "Well, I enjoy Christmas! I'm not some fucking weirdo just sitting there in the chair not talking. Some stick in the mud. God, you're such a fucking wanker sometimes!"

Just then the phone rang. She ran to answer it.

"Merry Christmas darling!" she yelled into it. "Hahahahaha!"

From the way she was he knew it had to be Leslie on the other end. If there was one thing he hated more than Christmas it was Leslie. The best friend and an even bigger drunken smoking brainless slut than she was.

He wondered what the hell he was still doing there. It didn't take much working out. Nowhere else to go, that was all. No one else who would have him. Nothing left of anything anywhere. Except to sit there and somehow endure, waiting for that thing that might be better or at least a bit less awful to come along. Maybe. One day.

"No, he's here!" she screamed down the phone. "What? Yep. Miserable as shit! Hahahahaha! When are you coming over, darling? What? No, come now! Get a cab! Yeah! It'll be great!"

Ho ho ho...

Of all the let's face it almost uniformly boring blogs in the world, few entries surely can be more tedious than the one where the bloke complains he has nothing new to say except that he's still down with the flu. Therefore, you will forgive me if I retreat to my endless snotty hankies until such time as etc and etc.

One of those long cold days that gets taken up doing God knows what. Did get a better night though last night, still coughing, still choking on my own effluence or however you spell it, but not quite as badly as before. Instead, had a movie-length dream in which my agent Robert told me he'd fixed me up with a DJing gig on board a new starship - Star Trek-style - that was going on a voyage across the galaxy that would keep me away from home for a year or so but which would pay me £1 million. Wish fullfilment? Who knows. It did go on and on though, even surving a piss-break in what turned out to be the intermission.

Had the car in for its annual MOT this morning - passed with flying colours - while I was also getting my engine checked under the hood by Vanessa the Magic Acupuncturist. She thinks I won't get a scar on my head. I'm still not so sure. Already have one on the inside of my head that you can't see, of course. Or not at first, anyway. Then this afternoon back at the cottage fighting the hopefully good fight, doing my best to put in some hours before being dragged out this evening to see eldest daughter performing carol songs with the school choir. Enormous joy awaiting.

In the middle of all this it actually started snowing this afternoon, I noticed, as I gazed balefully out at the trees while waiting for the coffee to cool. I wonder what Santa will bring us this year? Apart from the quarterly VAT bill due at the end of December, I mean? On which subject one can't help wondering: do those bastards actually celebrate Xmas at all, do you think? Or do they just sit around drinking the blood of poor saps like me who can never keep up with the endless nameless bills they persist in firing off like a carpet of bombs exploding over your unscarred or not it makes no difference head? May their stocking all be empty and the pies rancid with... effluence or whatever it's fucking called.

Back to the cottage today. Still coughing up my guts, filling paper hankies with white gooey stuff. Had the worse night yet, in fact, unable to sleep for coughing, choking, spitting, dying, or what felt like it. But my hands and feet appear to be working OK so back to work it was this morning. God knows what Nigel the cottage owner thinks I'm doing. I rent the place then spend hardly any time here, one damn thing after another keeping me away these past three weeks or so, since Head Gate.

Making up for it now though. Got a lot done today actually, in that tippy-tappy boring way that writers have, see them sitting there looks like absolutely nothing's going on, and often it isn't, but not today. Today the so-called writer actually got some so-called writing done. Medal, please...

Damn this flu, cold, cough, throat itch, head fuzz whatever the hell it is. Truly had enough. Spent two weeks getting over my head bang (yes, funny how you can laugh about these things after a while) then just as systems appeared to be returning to what passes these days for normal, this... flu / cold/ fucking thing rears up. Cue: another lost week of wafting around like a ghost, half in, mainly out, no clue how to get back on track at all. Was my boy's birthday yesterday, had planned to have friends and family over today to celebrate. Now those plans have had to be changed. I can't even lie down and sleep because every time I do the throat tickle kicks in along with the cough and wheezy chest and watering eyes and enormous pain in the arse and... fuck it, might as well get back up then. Is there a doctor in the house? One who knows anything about anything, I mean? The worse part is it really does mean that Xmas has got me again. I was so hoping to beat that rap this year, be a stronger man, do a righter thing, keep on keeping on, mama. Now I just feel like another useless fat sick boy, eyeing the whiskey bottle wondering what if even though I already know what if, yet powerless to stop it, more or less. Definitely less, in fact.

Another Xmas tale, this one from 1976...

It was my first Xmas away from home, that is, my first since the old man had kicked me out. I didn't care. I was 18, living in a house full of older hippies, where the grass plants grew tall in the garden and the cooking was of the strictly vegetarian variety. Unless of course someone had bought sausages, in which case you would creep down at 3 in the morning and steal one from the fridge.

All had gone well till winter arrived like the bad guy through the saloon doors, stopping the piano player in his tracks and forcing the rest of us to stare like frightened mice. This was the days before most places had central heating and all I had was a small two-bar electric fire to warm my mattress on the floor, which meant I was almost always cold, except for those nights when the blankets would catch fire and I would tut and pat the flames out with a weary hand, barely opening my eyes.

I knew it was almost Xmas, I just hadn't thought it through, where I would go, what I would do, I hadn't even realised I would need to go and do... anything. It's funny cos I still dream about that place and time now, walking around this big cold house not knowing how anything worked, just that I was allowed to sleep there if I wanted.

Suddenly, it was upon us. I say 'us', I mean me. Everyone else had long gone, parents to see, old ladies and fellas to run off somewhere warm with. Come the big day - Xmas morning - there was only me, six cats and several spiders left patrolling the stairs. Oh, and Geoff and Tilly, the weird couple who never came out of their room. Ever.

It took a while to dawn on me - several hours in fact - but suddenly it settled upon me like a gloomy fog: I was alone. No nice dinner cooking in the oven. No prezzies. Nothing. I ran some names down in my mind, flicking through the mental Roladex: Pete (no), Nick (no), Lyn (no), Joe... maybe.

Yeah, Joe. His mum and dad always welcomed me, making jokes about how long I stayed and how much it'd cost to bribe me to leave, while at the same time feeding me and giving me Joe's spares to wear when my own gear got too bad.

I set off. It was about five miles, mainly uphill, and the day, already going grey at the temples, was cold, cold, cold. Colder than snow or ice. And wetter. You felt it in your bones like a rope tied too tight, pulling you sideways and back. It was a struggle but I kept going.

When I got there, I felt my spirit lift. Good old Joe. He'd be surprised to see me, but pleased too. A nice surprise. Then invite me in, insist on it, in fact. His mum and dad laughing at the sight of me. Here, come on in, Merry Xmas, have a drink...

I rang the doorbell. No one came. I rang it again. And again. I could hear them inside but still no one came. I looked up at the windows and thought I saw a curtain twitch. I rang again. Finally, I heard footsteps, then the door opening. It was Joe. "Hello, Joe," I said, "Surprise!"

"Oh," he said, "It's you."

We stood there looking at each other.

"What are you doing?" I said.

"Having Xmas lunch," he said. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Just passing. Thought I'd come and say hello."

"Oh, right."

A pause. He knew, he just didn't know how to tell me.

"Look," he said, "we're just having Xmas lunch. Why don't you... ring me later. Maybe we'll go for a drink."

"Oh," I said, "OK."

Another pause.

"Can I just come in and... wait," I said.

He looked shocked. "No," he said, "I told you. We're having Xmas lunch!"

"Oh, right. Well... I'll give you a ring later than?"

"Yeah, great," he said. "Look, man, I've gotta go..."

"OK Joe," I said. "See you later then."

The door closed, I could hear the footsteps retreating then voices, followed by laughter and then... nothing. They'd gone back to eating, I supposed.

That's when it really hit me. It was Xmas and I had nowhere to go. I began the long walk back through the cold to my hippy pad, wondering if there were any sausages in the fridge. A long time later I got home and went straight to the kitchen but when I looked in the fridge, there weren't.

Here's a tale I was reminded of the other day, concerns a guy I used to know, or thought I did, though it's hard to remember now exactly how well that was. He and his girlfriend always used to celebrate Xmas days the same way - coffee, cigarettes and champagne first thing as they opened their presents together by the teeny-tiny hipster Xmas tree, a postmodern twig with ironic lights. Then lunch, never a turkey, obviously, and never quite enough on the plate, but then you didn't want to get fat, didja? Then in the afternoon an old black and white movie on TV, some awful shite with Jimmy Stewart or maybe Dumbo in all its washed-out colour. Getting it and not getting it. Yawning fit to shit. Then in the evening, there would be friends, good friends, more like family really, and more drinks, and party games, lots of party games, my friend peeking up the skirts of his other friends girlfriends' pretty party dresses.

A few years on, things had changed. The last time I saw my friend was just before he left London for good. The girlfriend was long gone and so thank god were the special Xmas mornings. What really made him sad though, he said, was that the good, good friends had all gone too. No family left whatsoever. Now he lived alone, miles from anywhere, just him and his two dogs, eating beans on toast for breakfast on Xmas mornings and a nice bottle of wine. No more Jimmy Stewart or Dumbo either. Or fake ironic tree. No tree at all, in fact. Just the snow that always fell indoors on Xmas mornings, burying him in its glittery white until all you could see were the round black holes where his mouth and eyes still went on working, regardless, the way these things do.

A swift jaunt on the train down to London today to record the CR radio show, pilled-up to my eyes and fresh packet of paper hankies at the ready. Funny how the body kicks in just long enough to get the job done, though. Didn't descend back into the deep flu-bends until I was on the train coming home again. Fortunately, Malcolm at Orion sent me some hot Lady Ga Ga links to give me some oomph for the evening, and indeed plenty of evenings to come. Go to Youtube and see for yourselves, oh cheeky ones...

For someone who has had both the regular flu jab plus the swine flu jab recently, I feel surprisingly like someone who has the flu, of some sort or other. Bad throat, bad thoughts, bad cough, bad drop... Naturally, I'm on the gear. Anadin, nasal spray, cough sweets, all that. Naturally, none of it appears to be making the slightest difference.

Now sitting here listening to the BBC iPlayer, Radio 3's Late Junction, and a little bit of moonlight madness from Djessou Mory, Moriken Mouyate and Papa Diabate, good boy guitar dancers from the other side of Mars, making me feel better but also worse, in the sense it makes me realise I will never perhaps quite get to where I feel it is I rather belong. That is, not here but there. Not out but in. Keeping what you want, getting what you need, letting the rest all come down, sun sinking unslowly into ground.

In the middle of which, someone mails me to ask what I think of Them Crooked Vultures. I reply I haven't heard it yet. They tut and mutter something about me 'supposedly' being a Led Zep book writer, how can I not have heard it? People really are very thick sometimes, are they not? Anyway, I've heard it now and it's really quite all right, if you like that sort of thing. I hope that answers that and perhaps some other questions too.

It's finally happened as I knew it would. Somewhat delayed this year, initially by my determination to stall the moment, then more recently by the fact that bang on the head knocked me off my feet - literally - for a couple of weeks. But now it's finally here. Yes, the moment has come when the sheer proximity of the end of the year has simply become too much and I now officially No Longer Give A Fuck. That is, I do, of course I do. Just not very much really. Hardly at all, in fact.

Don't get the wrong idea: this is A Good Thing. This time of year is like the end of the week for me - a time for rest, recuperation and not answering the metaphorical door no matter how loud the ghosts bang on it. Oh, I've still got a couple of Classic Rock radio shows to do this week and next, and yes there is still the odd meeting and fair bit of sitting at the laptop tip-tapping away to be done. But as of now I am untroubled by the treadmill, unworried by diets, debts or early death, happy to fall into inconsistency, arse hanging out of trousers, shirt buttons undone, fly open, willing to wig out, open a bottle of red and stare deep into the fire of the TV screen at inappropriate times of the day or night.

Things got off to a splendid start today. Began with a meeting at the CR office about this forthcoming special issue we're putting together on Slash and his solo album. All very cordial, lots of nice ideas floating around, pleasant vibes filling up the room, the pressure not quite on just yet (2010 will take care of that but that's, like, so next year). Then went straight from that to lunch with Malcolm Edwards of Orion, my book publishers. Malcolm is a man who knows how to do lunch and no messing. Treated me to another visit to the Ivy Club, god bless him. If you thought the Ivy was exclusive - and it is - imagine how x-rated the Club is.

We sat there, arse-deep in celebs, slurping some of the most beautiful wine I've ever tasted, eating meat so tender it almost made me cry, talking about what it was like to no longer be young and foolish and how much more interesting, if complicated, it is to be old(er) and more choosy about what we choose to be foolish about. Knowing not everything is up to you and being grateful for that, if not always so convinced. Knowing so much you realise that often you know nothing, really nothing, other than what you know for sure. Having a right good laugh about it as Malcolm ordered more of the divine.

Afterwards, I tottered off in the rain to peruse the secondhand book stores on the Charing Cross Road but for once was a good boy and forced myself to head for the train station before I went and did something I wouldn't regret later, like buying a bagful of smelly old first editions I absolutely can't afford and the taxman wont let me write off, that would only sit on my shelf anyway waiting for that magic moment that never comes anymore when I would actually sit down and caress them with my worn out eyes.

Tonight, I intend to drink more wine and eat late, and to hell with the hell of it. It's time, that's all, to turn the volume up a bit and balls to what the nosy neighbours think they think.

Live from 2.00pm today, the official Classic Rock Magazine show on Rock Radio, find it at...

www.rockradio.co.uk

S'fucking good.

Good news: the wound on my head has healed so well the golf ball sized patch of returfed, surgically-cemented flesh has now shrunk to the size of a 5p piece (apparently anyway, I'm still too chicken to actually check it out in a mirror). I will still have a scar just not quite the Frankenstein-sized gash we had originally anticipated.

Bad news: it's starting to look more like a scratch (says wife, who absolutely never exaggerates about anything, obviously) than the brain-busting horror it originally resembled, which means the sympathy vote has also all but vanished these past few days. Which is unafir as I'm still not a hundred percent, in meself, though, you know, to be honest...

Good news: had a bit of a day off today, at the earnest request of wife. Not that she had to ask twice, not having had a proper day off since crawling heroically from my sick bed nearly two weeks ago. This meant us doing a bit of shopping in the morning then enjoying a spot of lunch at the Fleurs, where the lamb hot pot came to me straight from heaven.

Bad news: she keeps telling me off for farting. Fair enough, you might think, and I would agree with you, when the foul deeds occur in those places shared by others such as the lounge and the kitchen. Not cool, though, when she bursts into my office and starts complaining of it, and especially not when I'M WORKING. That smell, my dear, is the odour of mortgage-paying, bill-shearing, toy-buying, food-procuring, tax-hating, man toil. Thanks.

I am not a great frequenter of the Mind, Body, Spirit section of the bookstores. But take it from one whose bad head (and body) knows, acupuncture, as performed by an experienced Traditional Chinese Medicine practitioner, absolutely rocks a fat one. I staggered into Vanessa's on Monday, my head still lifting off my shoulders with the pain, my spirit way down south of the border, and she... fixed it. Like that. With talk, with needles, with Moxo, with love and magic and the overflowing power of the Chi. The fact that other stuff meant I have hardly had any sleep at all these past two nights yet still feel physically and mentally reborn says it all. Truly, the dragon has entered...

Other side-effects: went to London to record my first Classic Rock radio show and podcast for nearly a month today and though I was tired I think I just about did the best show I've ever done. Without strain, without too much thought, just opened the mike and let it come down like the pissing rain. Sian Lllewellyn was the guest and she always makes it easy but even so, this was exceptional. Even the train ride home sat next to the woman on her constant phone went by with an ease I haven't felt since who knows when. Some previous, better life perhaps.

All of which is doubly strange given the mental time of year it is. Maybe it's being born next to mid-summer's day, maybe it's not, but I always close down this time of year. Everything bar the absolutely essential stuff goes to hell as the shutters slide down with a thud. The only thing that ever differs is how long they stay down for. Last year it lasted well into February and March. Too long but, hey, it had been some year, 2008. Then by the time this year got going wife was ill with her back and that was the end of that for another three months or so.

This year though seems... different. I'm not bounding around - hardly, given recent head-swimming events. But the shutters seem to have been prised open just that little bit longer. Which is good, it means I'm properly waving not drowning. That I might just make it to Xmas in no more than two or at most three pieces. That when I go for lunch next week with Malcolm Edwards, London's most gentlemanly publisher, it will be properly celebratory. I hope so because I owe a great deal to Malcolm, his extraordinary faith and goodwill filling me with a warm glow even more empowering and joyous than Vanessa's needles. He deserves the good stuff and I'm hoping to keep a little by for him.