Star Blog

Struggling with the final chapter of Metallica. Reached that point where the story is so recent I am bored with the retelling. It is not really important what they did on a certain day but how they got here, why they got here and where they will almost certainly go next. It's easier just sticking to the jigsaw but this isn't a sticking-to-the-jigsaw sort of a book. It's about interpretation. The Big Picture but not necessarily the way it's been sold to you before. Third single from album? What's that got to do with anything? Sold out shows... well, duh! The facts feel useless in your hands often, dates, quotes, whatnot, not at this v.late stage anyway. Finally, it comes down to whatever it is you really wanted to say in the first place. Every other Metallica book I've ever read can be summed up thus: bloody good blokes, bloody good band. Well, pardon me while I have another good long look out the window at nothing. This book has to say something more. Something a tad, at least, closer to, you know, reality. Yeah, that. You see my problem then, being so tired and dead in the head with that stuff already, like...

Listening to Willie Nelson on Spotify while working on the last couple of chapters of Metallica, somehow it all just makes sense. In their own way, they were one of the last true cowboy outlaw bands. Made some bad moves here and there of course, just like all the greats, now looking to ease off their boots and loosen their gunbelts when no one is looking, like all us older dudes, looking back on their fair share of bad women and worse drugs, not really the young gunslingers they once were, not so thrilled with the mirror as they used to be, but then who is, baby? Other than the least interesting of us, obviously? Least, that's how it looks (sounds) right now with Willie crooning about being 'Crazy' and James making sure he gets home early from work at least once in a while. Like me right now today.

Finished another chapter. All may worship at my feet.

Wife has been indisposed for the past few days so I have been mummy and daddy all rolled into one big happy, keep-smiling-or-shit package. This has delayed the book still further, for which I feel my astral body burning slowly in publishing hell. But things are now 'better' and as of tomorrow I will be back hard at it again. In a weird way, this may have given me the kick I need to complete the final couple of chapters. Not because I am 'fresh'. Rather the opposite. After nearly a week of me and the kids doing 18 hour days I am so fucked nothing that comes now will be as tiring. Not that being with the kids is so bad. It's been enlightening actually, also fun, fulfilling, surprising and a lot of other things you have to do on your own to discover. If only it wasn't also terrifying (boy commando has nearly killed himself several times), exhausting ("Dad, dad, dad, dad, dad, dad, dad...."), annoying ("PLEASE STOP SHOUTING OR I WILL KILL YOU!!!!") and... did I mention exhausting? The only reason I have five minutes to write this now is because they are all in the next room playing musical chairs with a Tweenies CD. This is the sort of activity that in my real life would be guaranteed to send me over the hill and far away but in the present circumstances comes as a blessed if all too brief form of relief. No wonder so many mums are mentally ill and chewing valium or whatever it is the quacks give them to chew these days. Come to think of it, anybody got any they can send me???

I was sitting around feeling like shit. God was there as usual hanging out.

Coming off the back of another 10 straight days on the book I couldn't get it up not even for one more minute today. That is, I kept thinking I was a cup of tea away from resuming the struggle but it just never happened. Instead, spent the morning wandering around Wallingford in a daze with wife. No money just what we can spin on a card (hers this time) we went to the butcher's, bought some nice fresh stuff, swung by Waitrose, bought some other more essential stuff, hung by the newsagents reading the ads, but had to drag wife away when she spotted one for a 7-year-old cat looking for a home, then went to the secondhand place with the cool basement full of books. Picked up Falling Towards England, vol 2 of the Clive James autobiog, for two quid, and 3001 by Arthur C Clarke for a quid. Gotta love Clive and Arthur, man, you can learn stuff from those boys. Past and future all rolled up, just as it should be and always look close enough is.

Been reading The Magus by John Fowles. Shouldn't really be doing this, as anything good - and especially new - I'm reading will likely end up somehow in the Tallica book. It's not as bad as it used to be when I first started out doing books 25 years ago. Then anything I read - from the wankiest Colour Supp piece to the back of a fag packet was bound to influence my 'style' somehow. I really did have to watch it, didn't dare read anything while I was working on a book in the end, lest I start to wander. That is, more than usual.

It's weird where the energy comes from and when, and where it goes. This morning I was up at the crack, as usual, as anyone with three small kids will know. But by eight I was mowing the lawn in the back garden, by ten walking the dogs on the Ridgeway. By midday making lunch for the wife and kids. And by three collapsed in an armchair barely conscious. Eventually took myself off to bed but couldn't sleep. So did the courageous thing and drank a double espresso. Bingo! From 6.00pm till just now, nearly midnight, I've been at the book. Good stuff, too even though I do say so myself. The trick now is to get enough kip so I can start earlier tomorrow. And finish later. This is light at the end of the tunnel stuff but you must be careful not to blow it. Balance is everything. And nothing. Black mixed with grey. Yin Yang you're my thang. Bloody espresso, still working...

This coming week it will be 15 years exactly since I moved out of London to the countryside and I still can't believe my luck. Driving home this evening, doing 50, slow for out here, with green fields turning brown from too much sun either side of me, donkey sanctuary flying by to my left, farm with come-and-get-your-own-veg-and-eggs to my right, just leave the money in the tin, I still got a kick of the actuality of it all. How I got here - why - is too long a story. Somehow I just made it, and have been clinging on ever since. Worth the struggle? For sure. I'm worn out but the kids that came out of it are doing fine. As are the dogs. Even the wife. To think that if I make it through another 15 years I'll be nearly 70 is not nearly so astonishing as it should be and trust me it is fucking astonishing. Those green-brown fields will still be there though. The rest... who knows. Good month, July. Let it be that way a while longer.

Then there was the time heaven closed its gates to me and I found myself sleeping in the car. It was summer but so cold at night I had to keep the engine running. But the old girl was on her last legs so I had to keep turning her off, let her cool down. Which meant I was awake every hour from the overheat, then every half hour from the over-cold, scrunched in the backseat just an old giant-sized cushion to pretend to get comfortable with. The crazy sad part was I was parked outside a block of low-rise flats in which TWO of my brothers lived. One didn't want me there, the other didn't mind but his flat stank so bad I just couldn't bring myself to crawl out of my pity pot and say the necessary words. It was a time of no future, just a vague wavy outline coulda gone anyways at all, each hour so brimming over with the past it left me choking on it for years. Years and years and years.

Then there was the time heaven closed its gates to me and I found myself sleeping in the car. It was summer but so cold at night I had to keep the engine running. But the old girl was on her last legs so I had to keep turning her off, let her cool down. Which meant I was awake every hour from the overheat, then every half hour from the over-cold, scrunched in the backseat just an old giant-sized cushion to pretend to get comfortable with. The crazy sad part was I was parked outside a block of low-rise flats in which TWO of my brothers lived. One didn't want me there, the other didn't mind but his flat stank so bad I just couldn't bring myself to crawl out of my pity pot and say the necessary words. It wasa time of no future, just a vague wavy outline coulda gone anyways at all, each hour so brimming over with the past it left choking on it for years. Years and years and years.

Then there was the time heaven closed its gates to me and I found myself sleeping in the car. It was summer but so cold at night I had to keep the engine running. But the old girl was on her last legs so I had to keep turning her off, let her cool down. Which meant I was awake every hour from the overheat, then every half hour from the over-cold, scrunched in the backseat just an old giant-sized cushion to pretend to get comfortable with. The crazy sad part was I was parked outside a block of low-rise flats in which TWO of my brothers lived. One didn't want me there, the other didn't mind but his flat stank so bad I just couldn't bring myself to crawl out of my pity pot and say the necessary words. It wasa time of no future, just a vague wavy outline coulda gone anyways at all, each hour so brimming over with the past it left choking on it for years. Years and years and years.

On a break. Kind of a crazy concept, I grant you, but somehow most necessary. I knew I was in trouble when I woke at 1.33a.m. precisely to the sound of excruciatingly loud Metallica music in my head - the thunder-blast end section of 'One', repeated over and over until I had to get out of bed and go for a walk in the dark. I don't remember this when I was trying to finish Zeppelin. So... on a break. Not for long, you understand, I wouldn't want to assume completely human form again, obviously. Just long enough to... well, shit again frankly. I haven't had one since Tuesday, which I take as another sign not to be ignored (for long). Not far to go on the damn thing now, thank god, but... you know. Anyway, found myself with wife and kids sitting by the river today, feeding geese and stroking dogs. And eating ice-cream while strolling around in a daze dreaming of boats and blue skies. Then tonight a steak and salad and glass of something not too warm (room temperature still soaring) but definitely red. Trouble is I can't keep my eyes open. Except at night, when the music starts again...

And the winner of the award for New Favourite Guitarist is... Terje Rypdal. For while he may have a name like a date rape drug trust me he makes a sound like that of a universe bending its knee while juggling moons, stars singing from its mouth, sky all mussed up in its hair. The sort of cosmic traveller that makes Steve Vai sound like Fast Eddie Clark, and I like Steve Vai. I'll leave you to investigate further as I have other things to do, I think you know what I'm talking about, though this weather doesn't make it easy. Couldn't stand it one second longer yesterday and went upstairs to "look at the paper for ten minutes." Woke up on the bed covered in sweat about three hours later. Wife said she was going to wake me but that I looked so peaceful... I didn't feel peaceful. I felt dead. Even after I woke up. Was mildly surprised to find I wasn't covered in blood. No wonder Terje is doing it for me right now. We have both journeyed to the Other Place and it now seems unlikely we are Ever Coming Back.

Definitely not quite got the hang of this again yet. Otherwise I'd have blogged about my birthday this week, which of course was the cause for major celebrations around the world. Just a shame I was busy and missed it. Then there was the football today - yes, Diego and Argentina are through! And, um... wait, let's see. Oh yeah, got another couple of chapters finished on the Tallica book. Only another 95 to go. If only Big Kev and Yvonne hadn't come round unexpectedly on Friday night and forced me to drink all that single malt Irish while sitting in the garden cooling off from another week in this heavenly hell I might have done more. But then it's never about what you did, is it, but what you didn't do. That's what I will be telling the tax man this week anyway. Which reminds me, my accountant Damian is coming to see me tomorrow night. You know you're in the shit when your accountant comes to see you in your place of worship AT NIGHT. If you don't hear from me again soon then you can ask him why...

Was watching some Metallica videos from the late 90s, early 00s this afternoon, putting myself back there. It gave off funny vibrations. Not ha ha funny. Well, not entirely. Then tonight wife and I found ourselves staring exhaustedly at Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels on TV - from 98. Same vibes as the Tallica videos. Funny. As in like going right back to those days. Was a time back then I thought my writing days were over. Rock was dead, at least the kind that buttered my bread, and I was working back in PR, sleeping on the floor of the post room, wondering where exactly I had taken that wrong turn. It's odd being so utterly lost, truly not knowing the way back home, truly feeling there never was a home in the first place, just a trick of the light that kept the darkness from lingering too long in front of you. Nothing would go right. Got a book deal and the company went out of business. Bought a house in the country then found the only way I could afford it was to live in the city. Even the dog I bought died. Funny, see? Like one of those old blues songs. Except I was living it, day after night.

Long old day - and night - just me and the book, mostly. Which would be hard enough but fair at least, some pain you feel you own, is yours to endure, and you are even thankful for, as only one who has lived with it for a very long time can be. But there are the other kinds too and they gnaw away at you at the least fair moments. Today it was money, as it often is. But now it's getting acute again. Both cars needed to go into the garage this week. The tax disc for one also needed paying this week. Eldest daughter's clarinet also needs repairing this week, and the fees for the summer school the three kids will be attending for a few weeks in August so wife and I can work to try and put a dent in the debt mountain we live in the overheated foothills of had to be paid this week. And guess what week this is? That's right, mortgage paying week, credit card paying week, and also, as it is June, the second quarter of the VAT bill paying week. Meanwhile, the oven is broken, as is the dishwasher, and many other things there is no money for right now, like an old ship falling to bits as it sails unsteadily forward into the unknown, hoping to spy land before it keels over the edge of the world.

A so-called normal day. Which for me right now means sitting here at the laptop working on Metallica while wife and kids and dogs and gods and devils and sun and wind and rain and all that other stuff that comes blowing through the door four feet to my right gathers around me like a shitstorm in hell. Mind you, I see it's sunny outside, so that's all right then.

Back to the hospital this morning. Fortunately not for too long, a happier outcome, daughter's catheter removed, tests completed without too many tears. Home by midday in time to get back to work. All good good good. Sort of. Then late in the day, just as the sun decided to start scorching down, I drove to Vanessa's, in search of the ancient medicine, not just the needles but the talk, the easy ears, the sound advice, mainly just the hour's sanctuary, being yourself, your horrible needy broken down self, where else you gonna find 60 minutes like that? Your shrink? But what about the needles, the chi, the being connected back up again to the not-so invisible strings of the ultimate puppet masters?

Heaven and hell yesterday. Not metaphorically, I mean actually. 12 hours at the hospital in which my youngest daughter first had an operation that told the doctors nothing about what's wrong with her, followed by her screams because of the catheter they left her with. Eventually they gave her the 'pain relief' she needed to calm down, but she still came home last night with a tube protruding from her. Back again tomorrow morning for more tests, when they will at least take the damn thing out, but then we will have to sit around waiting for the verdict. More ops? More consultations with new, different, same doctors? Please sir, can I have some more? The heaven part has been seeing her take all this in her stride, a swan dancing gliding on water with one wing. You see those kids on TV that have had dozens of ops, and are praised for their courage. You think you know what they're talking about. You don't. My daughter hasn't been through that but she has been through it enough times now for me to know exactly what they're talking about. The children's ward at the JR yesterday was stuffed with babies and kids, all suffering, many screaming, most somehow laughing through it all, their haunted parents floating around like slow clouds full of rain.

Here's a post-modern experience for you... Listening to Laurie Anderson's spooky 'Another Day In America' from her mental new album 'Homeland' while transcribing an interview for the Metallica book and sweating, feeling dizzy and sick and wondering at the worst moments might this be the end, as you do when you already live somewhere over the rainbow? Oh, and writing a blog (this) at the same time. Then into 'The Boy In The Bubble' by Peter Gabriel... you want signs? You don't have to look hard.

Tough week. Got another chapter finished, had the whole thing going on, so much so I lay back at the end of it and wondered where all that deep concentration had come from, slapping my own back. Then the very next day whammo! Out on my feet. Pain in places you don't want pain, blood in stool, dizzy spells, clutching the mattress waiting for the room to stop spinning. I felt it bad: I needed air, space, I needed out. Took the day off, Thursday I think, went with wife to Wallingford square, and sat on a bench eating a sandwich from the little baker's, wondering what the fuck. Meant to treat it as an interval, turned into a day, wife driving us around, me gazing out the window like a nodding dog. Tomorrow, I thought, I will be feeling better and ready to rock. Then tomorrow came and... more dizziness, more funny signs telling me no. But no room for no. Youngest daughter goes into hospital on Monday for her second kidney op in 18 months and no time for no, dizzy or not. So... back in the hot seat, feeling sweaty, working out the next chapter. Not far to go now. Not far at all. Just heading for the next bend...

Actually made a break for it this morning and took the dogs for a walk on the Ridgeway. Saturday morning in this weather, you'd expect it to be busy but the luck was with us and I found a trail through the trees where there was absolutely no one else about. Felt like walking and walking, anything to delay the return to work. The book has well and truly taken over as they always do at this late, too intense stage, and while that's actually quite exciting, as a writer, to be so gaspingly immersed, it's also painfully exhausting when you hit day 9 or 10 without a proper break, which is where I'm at, I think, about now.

Was in the garage this afternoon looking through some old mags to try and help me sort out some kinks in the time-line. As always happens, I found other things instead which began as idle browsing, tinged with nostalgia, before hitting on a strand that had me making notes and running back to earlier chapters, tweaking and teasing and shifting bits around like an old maid tutting over her needlework. All to the good but not really where it's at, at this v.late stage. Still, I also found the thing I was actually looking for too. So that's good, isn't it? Someone please tell me that's good.

End result: sitting here at 11pm on a Saturday night, muggy in body and mind, still tinkering and twatting away. Gonna crawl off to my nest now though, save the big push on this chapter for tomorrow. My reward for finishing it will be Monday off, I've promised myself. Maybe just a bit more tweaking and twatting in the evening after I've been out somewhere and allowed the light into what's left of my dusty cranium.

It has taken me an inordinate amount of time to try and get back to this. The technical stuff was sorted over a week ago, I just haven't been able to get with it again. Mainly, this is because I am so written out at the end of every day at the moment, as I struggle to spend every waking hour finishing the Metallica book. There is also a small part, however, which is to do with the fact that I've enjoyed not having to do this sort of thing for a few weeks. The trouble is you don't use it, you lose it. And suddenly I can't remember what on earth it is this thing is actually for. To keep me entertained or you? Somebody asked recently in passing how many newsletters I sent out, how many page impressions I got and whether I podcast regularly. Because obviously I don't have enough to do all day already, what with books, the tax man, the three kids, one wife, two dogs and all the other shit I find pouring over my less than metaphorical head each hour of god's day and devil's night. It did make me feel a bit of a web-fraud though. Like I should be doing more to go out and sell this thing. Whatever it is. Not so much of a fraud that I intend to do anything about it though, obviously. Newsletters? Page impressions? Jesus christ, I should live so long. I did Twitter for a bit but got fed up trying to answer that perenial non-starter: what are you doing right now? Wanking, usually. One way or another. I mean, why would anyone care? I finally gave up when I realised I never actually read what anybody else had to say about anything either. So... the blog is back. Pretty exciting, eh?

And lo, for it is written, he was back, blogging like he'd never been away, almost. Thanks to the magic powers of Saint Julie and Sweet Sister Jen. Except... it was late when it happened and I'm off to bed now. Maybe tomorrow then...

As mentioned below, this might be the last blog entry for a few weeks until we get the 'technical difficulties' sorted. Hang tight, we will return...

In the meantime, went to see Fairport Convention tonight at the Cornerstone in Didcot. It was the first date on their acoustic tour and what a delightful evening it was. Wife was busy holding the fort so the sainted Vanessa came with me, two old Fairport fans suddenly rendered the younger generation by dint of the fact everyone else there looked at least 10 years older than us. Well, Vanessa anyway.

Nice to say hello to Simon Nicol and catch up with Dave Pegg, who congratulated me on my haircut. Very nice to see them do 'Who Knows Where The Time Goes' too, my favourite Fairport classic cut short from the set for many years after the death of Sandy Denny, back now by the grace of Simon. They invited us to Cropredy this year too, which was extra nice, promising oodles of cheap red wine. They certainly know how to tempt an old boy, if only I can persuade wife and kids to try a slice of the good (old) life with me. A very nice end to what has been a trying day, but, hey, you don't wanna hear it and I can't be arsed to tell it.

Oh, and just in case this is my last entry, as it were, for a while, um, well, yeah. You too.

Good night last night. Went to see eldest daughter take part in a concert in which she gave her first public performance playing clarinet. Considering it was at the same venue I'm off to tomorrow night to see Fairport Convention it was pretty impressive. The kid's got it going on. She always has had. One of those, you know, shooting stars from birth. Where she came from, who knows.

Very strange day today though. Got up, did the usual kids-out-the-door-without-killing-anyone thing, then allowed wife to pursuade me to 'run' across yonder green hills. Which, miraculously, I did. Second time this week. Third week running, something like that. Very pious of me, obviously. Came home sweating and feeling like Jesus. Had a shower and weighed myself and found I was one pound heavier than the week before, so that's working then, cheers. Had brekkie then...

... fell asleep. In a chair. Til lunchtime, when my boy came home from pre-school. At which point he sat with me eating his sandwiches and yoghurts and what have you while mum ran out and did some shopping and I... fell asleep. Again. Woke up drooling over boy's head.

It was just gone 1.00pm when I finally managed to heave myself out of the chair and... upstairs to bed. Where I slept till nearly 4pm. Somehow - no god knows how - I managed to drag my aching body out of the sack and fall down the stairs where I made a tea and went back to sitting in a chair. Around 5pm, I was feeling strong enough to put my pinny on and make some dinner for the kids, followed by some for me and wife. And that's basically been my day.

One last thing: because of some blogger nonsense this may be my last blog entry for a few weeks til the sainted Julie can sort out the various technical difficulties. If this is the case, don't despair. I will be back. Possibly even tomorrow if Julie works her magic. If not, in the meantime, I recommend lots of TV, plenty of eating and turning all the mirrors to the wall...

She was your typical rock'n'roll hoor and being a star back then she liked to see me as her backstage pass into those places she saw herself being into. Sort of tiny mind you don't mind so much long as you're getting youse kicks, you know? Well, I knew but I didn't want to know, being lonely no place else to go at the time and just enjoying the clean clothes for once and the food and drink all nice laid out like that every night, peering at it all comfy through my smokerings. Trouble was it didn't couldn't wouldn't last. Like nothin ever dis. But you know at that age you still hold out hope or at least wish hard for just a little longer like. Well I gave it all there was to give but finally her taking got too much. We were standing backstage at the Donington festival. This was 88, the year the two kids died, but we didn't know that yet, we still thought ourselves v.cool. We were standing there when Dave Mustaine of Megadeth came sidling by, stoned and smug and very handsome too with his long red hair and big lanky man thing going on. I knew the woman liked his stuff, played the albums back to back, knew the words, full caboodle. I didn't see her as so stuipid though she would start to giggle and guff and show herself up the minute he drived by like. Anyway, knowing Dave and Dave knowing me he stopped, briefly briefly, and said hi. Then he looked at her and touched her hair and said, "Nice." Then he was gone. No biggie. Chicks everywhere that day and most every day for a fancy lowdown no-good rock star dude like the mighty Mustaine, especially in his stoned immaculate god-of-thrash parlour days, you dig. But this bitch goes bitch crazy. Gives it the big eyes and the silly smiles and the googy-woogy-wagga. "He touched my hair! He touched my hair!" she squeedled and squaddled. Sick-making, like. Typical rock'n'roll hoor, like. Cept I never really realised it till right then. Looked at her with new old eyes after that. Look at her then look away quick, like. Just like I'm looking away quick at her now all these long times later. And the moral of this story? Dunno. Sitting here trying to think a-one. Just that it still sticks in your craw sometimes, things you knew but never really knew until... well, like everything, I spose.

Had a visit from a legendary American radio producer today named Denny Somach, interviewing me about the Zeppelin book for a special syndicated Zep-only programme in the US. This was the first time anyone has ever been allowed into my lair to actually interview me but it was the only way it was gonna happen as trips to London, where Denny was making a flying visit, have to be kept to a minimum at the moment as I am SUPPOSED to be writing the Metallica book. Denny was also SUPPOSED to be here for an hour, max. He stayed for two. An hour after that another US radio guy rang to interview me about the Zep book for his show. It was SUPPOSED to last 30 minutes, max. An hour later he had "just a couple more questions."

Don't get me wrong. I would be moaning more if no one cared about the books I write. Indeed, I would be on the dole. Plus both Denny and Steve were so damn nice about the whole thing I can hardly begrudge them the time. But right now I am so conscious of the clock ticking anything and everything not labelled either 'Metallica' or 'book' is getting to me. Quite badly.

So I have spent what's left of the rest of the day sitting here working on the book, and fretting and despairing and wondering how in hell I'm gonna finish in time. Much of this is par for the course. Of course. Some of it is genuine fear. I think it's time for the underground bunker. If only I still had time to build one...

Was at my desk by 7.00a.m. writing this week's Classic Rock radio show. Two shows, actually, recorded back to back in London today, in order to give me a week off next week so I can try and get some chapters done on Metallica. The publishers want me to send a batch so they can get cracking on them while I try and finish the rest. All good... ish. Your mojo starts to get a bit frosted round the serrated and bloody edges though when you find yourself still at your desk 14 hours later, pepped up on coffee and fast approaching that meaningless state where you're too wired to sleep but too fucked in the head to actually write anything more meaningful than this sideways twaddle.

A good time then to be asked by your wife to come into the kitchen and dye her hair (er, alright) and try and decide what to do about the bloke from the American radio station who wants to come to your dive on Friday and interview you about the Zeppelin book. Keen as I am to do this - along with the other US radio interview already arranged for Friday afternoon - and understanding as I most assuredly am of the need for my accountant to visit me early one evening next week to advise on how I might just stay the right side of bankruptcy before I finish the Metallica book, I am starting to wonder if my health is going to hold up, mental and otherwise. Good job I'm off to see the sainted Vanessa tomorrow evening then. I need those digging needles and those smelly Moxo candles and I need those bastards now. Please.

Naively encouraged by the success of yesterday's exertions, I went running on the clumps again this morning. Needless to say, the outcome was different. I enjoyed it almost as much at the time. That is to say, moments of clean-air gulping goodness grasped between the painful panting and heavy leg-aching, followed by the feeling of self-goodness for having put oneself through such enriching self-flaggelation. But by 5.00pm today I was as flat as a witch's tit, all the air hissed from my tyres leaving behind only one parched and grumpy very old-feeling and looking old git. Not even a Chinese takeaway and the wondrous joy of seeing Jose Mourinho's Inter slamming glittery Barca on the telly could bring me back to life. Nor writing this either. Time for bed then, see if that works for a change.

I went running across the clumps this morning. Only my third go at running outdoors. My first time was exactly a week ago, same route as today, only today I went further and enjoyed it more. The second time was down and up a long hard country road also last week which nearly killed me and didn't even have the knock-on effect of making me feel good later. Just pain in both legs and nothing else. Anyway, today was so good I'm gonna go again tomorrow. If I can still walk when I wake up in the morning. As for the rest, book, book, book, book, book, book, boring book...

Someone emailed in asking never mind what books am I writing, what good books I have actually read lately? And the answer is... um. I don't recall the last good book I read actually. There have been a fair few I re-read, that sit in perpetual attendence by the side of the bed and toilet that get dippe dinto fairly frequently. But... new? I tend to read more about books than actual books themselves these days. In fact, it's become quite a thing for me. Once was the case the Culture section of the Sunday Times was enough to satisfy my weekly needs, topped up by magazine reviews and the occasional glance at the Telegraph and Guardian books' coverage. Now I never leave home or settle myself bare-arsed onto the loo without a copy of the Times Literary Supplement. In fact, I've probably read more of those than anything else this past 12 months with the exception of Metallica books and/or cuttings and even there the TLS wins by some considerable margin.

Same thing with music. Until fairly recently I was still buying tracks and CDs on Amazon. Since Spotify however that's all gone to hell too. And if I can't find what I'm looking for on Spotify I just choose something else because, baby, there is always something else good to hear that you've either never heard before or not for a donkey's age anyway. Between that and Radio 3 on the BBC iPlayer, I can't remember the last time I needed a CD outside of planning the weekly radio show or driving my car.

So there you have it. If they can just find a way for you to consume food online I may never have to leave my office or bedroom, or loo, ever again. Like a permanent volcanic dustcloud settling over my roof, I shall just sit here writing my masterpieces, which no other bugger will read either, just the reviews, hopefully splendid. Sort of thing. Sunny today, though, wasn't it, I couldn't help noticing. Through the window...