Star Blog

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...

To London today for a jolly, slightly late lunch with Robert my agent and Malcolm my book publisher. Always enjoy seeing these two gentlemen, love the book gossip, enjoy the class. They even restrained themselves from putting me too much on the spot about the Metallica book. Strictly speaking it should have been delivered... tomorrow, I think, was the original plan. Instead, I'm running a little late, as they say. Came home with renewed intent though, started hammering right back into it. Well, transcribing interviews anyway. Need to work my way through a few more before continuing with our continuing story. Robert told me about Acai Berries, how they are the new natural way to, um, focus your mind. Or "the healthy new deadline drug," as Malcolm put it. I think he said Acai Berries. Robert offered to take me back to his office and let me have a hit from his own private stash but I had a train to catch. Think I'm gonna do a bit of Googling tonight though. Then run out and buy some first thing in the morning. Anything to help me get this book done, okay fellas?

One of the producers at Rock Radio, who broadcast the Classic Rock radio show which I present each week, asked me today (because he was told to) if I could send them some pictures of me with rock stars that they could put up on their website. I told him, no, I couldn't. That is, if I had them I could but apart from one or two I really don't have any. I never wanted to be that guy to those guys. You know, like some autograph hunter. Ooh, can you sign my albums, and can I have my picture taken with you? Maybe if it had been William S. Burroughs or Charles Bukowski, but even then I doubt it. Never wanted to be part of the crowd, never saw myself as one of the Little People. Certainly never saw rock stars as being anything special. That doesn't mean I didn't enjoy their company, or snuffle their gear and grab my share of what was on offer back there in those rooms where only drooling rock stars go, those places where no one is allowed to take pictures anyway. I was just never after a souvenir. None that you would keep in a scrapbook anyway, something to show your bored grandchildren.

It was quite a lot of years ago now. I was living in hell with a woman that didn't love me anymore, maybe had never done, it was very hard to tell and truthfully I'd never been that bothered before, as long as I was all right Jack. Until now, when all suddenly became clear. The money had gone, the prospects, and with them had gone me, at least as far as she was concerned. Now she was making me pay and pay. So there you go.

Anyway, one morning something happened, a small thing but it felt bigger and bigger the more I thought about it. I was so rocked I didn't know what to do other than write it down. No biggie, just simple words. Like a list almost, just to give me something to look at, help me digest, get my head around it. I wasn't old enough yet to know there was no should or shouldn't, I still thought things could be fair or unfair.

It only took a few minutes and near the end I realised with only passing interest that it looked kind of like a poem. Then I finished it and shut down the computer. It was only later, looking at it again, to remind myself it had really happened, this small big thing, that I realised it was kind of a poem and that maybe there could be more. So I started. Not trying to write poems, so much, as simply put things down that were already inside me, to get them out there and see what they looked like. It meant they couldn't be 'well-written' or thought out. I simply had to close my eyes, try and wait for the right and wrong words to come then do my best not to get in the way of just letting them fall onto the page. Some very ugly things came out along with some other kinds of things. Surprising things. There was nothing good or bad about it, it was just like listening to someone's story, right and wrong words all there together like knives and forks laid out in the drawer.

Some time later, trying to get someone to notice my 'proper' writing, short stories and whatnots, these other things came up. Sort of like a last resort. No one liked my proper stuff, not even me. Well, it was crap. Trying too hard crap. Writerly crap. Look at me bollocks. Nothing right or wrong, just crap. So I showed someone a couple of these 'sort of poems' instead and - blimey - they liked them. Enough to put into a little arts magazine, in fact. When it came out there were three of them slapped across a double-page spread with the byline: Poems by Mick Wall. Later, at some falling-down dive in Ladbroke Grove, late one typically drunken night, the editor of the arts mag, one of those daddy-is-a-rich-man-but-I'm-a-good-cunt-me types who really did seem to be quite nice actually, turned up out of the blue and when he was introduced to me embarrassed the whole room by announcing. "I think you are the most exciting new poet in London!"

That sealed it. As London's most exciting new poet I set about my task with renewed vigour, as the less exciting poets would say. Thought I could do no wrong. No right or wrong. (My secret formula.) The poems flowed out of me. Some were pretty damn good, actually. I could see that now. Eventually I was invited to submit some more to the arts mag editor. I confidently sent some over. One I was particularly pleased with was called Chasing Squirrels and was about me and my big German Shepherd, out walking one steamy morning, me watching as he, yup, chased squirrels. Later I heard back that the arts guy didn't much like Chasing Squirrels. Thought I had "gone off a bit." Oh.

I carried on writing poems though. Wrong and right, on and on, for about a year in the end. Then one day I stopped. Not deliberately, or with anymore thought than I had started. I simply left it and somehow never returned. I think the Great Depression of the mid-90s had hit by then and I was too busy with other things, too tired out and fucked as I staggered over the finish line each day, to have time to think about anything other than how to keep breathing. That was about 16 years ago now. I vaguely remember a couple of half-hearted attempts but it was like trying to suck granny's withered tit. Nothing but rubber in my mouth. London's most exciting new poet had apparently died young, a virgin.

So let's talk music for a change, shall we? Well, lately I have been listening to Terry Reid's album The River. First released in 1973, and bought by me from the oracle that was the older studenty-looking guy that worked in Cloud 7, my local groove emporium back then when they still had such things. Needless to say I was such a moonage daydream in 1973 I couldn't make up my mind whether I really liked it. Or even understood it. All these years later, though, digging it via Spotify... actually, I don't feel much different. Love the vibe, dig the voice, bubble to the groove, but half of it is so warble-wibble it's just a lot of hot stuff about cold nothing. Ah, the early 70s, eh, what fun we had searching for meaning, man...

By way of doing something different, I have been listening to a fair bit of Rihanna this week too. As a contrast to early Metallica it takes some beating. This stuff has definitely got more going for it than just that though. I mean, that gal can sing and swing it. You can really hear the Jamaican part of her too, hot, which I'd never really got before from the radio and videos. I also like it that while my kids are deep into Lady Ga Ga I have discovered my own little disco diva. Well, hardly discovered. But old dads everywhere will know what I think I mean. Probably.

Meanwhile, back scraping at the insides of my head, it's been a hell of a week. You wouldn't think being a so-called writer was so physically demanding but I am aching from head to toe. That's age too, of course, but mainly it's exhaustion. I try and read in bed at night and pass out before I've gone halfway down the page. Meanwhile the stack of books and mags and papers and what have you by the bed continues to grow like a second bedside table. I've even started putting my glasses and water on it at night. But wait, I can telling I'm boring you. You and me both. Back to my sweet Rihanna then. She never tires of anything, that pretty girl. You can tell.

Long day. Too long. Day into night. My first interview was at 7.00a.m. with an Australian radio station that wanted to record segments with me about the Appetite For Destruction book that they could run different stories from every morning for a week on their breakfast show. Very flattering, and a good bloke doing the interviewing named Josh, the sun shining on us both as we rattled through it. But an hour later I was still on the phone and I hadn't anticipated that at all, the old brain sizzling to a crisp before it had even properly woken up.

My last interview was at 9.00p.m. with Jerry Cantrell from Alice In Chains, this time the sun only shining on him as he sat on his back porch somewhere on the Pacific west coast of America, me huddled in my office, fighting off the dark. Between times, I had lunch in London with Judas Priest's manager Jayne and Metal Hammer editor Alexander, and somehow found myself doing more phone interviews, this time with various concert promoters from around the world. Don't even ask.

Somewhere down the line one of my daughters painted her bike gold and my four-year-old son went out on a date with his girlfriend to Cotswold Wild Life Park, and wife cut the back lawn, walked the dogs and did so many other things she retired to bed early with a bad back. I wanted to follow her but was too dogfuck tired to get out of the chair. I'm going to make one final attempt for the summit of the stairs now...

A virtuous day - or what passes for one around here anyway. Went swimming first thing, thinking as I was early I'd have the slow lanes almost to myself. Er, no. Got there to discover there was a 'special class' booked for life-savers or somesuch. Lots of clothed bods splashing about making a lot of noise anyway. Instead, I was forced to take my chances in the mucking about bit, where you can just bob around if you want, as a couple of old biddies did, or simply stroll like a stork as one very tall old fella did - water-stork? - half in and half out of my FUCKING WAY!

Kept my cool though and just weaved in and out of them, back and forth until I'd done my 28 lengths, bizarrely feeling stronger as I neared the end, only to nearly collapse from the weight of my own sodden limbs when I did finally emerge like a salmon thrown onto the river bank, my mouth a perfect collapsible O, feeling like yesterday's birthday cake, candles all a-splutter.

Got home and ate a plate of bacon and baked beans. Please don't someone email in and tell me how that's the worst thing you can possibly eat after swimming I really don't give a toss, it suited me fine today is all, staring at Sky Sports while enjoying that fleeting feeling of romance only a dad delighted to find the house unexpectedly void of wife and kids for once can feel.

The rest of the day found me tethered to the laptop, transcribing interviews for the Tallica book. Reached that stage again where I need to clear the decks of interviews before I can continue. All must-do and hugely useful in reminding you of stuff while also giving you insights as well as ideas about where you need to go next, never knowing as you do until you start what steps to take next.

All good, as they say, but now my back's aching, my arse hurts and not just from the perpetual piles, and I have that ticklish feeling at the back of my throat that only something red and room temperature can fix. We'll be eating late again - it's half-term from school and we're on kids' time - but I don't care anymore. I go with the flow, weaving like a fish through the biddies and storks while trying not to swallow too much of everyone else's water. I am no longer fighting it, just hanging on to the ship wreckage, which as those that know will tell you I've got rather good at over the years and tears. I'm not even worrying my arse to pieces about money.

(That last bit's a terrible lie obviously to make me feel better until I can get my quivering hands on that glass of red...)

Have a taste of the real thing for a change. It will do you good.

YouTube: Miles Davis

Oh yeah...

Went to see Vanessa the acupuncturist yesterday morning. That chilled my bones out, good and proper. She gave me the Moxo treatment, left me stinking like a hoody in a skunkhouse. I do love that smell though. I just wish it didn't smell so much like naughty stuff, people might look at me with some understanding, even respect, instead of holding their noses, real and metaphorical, as I stagger on my hindlegs past them. Course, it might not be just the smell of Moxo that makes them do that, but still, I'll take any edge I can get.

Meanwhile, back at the grindstone, been listening to a lot of thrash metal, old and nouveau, from Machine Head to Venom, via Slayer, Exodus, and of course the Metallikings. The neighbours must wonder where the fuck my head's at, this middleaged fart with no hair blasting out At War With Satan at 2pm on an Easter weekend. That's when I'm not yelling at the kids and letting the dogs take me for a drag in the rain. Well, I wonder about them too.

Shame about today, though, a lovely sunny Easter Sunday, and me stuck here writing about the black gold the band finally struck once they finally ditched all the thrash baggage and simply went for the commercial jugular. It took balls for those boys to do that, make no mistake. What it has taken for me to still be here all these time-lines later blathering about it into a laptop I daren't think about for even a minute, though I know my wife has her views, bless her much younger, stronger, truer heart. But then she likes Peter Andre, so what the fucking fuck, right?

Wonderfully well ressurected new Dr Who, I thought, by the way...

It was 1976 - one of those magic numbers - and I was living in a haunted room on the second floor of a big house called Welcome. The heatwave was on, so hot you could just reach out in the garden for a few leaves, crush them in your hand and roll 'em. The plants grew six-feet high that summer. I was one of the lucky ones, out of work and on the dole, which meant I spent more time in the garden than most. I was also the youngest - 17 to everyone else's 25. All college grads, except for me. All been travelling, done India, Greece, France, all that. Except for me. All into the three Kings, Freddie, BB and Albert. Except for me. I was into Bowie and Dylan, still busy digging Kerouac and struggling with Zen.

Her name was Tracey and she was one of those like you only got in the mid-70s, like an elf with a gun in both tiny hands, a princess bee floating from flower to flower, sweet shiny sting on full gobsmacking display. One of those bad enough to make you give up your steady (who was old gold). You know, total. Mornings I'd flick on the Stones. Sticky Fingers. Then groove around waiting to see what happened. Sort of days before you knew how bad it could get, still just sensing it, guessing at it. Never seeing it coming, just knowing it had to go sooner or later, whirling like a spider down the plughole.

My little honeydripper didn't like to sleep in the haunted room without the lights on and the arm back on the record player, the same album going again and again. Lou Reed, Transformer. I'd never really rated it but now I was really starting to get it, hearing it over and over, like a penance. In the room next to mine was Buddha. That's what we called him cos that's what he was. I'd regulary check in with him for the wisdom and he'd never fail to give it, the bastard. Then there was Geoff and Celia in the room opposite, listening to reggae all day every day. You wondered how it worked, him fat and white and terminal, her smiley brown and Greek and full of cooking love.

Then downstairs Big Pete, rampaging about the place at 2.00am screaming: "WHO TOOK MY LAST SAUSAGE! WHO TOOK MY LAST FUCKING SAUSAGE, YOU CUNTS! WHO TOOK IT! WHO TOOK IT! WHO TOOK IT!" Well, I was hungry all the time back then.

Since having to give up using the running machine at home due to my chronic shin splints, lately I have been driving to yonder Health Club and using their huge swimming pool in my ongoing and endlessly uphill struggle to try and maintain a semblance at least of some form of what might very generously be described as, um, fitness.

It's nice, they have two fast lanes for the Olympians, a couple of 'medium' lanes for those that can, you know, swim. And then there are four lanes for the likes of me, known locally as the slow lanes. You go clockwise, round and round, until you feel you have done sufficient 'laps' to restore a modicum of self-esteem. In my case, the figure is currently 28. Not non-stop, obviously, and certainly slow. This I enjoy very much, though. Except for the fact that so far I have always - repeat: ALWAYS - been by far the slowest frog in the pond. Old women and small children seem able to lap me no problemo whatsoever. So what, I tell myself grimly. As a wise fit bloke once earnestly advised, only go at the speed you feel comfortable with. But Jesus Christ, surely one day someone even slower than me will come along and allow me to feel good about myself?

This morning as I bobbed up and down from one end of the pool to the other, I rather fancied I might start sporting a monacle on my travels, gliding along winking knowingly at all the yummy mummies with their sprogs in the 'family' area, while smoking a cigar. At least that way I could be straggling along with a certain amount of... well, old world charm, shall we say, if not exactly what the ladies' periodicals would doubtless term style.

Back home the rest of the day has been all about the Metallica book of fucking course, though I'm pleased to say that's something that's suddenly been going with a better turn of pace. Having shoe-horned in all the facts and quotes I need for the current chapter I'm working on today it was just a question of seeing how fast my stubby little fingers could type and what's left of the old noggeroon could figure out what to say and where to say it. Saying it well is something I am leaving for now, obviously, ready for that final 'polish' that only comes about five minutes before I'm due to send the chapters to my long-suffering but thankfully exquisitely gifted editor, Ian.

Net result: by god, if I sit here for another couple of hours I'll have the chapter done! Except that if I sit here for another couple of hours my arse will become permanently glued to the hot leathery seat it has been slithering around on all afternoon (and now evening). I need air and a change of scene. or at least a glass of red. I think that's allowed, surely?

Meanwhile, if you'll pardon the plagiarism, as my young friend Alexander Milas, estimable editor of the world's only and best true-metal mag, Metal Hammer said via email only just now: "May your holy observance of the resurrection bring you inner joy." Good lad, well put. He even looks a bit like Jesus...

To London today to do the weekly Classic Rock radio show, and also a couple of book interviews for other radio stations, here and abroad. I suppose there's a lot more 'abroad' out there than there is 'here', but I'm still surprised just how many of the interviews I do to promote my books these days are with radio stations and/or magazines that come from America and Australia. It's the music, too, of course, rock always having been bigger outside this country.

Then it's home and back to Metallica. I'm at a tedious stage with that where I'm having to go through hours and hours of interview recordings I've done with various people. This is good, in that the material is fascinating. Bad in that it's soooo time-consuming, suddenly the day is gone and you look at the screen and see less than a page of fresh words hanging there. It also means a lot of old-fashioned thinking. Again, this is what ultimately makes or breaks a book, the quality of the thinking behind it being more important than the nuts and bolts of the facts and figures. But again, the time runs away like rats over the hill. Before you know it, the sun is down and so are you.

Even the nights are crowding in on me again. Too many dreams. Last night found me working in a hairdressers' shop managed by Alan Niven, Guns N' Roses original manager. During my coffee break Drew Barrymore, who also workd there, was pestering me for sex. The night before I had gotten together with Axl Rose in his hotel room to discuss his big comeback interview. He was only going to do one so naturally it had to be with me, and we were filming and recording it so we could sell it to TV and radio stations all over the world. A bit Frost/Nixon, I thought, and a damn good idea. Except then I, er, woke up. Yeah, one those stories...

I've had a couple of emails about this so let me explain briefly. Appetite For Destruction is not Star Trippin'. Yes, it does contain the stories in Star Trippin' but these have all now been added to with new, more refined intros, much longer versions of some of the original stories - twice as long in the case of the Metallica piece - and all now come with brand new codas too. Plus, and here's the main thing, there are a further 15 stories, plus intros and codas, not in Star Trippin'.

Star Trippin' is a self-published book which came out in 2006, and was sold specifically through this website, with a strictly limited, highly collectable print run. There are a few, but only a few left, so if you want one you can still get one. Appetite For Destruction is a much bigger, brand new, mass market package that anyone can buy, anywhere, anytime. You know, in the same way that you can buy a Greatest Hits or Best Of collection by your favourite music artist, or you can buy the larger box-set. Ultimately, the choice is yours. Star Trippin' also has an introduction to the book written by Jon Hotten. Appetite has one written by me. They both have different covers. Ergo, they are different books. You can buy them both or separately. Nobody is forcing you to do either. The choice really is all yours.

Right. Now I'm off to bed.

I'll tell you what rock'n'roll is. It's listening to Sticky Fingers by the Rolling Stones at 5 in the morning while doing your nut in tryng to get something else on. No, not as in sweet love. And no, not as in after being up all night 'dancing with the ice queen' as my old now dead mate Joe used to describe the white stuff. I mean cos you can't sleep cos you need to get back to The Book and The Bills and The Bastards Inside Your Head. You know?

Anyway, what an album Sticky Fingers still is. I no longer have the original vinyl version with the gay zipper Warhol cover, but I do have Spotify, god love it, and I still have enough of my old bones moving in the right direction often enough to, like, dig it, when the old mood takes over, ye know? The fact that it happens at funny - or not-so - times of the day - or usually - night makes no biggie. Not really. That's what you keep telling yourself anyway as you sit there, gone, dark outside, even the dogs still sleeping, while you type and nod along and pretend it all means something.

Which reminds me... my son's pre-school friend asked him today (about me), "Is that your daddy or your granddaddy?" Cheeky little fuck, I thought. Then looked in the mirror and was forced to ask myself the same thing. What would the other Mick say? Send me dead flowers in the morning...?

Sitting here listening to my daughter in the other room practising her clarinet. A sound that gets a little better each time. Amazing how she does it, considering the other sounds she is surrounded by involving my younger daughter and even younger son screaming at each other - in play. Imagine how that gets when they fight, which of course they do every day at some point.

Been a bit of week here, but then it always is here somehow. This week though definitely qualifies as 'special'. Wife went into hospital for an op on Monday. This is something she has been waiting for a fair old while. Then the appointment suddenly came out of the blue, throwing everything into disruption. Then the appointment got moved back again at the very last minute, and then again just a little further, then a little further, until finally she got wheeled in on Monday night. The consultant who did the op was a fucking pig, and I use the words advisedly. But I don't want to get into that here (he'll be hearing all about it from me directly). The good news is she's home now and feeling better.

Meanwhile, I have reverted to my dad-mum role again while looking after the squiddlies and trying (and failing) to get any work done at all. Sometimes you just have to admit defeat. Back to so-called normal by next week, though (or I might as well just lay down and let the tax man shoot me in the head now).

Still reading Nick Kent but really starting to stumble now over the ditch-like cliches. People never just leave, they 'bid fond farewells'. Crowds of people don't enjoy gigs, they are 'beguiled'. Bands don't play shows in London, they arrive 'on British soil'. When artists go to other artists shows they are 'scoping out the competition'. Cocaine even gets called 'the devil's dandruff', which is particularly icky as that's not an expression anyone in the rock press used until Mark Ellen put it as a tag line on the cover of the first ever issue of Q magazine at least half-a-decade after Kent's book ends. And so on and tediously on. It's a shame as I'm enjoying the stories. I just wish this most famous of rock writers could fucking write. God bless him.

Sitting here working late into the evening, enjoying it yet wishing I were somewhere else. This is the life I once dreamed of, a thousand moons and my entire youth ago. Still dream of it now, of course, though rarely while living it. At least, not after eight at night, with others watching the football - go on, my son! - and drinking beer in the bars of all our yesterdays. Which reminds me: Lemmy used to fax me his poems. He was probably speeding out of his head when he wrote them, great long hand-written screeds of devilish prose, full of blood and whiskey. Then I made the mistake of faxing him back some of mine. I never heard from him about poetry again. Wonder what he's doing tonight? Actually, I think I know...

Blown away somewhat to be told this week of the death of the rock writer Carol Clerk. I can't say I was a close friend of Carol's, we hadn't spoken for a couple of years, but I had known her since the late 70s, early 80s, and she was always solid gold, especially during those years when I didn't have two pennies to rub together, and even less self-esteem. She never judged, just bought you a pint and told you to sit down. For years, as news editor on Melody Maker, she would spend afternoons in the pub downstairs, which soon became her second office. Bands would be invited to drop by, have a drink or ten and simply hang out, which they would do, sometimes for days. She had a big heart. She was also a great writer, paying all her attention to the story and seemingly none whatsoever to drawing attention to herself as a writer (the chief failing of all rock writers, me included in the bad old days). I don't want to get into the details of her ilnness, there is a facebook page you can check out for that, find it at http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=406898639224&v=info . I just want to say how much it grieves me to learn all this. Such a cliche to say, but so true: the one about it always being the good ones they take first. Please god, He never regards me as that good. But not before He welcomes Carol home - and fetches her a pint and a ciggy, and a berth near the front of the stage. She certainly earned them.

Been getting up early to do 7.00a.m. phone interviews with people in Australia and New Zealand about my new Appetite For Destruction book (note to self: must ask the sainted Julie to put the image of the book cover up on this site - and handy link to its Amazon page). Then going to bed late as I do more phone interviews in the evening with people in Australia (or New Zealand). This is fantastic for me, especially as 90 percent of them are for various radio shows (less introspection, more laughs). It does make you wonder though. Like... so far I've done one interview about the book in the UK, for the Birmingham Post & Mail. Ace fella, knew his stuff, wrote a killer piece - but that's it. Meanwhile, in Australia, I've done about 15 radio shows, various magazines and newspapers, including Penthouse (though, sadly, no nudie spread of my fair and increasingly old bod to go with it I'm afraid, ladeez). I've even done more interviews in New Zealand than I have in the UK. What does this all say to you? To me it says: get your ass over to Oz, mate, and start throwing some prawns on the barbie. Think how different life could be. Xmas on the beach! Beer dollies at the cricket! Never having to wear long trousers or gloves in bed again!

Meanwhile, back to Nick Kent... who is getting a ton of press here in the UK for his book I can't help noticing in a totally none-envious way. After having my moan yesterday I found myself sitting on the bog this morning reading it and enjoying it very much. I still flinch at the endless rock journo-type prose, even if it is of the premium variety. But I'm starting to get past that and enjoy the actual stories. Nick is what he is, that's not gonna change. But the stories stand tall. I knew I'd changed my mind about it when I found my tea had gone cold and my arse had gotten glued to the icy seat...

I have been dreaming about Lars Ulrich. Again. Last night we were at a big rock festival together in Denmark. I don't know what either of us was doing there but I was wandering around when he just showed up. No minders, no mates, just Lars on his todd. I felt strangely protective and immediately assumed the position as his unofficial guard, shadowing him wherever he went, stopping drunks with camera phones and/or the terminally stoned from harrassing him. A bit like Ross Halfin and Jimmy Page. Except Lars didn't seem to care. I wondered if I should mention the Metallica book to him, it seemed only fair somehow that I did, not to further hassle him, you understand, just that not mentioning it would have constituted another, possibly even worse form of prejudice, if you see what I dream. In the end, I couldn't find a way of getting round to it. That is, I was being kept too busy by loony fans trying to grab at him and take pieces away as souvenirs, to really get into it. Then, just as the situation was becoming acute, my four-year-old son walked in the bedroom yelling something about some toy he couldn't find and WAKE UP NOW DADDY AND FIND IT FOR ME!!!

So you see, my recent absence from this blog has not beeen because I have lost the will to venture forth and, um, write, er, it. It's because my head-space has been over-occupied with the boys in black, and not just Metallica. But those other 'boys' in 'black' that pay you visits in the dead of night and won't go away again. Not even after you wake up and manage to stop yourself screaming. You know... those.

Changing the subject... been reading the new Nick Kent book, Apathy For The Devil, his '70s memoir'. According to Ross, who is much further into it than I am, it's a pretty good read. I was certainly salivating when I opened the Amazon package. And yet... is it me or is the whole thing riddled with the most irksome rock writer cliches? Get me wrong not, I grew up on Nick Kent in the NME. He's the main reason I fancied having a go at this sort of thing myself. But he seems locked into writing the book as though it were another article form 1973, as opposed to what I would prefer, which is something more in his real voice, from right here in less easily nailed-down 2010. Who knows, maybe he doesn't have a real voice anymore. In a strange way, it's rather inspiring. He's obviously just written down his memories as they come to him, without recourse to revision or further drafts or even second thoughts. Back in the 70s, you read his stuff with the deeply felt knowledge that pathetic little you would never be able to carve out sentences of such grandeur. Now you read him and think: fuck me, I could do better than that! Maybe it gets better after he starts taking smack with Keith and Jimmy. I do hope so.

YouTube - Julie Fowlis with Jenna Reid & Donal Lunny - Biodh An Deoch Seo 'N Làimh Mo Rùin

You want to know what I'm into? Take a peek...

Then come back later and let me tell you about the Hairy Bikers, who I met last night at the annual Orion authors' party...

A nice surprise this week, in between all the non-blog writing and hand-wringing over the Metallica book and other things... My new book, Appetite For Destruction, came out. I knew it was coming, of course, but had forgotten until my editor, Ian, called to wish me Happy Publication Day. Which was nice of him. Almost as nice, in fact, as the bottle of champagne that the publisher's Orion sent over the next day. That's Orion for you. Class. I'm going to ask Julie if she'll put a pic of the cover up on this site when she's not busy beating Picasso at his own game, and I'll add a few details for those that are interested. That said, I don't want to spoil it by saying too much. Just that if you're a fan of the classic 80s era of rock and metal, this one is very much for you. Not that it's about music, as such. It's about the stories, the best of the bunch told at the time, and those only told for the first time now. And it's dedicated to Ross Halfin and Peter Makowski, absolutely without whom...

This blog is going into a little temporary late winter hibernation, due to a pressing need to suspend all aspects of life while I try and get some serious book work done. As David Bowie once memorably sang, sor-did de-tails fol-low-ing...

Immensely, suddenly, tired. Had a clue to this yesterday when I feel into a swoon on the train into London. But that felt like a good tired; a well-earned tired. Then last night, at home, slept on one side without moving the entire night for the first time in... years. Literally. But again, it felt good. If a little... weird.

Then today... a not-good tired, been creeping up all day. Replete with weird aches, odd pains, and malfunctioning brain. Not alarming but somewhat out of the blue. A need-a-rest tired. Except there's no time for rest. There was a cure for such situations in the old days. Not anymore though. Or if there is I haven't been introduced to it, besides actual, you know, uh, resting.

And now a tired-sounding blog to go with it. Not good either...