Star Blog

The Wall clan all came back from their weekend away with dripping noses, thin blood and rusty coughs. Since which time it has been hard to keep my arse as suitably fastened to the hot seat as it should be, what with wife being the worst off of the lot. Fortunately, eldest daughter escaped the Cheddar Cold so that's been one less casualty on the couch today spreading germs. And then there's me, soldiering on, impervious to illness, quite heroic. Today anyway, we'll see how long it lasts. Meanwhile, Nita sent me a couple more Howlin Rain CDs, Magnificent Friend and Howlin Rain. Have only had a chance to check out half of Friend so far but sounds just as groovacious as you would expect. Stevie Chick, a founding member of the Rain Beard fraternity, reckons the new one Russian Wilds is their best yet. But that's so good it would be anyone's best yet. Right, gotta go. Wife is in need of mouth to mouth, kids are fighting off the cold by fighting each other, and eldest can't find the sawdust for cleaning out the gerbils. I think that's what she is shouting about at the top of her voice from the top of the stairs. Funny, could have sworn the dogs had eaten them already. Must have been some other time I'm barely thinking of...

First the good news. Wife and kids went away this weekend to Cheddar Gorge. Primarily to allow the Old Man to get some Proper Work done on The Book. And guess what - the Old Fucker actually got Another Chapter Done. Oh the fuck yes! All hail the awesomeness of moi.

Well, it had to happen. Finally hit a buffer today with the book. Still got some good stuff done but lord how it barely crawled onto the page. Tomorrow will be different. Kindly-hearted wife and cute and cuddly kids are clearing out early to allow me to get some SPACE to get my SHIT done. That is, finish polishing off a couple of already done in the sense of need-to-be-ventilated-first chapters and get back to knocking seven shades out of the next couple. It is within my reach. I have the power. I bloody well hope so anyway or kindly-hearted wife will be knocking several shades of her own out of something and I don't mean a book. Upwards... away!

My old dancing partner Nita sent me a CD that I played for the first time today and instantly fell for. Band called Howlin Rain. Don't tell me, you already know about them? Well, maybe. But I've also been listening to them - since I was about 12, actually. They were there every time I heard Humble Pie, Bonnie and Delaney, Steely Dan, Little Feat, Beggars-era Stones, you get the vibe. Gonna find a youtube clip and stick it up, inspire you to light a joss stick, baby...

Arrived into the week with my coat already on and my shoes shined. Monday I was in London seeing the book world's last surviving gentleman publisher Malcolm Edwards and his top gun editor Ian Preece. We lunched at La Francoise in Soho, where the waitresses only speak French and smoke long thin untipped cigarettes as they disdainfully take your order, and when the plates arrive are smothered in scarlet lipstick, the hussies. We drank some exotic form of cocktail that only Malcolm and a handful of surviving French monarchists are familiar with and can pronounce as we ate the still feathered wings of various small birds. I'd love to tell you what we talked about but then I'd have to invite into the club and membership has now closed. (I'm still waiting for them to suss me out.)

Got up, made tea, walked the dogs, came back, showered myself and fed me. Then came in here to start again. It was good. Stopped at five to eat a sandwich, then kids started on about helping with their homework. So I did that. It was easier than usual. Sorry, but it was. Then back in here to carry on. This time with the help of a small (he lied) whiskey. Two actually, eventually. Now, at half nine, I am done for the day. It's been good. Most of them aren't, so maybe I had this one coming to me. I don't what it is. It just is.

That Thursday change of scene did me right. Two good (long) days subsequent and I've got another chapter in the bag. I'll still need to go back to it in a week or so just to give it a fresh pair of eyes but the bastard is all there, I know it. Just needs the bows and bells and drops of blood spattered over it like kisses. Feels good too because it puts me back on track chronologically. Somehow I felt myself wading into deep waters with the previous chapter I wrote, which actually comes later in the book, but didn't want to stop because the words were laying themselves down without much interference from me and when that happens you have to let it, otherwise it might never happen again. I liked it too because it was a sign that I'm not as screwed-up over this book as I was over Metallica and even more so Led Zeppelin. Something has happened - I know this because I think I know what it is but don't expect me to tell here, magic doesn't like daylight - and it has put into another realm where all things are achievable. The main thing is I have been lucky with interviews, lucky that this story really has never been told properly before, lucky that having done two books of this size and scope already my chops are now up and my groove down. Of course, these things being what they are - fragile as crocodile's eyelashes, haphazard as Thor's hammer that time the strap broke - I'll freeze in front of the computer tomorrow. Then get run over by a bus when I try and escape for some foul air...

My body has ways of telling me when to take a breather. So when, yesterday, the old hiatus hernia flared up and rewarded me with an afternoon of serious reflux pain, I recognised the signs. That's what three or four weeks fairly non-stop work will do to you. To me, anyway. Fortunately, wife got me some fresh ginger root, shaved it bare, chopped it into chunks, poured boiling water over it and left it to brew. Once I'd drank that I was practically back to whatever passes for normal around here these days. Then when I staggered out of bed this morning, feeling like I'd just crawled out from under a truck, I knew I'd need more than just ginger, good as it is. I needed rest. Just a little, no biggie. Fortunately, I had my three-weekly appointment this morning with the Sainted Vanessa, otherwise I'd never have been arsed to get this down now. Heavy on the moxo, deep on the needles... this is the road to salvation, friends. I don't mean that bullshit NHS version, for swollen knees, I mean the 6000-year-old TCM version as performed by a highly experienced, expert practitioner. Came home, had me a sit down in front of the telly, watching a Sky-plussed recording of Micky Rourke on the Actors Studio, then noticed the sun had come out so wife and I drove to Wallingford, where we grabbed a steak bake and drifted around the town, using the loos in Waitrose and checking out the groovy books in all the groovy charity stores. Picked up a paperback of Borstal Boy for 80p and a hardback American first edition of Freedom by Jonathan Franzten. Beehan I've read before, of course, having green blood. But Freedom I only know by reputation and cachet. Well we'll see about that. Taking it to bed with me tonight for a bit of full-frontal fluidity. Hopefully.

Writing AC/DC. Hard to keep the voice as I want it consistent throughout. I don't like Once Upon A Time and stock rock-crit phrases like 'grace these shores'. Impatient with this idea that they are somehow Australian when what the Young Brothers are is Scottish through and through. Want the writing, in short, to mirror the pulse and energy and rhythm of their music, unpretentious, full of fuckings and calling a cunt a cunt, but also affirming and strangely freeing. Kind to animals and ruthless to humans. Proper blood and guts on the plate. And have managed to do so, I'm excited to say, in many places. But not in others, less excited to say. Then there are the places where actually less blood and more bone is what's needed. AC/DC make the complicated things they do sound so easy yet only they can do it. And so the writing must be too. Or at least must aim for, sticky fingers and all, byways to smaller hells and back, not only in black, and not just for Bon, neither. For Johnno too, bless his roll-ups and hairy back. And of course for the brothers, larrikins from a land up and under. Smash-mouthed, closed-door smokers don't give a fuck give too much of a fuck fucking fuckers. And me.

We arrived back on the planet at least in one piece. That had not been a given. At one point in the outward bound journey we had thought, in fact, we would never be able to return again. Not that things back home were as we had left them. They never are but this was quite a lot different. We had been gone so long, so unexpectedly, so off the dial and out of reach it was a struggle at first to recognise our own reflections in the mirror. Then when we did... well, they say you can get used to anything. And what choice do we have any of us, anyway?

I came down the spiral staircase and allowed the butler to hand me a flute of champagne. I'd been asleep all day in front of the vast HD screen at the foot of the four-poster. Annabelle was waiting for me in the drawing room, a cigar smouldering between her sweet pink lips.

Dinner at Sticky Fingers last night with my friend Hamish, the rockingest TV producer in town, and my new friend Richard, the rockingest BBC producer in town. It goes without saying, therefore, that a rather large degree of rocking went on, one way or another. Ended up talking about some of our favourite music from our youths, which fortunately for us coincided with probably the greatest ever era for rock music. And when I say probably I do of course mean certainly.

Wife and I went into Oxford today on a mission to buy me a dark suit. There comes a time in every proper man's life when he needs a dark suit and that time came for me years ago, at which point I got one. The trouble is, it seems to have shrunk since then and I now find I need a new one. We did not succeed. I was looking for 'economical' but the only ones that fitted didn't fit well enough. Or put another way, looked shit. It now looks like I may need to raise the bar in terms of price-planning. Did buy a very nice cotton black shirt and gold-ish silk tie from Marks and Sparks though. Classy, like. I also splurged on a cream-coloured cashmere scarf from, er, Kashmir, actually. Hey, it's warm, it's soft, it's great-looking and my new best friend Shabir at the Dragon Den in the covered market assured me it would "last forever." In those terms then, a bargain. And we'll say no more about it. Right?

Okaaaaaaaay... We also bought a new pink swimsuit for youngest daughter and one of those leopard skin-looking hats with pink ears and long scarf-glove-type things for eldest daughter. All good for something, wife insisted. When we finally got back to the car though it refused to start. Again. For fuck's sake, we only just took it out of the garage yesterday evening. It's now back there. Fortunately, Ben and Jamie, our manic mechanics have given wife a red Peugot diesel, circa 2001 to "run around in" as a "courtesy." You could see the neighbours' curtains twitching as we pulled up in it tonight. But then they always do that when I come home. Must be the cut of my jib. You've seen my jib, right? Then you'll know what I'm talking about, baby...

Watching the credits roll on Sherlock tonight (the superor TV version, not the tedious movie), and wife says: "Is that the same Una Stubbs that was in Pulp Fiction?"

And so the old fart writer finally came crawling out of his stinking black hole and back towards the dim grey light, his tiny red eyes blinking painfully like Roley Mo at a house of hos...

So you wanna be a rock'n'roll writer? Well, let's talk about that...

Worked every day since Boxing Day so tonight I went crazy and talked wife into coming with me to Yummy Yummy in Wantage (yes, it really is called that). Eldest daughter babysat which was awesome while wife and I got the youngest two to bed early (they needed it after a string of late Xmas-related nights... honest) then dolled ourselves up and drove like fiends to Wantage. A beautiful evening, holding hands, mouths full of sweet Thai delights while we daydreamed about what we would do with the coming year If We Had Money. Woah yeah...

A beautiful day. Saw the sainted Vanessa yesterday who helped shake off the Xmas post-hangover shroud that had been enveloping me. Then today felt even better, "keeping that good feeling going," as she says. Started with a looong walk with the dogs, then made everybody lunch back home and got to work while eldest daughter went out in the rain with her new skatebaord and the two littler ones took their scooters and wife her umbrella.

Just came from my annual year's end party for rock people who have meant something more than shit to me over the previous money-grubbing 12 months. Lars was there with Lou, of course, though neither were talking anymore. Hey, guys, I told them, I loved the record. "What record?" said Lars. "What love?" sneered Lou.

It was Christmas day in hair metal heaven. I went outside to sit by the pool and smoke me some breakfast. I looked around but it was just another hot green sticky morning, y'dig? I had me a shower, had me a Chrissy Sappuro, switched on the TV then switched it off again and went for a stroll up Sunset. Tower had a big fake snow roof and in the distance was giant billboard with Santa riding Rudolph for all his was worth, the sunlight glinting off his beard. I went into Book Soup looking for something Xmessy to do but all I could find was a signed copy of Mick Fleetwood's autobiography. I bought it anyway and went straight to the index and looked up 'Charlie'.

Not exactly a busy day. With the kids finishing school early for Xmas and my body giving up the ghost early too, I barely got into my office. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. A change being as good as being stuck in the same seat for the rest of your frigging life or what feels like it and all that. I did find time for a couple of good phone chats though. The first with Dave Everley, cooking up plans for Great Classic Rock Stories for 2012. The boy hit the ground running as the mag's features editor this year but he's clearly not planning on resting on his laurels. Inspiring. I'd love to tell you more but then that would be telling, wouldn't it, and you don't let any cats out of the bag in the magazine business, which of course you will know by now. And Everley is proving to be the cat master.

Bunny ears. What every girl wants for Xmas, apparently. I shall look into it. Meanwhile, had a wonderfully food-based day and night in London yesterday. A proper old school looooooong lunch in Soho with Ian my editor at Orion, followed by a pause back at the Bucket Of Blood, where I lay on the flea-ridden mattress reading through the Brian Clough biography Ian had thoughtfully sent me on my way with. Then as if that wasn't enough, Dante Bonutto, my record executive friend in high-ish places turned up to drive me to an amazing little Japanese joint in Camden Town. Reminded me of those gaffs you only used to get in New York. Very yummy yummy. Followed by yet more fun seeing Marillion strut their stuff at the Forum in Kentish Town. I say strut, because I don't know what the more accurate word would be to describe the sight of Steve Hogarth lost in his self-absorbed dream. But it was all very meaningful and extremely musical and, well, good. Especially good, though, it has to be said, was when they did Sugar Mice In The Rain during the encore. The only survivor of the Fish era it actually sent several bald middle-aged men standing nearby into paroxysms of tear-swept joy. I mean, it really did. I know because one of them was me. No tears for Dante Being a record company axeman, he's had his tear ducts surgically removed. But a wonderful moment nonetheless. Then this morning I get an email from well-known author Philip Wilding telling me he saw us there but didn't come over to say hello because... um... well, that's the thing. He just didn't come over. I blame Dante...

To London and lunch with my editor at Orion-stroke-seeks-music-DJ-guru Ian Preece. No idea where we're going. So far everywhere is booked up with men in suits and women in lipstick enjoying the company Xmas lunch. A rowdy crowd, best avoided. Doesn't matter, as yattering to Ian is always good fun. The subject of books may even come up, though we usually spend most of the time talking football like the Real Men we are, look out babes everywhere. Ah, yeah...

I have a new line on my face. There are the ones that run from the inside corner of your eyes down your cheeks towards your ears. These have been growing on me since I was a teenager and would never go to bed early; a condition that only worsened over the next 20 years until one day what I thought was just a really REALLY tired face in the mirror was actually my new permanent face. That seemed bad at the time. I had no idea that given another 15 years or so I'd actually start growing a pair of parallel lines beneath those lines. Except they're not exactly parallel as growing independently of each other, though along similar newly dug furrows. I first noticed the one on the right of my face yesterday afternoon when I made the mistake of looking into the mirror in daylight. It looks like one of those deep-cut sleep lines you might get from laying unconscious for 48 hours on the pavement kerb. Except this came from lying on a soft pillow. Or rather came after years of the soft pillow treatment. What it actually came from I can only guess too well. Ah, sweet mortality, what an unrelenting hoor ye are.

Stuck in the domestic mire and fed up with it. Every one of the kids is either sick or has been this week, or is showing signs of becoming so. Meanwhile, wife is constantly tired and also up against it. And me, well, not that I ever like to complain of course...

So where did they go those last few days? Well, I could tell you but then I'd have to relive them and I'm too blanked out for that. Some very good high points, it has to be said, one in particular I'm keeping close to my bosom, as you have to when you don't want to jinx things. But the weather inside and out has also taken its toll and this evening I'm looking at an early retirement. Or would be if I didn't have phone interviews to do. One down already, two to go, looking for a 9pm chequered flag. Been doing back to back days again for a couple of weeks now and slowly but surely the old bold tires are falling flat. Like the year itself. Not long now...

A weekend in the company of Bon Scott. What could be nicer? Give me back those 32 years and I'd agree with you there. As it is, it's still not a bad way to spend your weekend. I met Bon myself of course, but I'll save those details for the book. It's the Bon I didn't get to know, that very few people got to know, that has been taking up my time (again) this weekend. The odd thing about writing a book, as I've said before, is that the story really does end up writing itself. You still have to hang on in there typing away like a paddy with a broken shovel in his hand. But you have to forget all notions of having any sort of handle on the story before you begin. Even at this stage where so much of the research is complete, there's a whole other layer - many other layers, you discover - that reveal themselves, if you let them. If you give them the time they need to bubble around in the quagmire of your brain.

Haven't been out at all today. Head down non-stop tippy-tapping. It's not good for your immortal soul but it shores up the belief that somehow the gods will take pity and rescue you from financial roasting for another month. People used to tell me how expensive it was to maintain a wife and kids, I didn't know what in hell they were talking about. You can only wear one school uniform at a time, right? Oh, so very wrong. Especially at this time of year, and even more so at this time of the world, where every day is Xmas to our kids, the presents endless, the surprises so frequent the word loses all meaning. And all the while, the spectre of daddy in his office fretting over the figures dancing round his head, elusive in the catching, all to touchable in their hot-breath ability to tip him over the edge. But then, hey, it's Friday. Let's all go out and have a good time tonight. Come on, kids, let's go...

No AC/DC today. Well, not much. Had to block off some time to get some mag work done. The wolf is whistling outside again, threatening to huff and puff our door down, and this time the bastard means business I think. There is also this thing coming up my kids and wife keep going on about, begins with an X and ends with a mass. Sounds deadly. And very expensive. Especially to those like me right now who can't afford it. And, well, er, yeah. Welcome back my friend to the red bills that never end.

I write this while sitting in Costa at Paddington Station, feeling very metrosexual as I sit here sipping (gulping) double espresso, wielding my Berry and tossing around with the inhouse internet connection. This is what happens to you when you find yourself going backwards and forwards to London for 'meetings' for days in a row. Thankfully this one was an in-out job but it's still eaten up the best part of the afternoon. Hence the accompaniment of my trusty old laptop. I never do this usually but this time I really do have to work on the go, intent as I am on nailing this here book type thing I'm apparently locked into come what may. You can tell it's made my head go funny though. Just now I found myself watching a video on Youtube on Venom from about 1984 doing Welcome To Hell. No, wait come back...

Have spent the last 24 hours on the town. Sort of. Dante Bonutto came over last night and we went out to dinner at the Old Post Office. Talked turkey. Dante works for Universal now and I... well, I do whatever it is I do. We've also known each other for nearly 30 years, all the way back to Kerrang, which he gave me my first shot at and, so, lots to jaw about. He left about 2.00a.m.