Star Blog

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.