This black cab snaked into the drop-off point at The Westbury and decanted a couple. Without the door closing, another couple filled their seats. The doorman told the driver, "Apollo Theatre". The cab scratched its way out and, at the lights, red for them, he spoke down into his left shoulder, "The Apollo! You wanna cab? Yer cn wawlk that!"
They let it go. But for several minutes (it's further than he thought) it rankled. They wondered, are we at a point in post-Call-Me-Tony Britain where the bloke who earns his livelihood from those who hire him, can make crass remarks, without thought or care for the guys in the back - strangers?

Bruce was good. No knee-slides anymore, and no piano-hopping. And Clarence is struggling to get about, but it was a decent show. Brilliantly paced.

Max Weinberg is the best drummer for backbeat rock in the world. In Because The Night, Nils Lofgren played the guitar solo, maybe 5 minutes long, of all guitar solos. He went into uncharted lands at times, thumb-pick and fingers dancing serenely, generating dynamics most guitarists can only dream of achieving. Roy Bittan smouldered through a piano break, as long as it was beautiful (and it was glorious), a little later, and the big screens picked out every tiny flick and hammer. Took my boy the Barrister. He was stunned. Great moments. I should get out more.

To the BUPA hospital in Brentwood, Essex for full health check. Results astounding. Cholesterol fine, especially considering the amount of wine I consume. Blood pressure normal; all the usual problems associated with men of a certain age apparently being kept at bay. Don't feel I get much exercise when not touring, and then it's all on stage, sweating like melting wax hour upon hour under megawatts of lighting. The exercise bike gets the occasional battering. Maybe 6 or 7 kilometers in a session twice or week, say. I hear that many men are somewhat averse to the prostate test, but I found it no hardship, as the doctor was a pretty Italian woman, no more than 30 years old. Then she told me off over the wine consumption, suggesting that a glass and a half a day/night was best if a man is to maintain good health. More like a bottle and a half, most nights, I said. The lecture, never patronising, but pretty stern, that followed gave cause for a little consideration, and I have been trying to keep to the one bottle - that's only, what, 5 or 6 glasses for heaven's sake.....hardly makes me a lush. But it goes down so easily once you start. So I've been trying to delay the start, and to stop, go to bed, a little earlier. I'd never take alcohol to the bedroom; conscience would never permit. Just a good book: Steve Martin's autobiography is making me laugh out loud, and the memories are good, as I saw his Live act in the mid-70s, at the beginning of his stand-up success. Was in Las Vegas. He was support act to the Aussie woman who sang "Angie Baby". It'll come to me.....brain cells burnt from all the Chardonnay and claret, I suppose. Martin was hilarious. The Brits in the audience at the MGM Grand hotel, that means the 9 of us on a Capitol Records shindig out of Los Angeles (the singer was one of their acts) were near to collapse at his balloon animal gags and stories of ill-treatment towards his own ageing mother. Everyone should be familiar with most of that stuff by now, but at the time, when fresh, it was original and wild. "Wild and crazy guy", that was his Live album. Hilarious. Still can't think of that singer's name. Hope she doesn't read other people's on-line diaries. Feel this would insult her. It'll come to me.......Happy new year.

Silverjet to New York. Their dedicated terminal at Luton makes check-in a shoe-in. Bags decanted and croissants warm. Relaxed. Rare these days at airports. Taking your shoes off, and all that kerfuffle. Understandable, of course, but what a palaver. Airside, I'm usually ok. But this private lounge is the way to do it. Chasing MaxJet now for return of the £1300 of my money they held when they went belly-up on Christmas Eve. Were due to depart 16th, so booked tickets for Tom Stoppard's play, "Rock 'n' Roll" for next night, but Silverjet could not carry us until that day, 17th, so sat with heavy lids, barely able to stay awake throughout the entire, very long first act. Truth is, we left at the interval, if only to spare our neighbours in the dress circle any nuisance that may have incurred if sleep had got the better of either of us.

I am squeamish. A drop of blood, I can handle. Even watched the German pathologist/anatomist, Dr Gunther, sawing cadavers in half, and then into pieces on TV. Saw him decapitate one. But "saw" is the key word here. They were dead bodies. Cold. Frozen. Felt no pain. I could not stay in a room where, even on TV, a living person was being given the "saw" treatment. They may be sleeping, deep under anaesthetic, but they are alive. And I feel their pain. My wife is not like that. She has the stomach for it. Our friend, Juliet, is a major player at the National Hospital For Neurology And Neurosurgery in London and, she being friends with a surgeon or three, the occasional invitation to sit-in, actually to stand-in and watch from over the surgeon's shoulder during complicated, life-threatening/saving brain surgery, comes our way. It comes our way because Mrs Harley has herself studied Anatomy and Physiology, and they trust her not to faint. She's just home from a six hour operation involving the removal of a tennis ball-sized chunk - yes, tennis ball-sized! - of a man's brain. Epilepsy was his problem. Major problem. And, God willing, now his life will be considerably improved. I know perfectly well the skill involved in such a piece of surgical theatre, and am myself living proof of such skills (orthopaedic, not neurological, of course), but you won't be seeing me in there while they perform. The boys with the white coats would be summoned before the poor patient laid out before me had even had a chance to get settled in ga-ga land.

Spent Sunday in Biggleswade. Had to have a good reason. Recorded "The Coast Of Amalfi" as a duet with Belgian classical singer Hans Peter Janssens. HP sings it in Italian, I in English with the occasional Italian phrase slipped in. He has a fabulous voice, a deep tenor, close to baritone. Leading man in Les Miserables at the moment - until June. Get there before he ends his run. It's still an amazing show, and HP is perfect. "La Costa Di Amalfi" will be released in April, in Belgium, Holland and Germany. There will be downloads available via iTunes or whatever. HP has recorded "Sebastian", also in Italian. The translation makes it very pretty and deeply romantic. The language is, of course, musical, and my wee song has taken on yet another new guise. In fact, "Sebastian" will be out first, in April they say, with "La Costa....." to come later.

New photo shoot with Mike Callow in the north-west. Think maybe we got something quite special this time. We have decided to print the collected on-line diaries in paperback form for the Spring UK dates, to sell as merchandise.

Maybe one of those pix is the front cover. Got a couple of Mick Rock's from New York to consider, too. What to call the book?

160 pages going back to 2000, right up to date (well, up to end March, say, when the printer needs final copy).

Nothing shocks me anymore. But it came as a surprise to learn the BBC are dropping Sounds Of The 70s from their schedule. Been eight years, I reckon. I enjoy the research, and it's the closest I've come to having a proper job in 35 years, which hasn't done me any harm. Never say never, and Lewis Carney, who called to deliver the news, promised it hasn't actually been assigned to the annals of BBC History. We agreed that if and when the Beeb fancy re-incarnating the show, he'd get back to me. I'll miss it. Truth is, I sound like a mine of information on-air, but really I cram. Learn it all from copious reference books as I write, and most gets forgotten pretty soon after. Presenting radio is not unlike performing, which comes easy to me; always reaching out to perfect the impression of being relaxed. Recorded last show, for March 27th broadcast, last Friday. Then took in Peter Hall's re-vamp of Noel Coward's The Vortex at The Apollo. All that '20s flapper banter sounds dated, and the lines are not funny now. But it comes clamouring to life in the 3rd, last, act as the tragedy unfolds; as Felicity Kendall's Florence struggles to accept a) that she is not immortal, after all, and b) her errant son Nicky has a serious cocaine habit. Plus, he is gay! That role looks difficult, but Dan Stevens is terrific. For me, Phoebe Nicholls steals it.

Can't keep away from Broadcasting House: 26th, record Tracks Of My Years for the Ken Bruce radio 2 show; 28th, record interview with Steve Wright. Chatting with Ken, I find myself getting a little shaky, searching on the hoof for the perfect word or phrase to describe my feelings about some of the wonderful records in my list. They ask for 15 titles and whittle it down to their own choice of 10. Don't hear the tracks at the time of the chat, just discuss them cold. I realise how deeply some of them have affected my life. Back to the 60s with The Beatles and The Hollies and you remember the mates, and the girls, the fun and the growing up; the loss of some of your innocence. And Millwall, and the unbeaten home record coming to an untidy end at the hands of Plymouth Argyle, bringing with it what might have been the first-ever pitch invasion, at least since 1923 and The White Horse Wembley Final, where the poor lucky buggers mostly had little choice. Ken keeps it flowing because he likes music, he respects musicians and he has a great knowledge of his subject. As does Steve Wright: but with him it's all done impromptu, it seems. Never know where it's going to go, and going with his erratic and comedic flow is best. Faith is restored at these times. Hearing A Friend For Life at 8.45 one morning last autumn, when Johnnie Walker sat in for Wogan, restored some faith, too. Make Me Smile is no albatross, but it's a relief to hear more recent tracks aired.

Fiddling with the set-list. And so far in advance. But need some r 'n r. Saw The Stones' movie, Scorsese's "Shine A Light" at the comfy Arts Picturehouse, Cambridge. One for fans, essentially. I wanted more interview footage. They were amusing young guys, all of them. But they rock in that small theatre.