Warsaw: The Rolling Stones. Big buzz. I've been in so many countries and played so many shows in the past 34 years that I've lost count - long ago.Who counts, anyway? Just to have a job, an audience to play to, is a bonus. What once I took for granted, as a right, I now cherish and accept with all the humility learnt through those years of peaks and troughs. Nothing like a rotten trough to teach you a little humility.

Then The Stones come along, and we all feel a frisson of childish excitement. Grown men have emailed, "How great is that!" and "Need anyone to carry your bags - gratis?" etc. By "grown men", I mean long-standing friends from the music world and journalism. Who should know better, but hey, who does? And why should they, really? The Stones - something else. It does something, doesn't it.

And they are fantastic. All rock fans should see them once at least, and this time seems the best. They are steaming. The stage-set is fabulous, the ideas boggling. Great set-list, too. You can throw millions at some people and they can still cock-up. Those around The Stones seem top pros and all decent people,too. It comes from the top, attitude. Those working for you will act according to The Boss's own way of acting. Mick is The Boss, the man at the top, and he must be a decent bloke all right.

Played within the confines of a proper race-course in Warsaw - felt quite at home, dressing-room built within the Tote betting hall. Watched The Stones from a VIP area after our own 45 minutes,, next to the mixing desks, and got a feel for their passion, an amazing passion considering it's been so many years. I was 12 when they came to the hospital ward in Carshalton Beeches on a good-will mission near the Christmas of 1963. They won't remember. And I didn't get the chance to mention it. But it was on my mind.

In St Petersburg, I got a few days alone, visiting the Hermitage Museum for hours and hours, trawling the streets and lanes and the canal and riverside paths. It was not enough time. But I am not convinced there can be enough time for such a place.

I passed through room after room in The Hermitage: Matisse, Picasso, Van Gogh, on to Titian, Rembrandt and Rubens, with Rodin on every other stairwell; I rested occasionally in huge window bays; sat and looked down into Palace Square and on the Friday, the day before we played, they were building the set. Iron frame and wooden paths in all directions away from backstage; tents by the dozen, a makeshift city being constructed for an event involving one band, and a wee supporting act. It looked on Saturday, backstage, like Glastonbury.

Ronnie Wood came to my dressing-room at around 7.20 (4.20 UK time) because he'd been sent the message that "Steve will be watching The King George from Ascot live on his laptop". Charlie Watts came, too. We shouted home Dylan Thomas, with Woody's mate Eddie Ahern riding, and and a fair wad of my cash on its back.

Charlie was impressed with my travelling telly feature. "'Ear, 'ow come 'e's got it, and you 'aven't?" he goaded Woody. Woody stood next to me, leaning on the table-top, ciggie burning, smoke drifting. And I'm about to play in 25 minutes. Smoke! Never allowed anywhere near, not anywhere backstage, not for 15 years. But it was Woody. A Rolling Stone. Gimme a break. I relaxed and smiled about it. Good bloke. You could forgive him a lot. Said to Mick and Keith, "Thanks for having us aboard for a couple." Mick said, "Good to have yer" and Keith laughed a gravelly, groan laugh, and smiled at himself. See? Attitude comes from the top. These guys are the top in their team, and their attitude towards us was kind and generous. To play for them and their huge audience, especially in places I had never played before, was a gas! To be treated with respect was a bonus. I won't forget it.

The Bedford Rhythm Festival came soon after - smaller numbers, but we played with a killer passion. The sun shone and the numbers swelled as we got into the set; the lights, post-dusk, brought "Sebastian" to life outdoors for a blessed 10 minutes.

Malaga (Estepona Rocks Festival) Friday and Pinkpop Classic Saturday. Then a family holiday, from Sunday. Airports suck, but there's no alternative in my life. Grown-up kids coming, too, with their partners. What a bonus.

SCUBA, food, hot sun, cool pool, and scrabble on the terrace.

Guitar at hand.

Always.

Always moving. A rolling stone gathers no moss, right.

SH