Specifically, the bits called Suggs and Chas Smash (aka Carl).

It feels a bit redundant to say that I like Madness. Is there anyone that doesn’t? I bet even the Taliban like Madness…

This shoot happened late at night in a room above a restaurant in Soho. They’d just come back from playing a festival in Australia, Suggs was a bit tired and Carl was, if not over-refreshed, definitely a long way from being under-refreshed. After two minutes of sitting and squinting at my camera he realised something  was missing, so he pulled out some Rizla and started constructing, and then consuming, a large jazz-fag.

So far so good, but post jazz-fag thing took a turn for the weird. We decided to take a photo in the strip-club next door. There was no real plan but we had a few minutes spare at the end and thought that we might get something spontaneous and interesting. So we went in and took a few photos, but quickly realised that we were out of our comfort zone. The strippers were fine, the usual fare of silicon-stuffed Eastern Europeans, it was the guys that were the problem: red-faced, bellowing, horny, drunks everywhere - very unpleasant, so we beat a retreat. On the way out a woman in a group of guys shouted at me to take her photo. I told her that I was working and didn’t have time and kept walking to keep up with Team Madness. A minute later we were out in the street when one of the guys erupted from the club and charged at me shouting something semi-coherent about taking photos of his ‘bird’. He was jacked up on lager, tits and idiocy and tried to grab my camera which was on a strap around my neck, resulting in us scuffling about in a very undignified manner. A pretty ugly scene, but Carl and Suggs, who were standing a few meteres away, jumped in without any hesitation shouting “Oi, he’s with us!” Between the 3 of us we got the guys hands off my camera and my neck but were still engaged in argy-bargy when he looked at Suggs and a thought seemed to occur. 

“Jesus!” he says, “its Suggs! Out of Madness! Can I get your autograph?” 

Very admirably Suggs told him to “fuck off”, and so off he fucked to join the other morons back in the club. 

I ended the night sitting on a piano stool with Carl in the Groucho Club as he played songs and growled the lyrics Tom Waits style in my ear - a bit ‘Bromancing The Stoner’ but good fun…

Anyway, my final thought is this: how many other bands can you think of who, on an hours acquaintance, would jump in for you in an ugly street-scuffle with a punter from a strip-club? Now, to me, Madness are not just the guys who’ve made great music for more than 30 years, they are the guys that saved my camera from getting smashed and my ass from getting kicked. That’s a lot more than even The Beatles have done…

Maybe I’m a bit of a contrarian, but I’ve always liked Belgium.

They’ve got some useful shops there.

I had a romantic dinner with someone I really love…

…stayed on a houseboat…

…and then learned how Jan De Cock improvised and overcame - I think it was in a similar fashion to the boy named Sue…

These were done recently at his show in the Gagosian Gallery in London. While we were setting up he was being shot by an impressively limber Japanese photographer.

I recently did an entire shoot sat on a stool and I had a bit of a sore back after that… Anyway, Takashi was great.

It proved impossible to ignore the elephant in the room:

Special bonus-picture of me reflected in Takashi’s nuts:

I have an office on Hoxton Square in London. On Friday night it turns into a massive al fresco public toilet for the bright, young things of east London. Its worth bearing in mind that when an estate agent describes an area as being ‘vibrant’ what he really means is that a bunch of flinty-eyed opportunists will overcharge you for coffee and booze and your doorstep will get pissed on more often than Chuck Berry’s girlfriend…

You know what’s really punk these days? Not having any tattoos.

I’ve been to Colonel Gaddafi’s house twice.

The first time I was in the company of 25 beauty pageant contestants, and the second time I was with a 19 year old American woman who had just been made the Honorary Libyan Consul to the USA, the first diplomatic link between the two countries in more than 20 years. And I still couldn’t tell you why I was there or what was going on…

The Irish journalist Enda Leahy and myself had somehow got in with the organiser of the pageant and were meant to be doing a ‘behind-the-scenes’ story for the Sunday Times Magazine, but it became apparent fairly quickly that there were no scenes - or more accurately, we were the scenes. The whole thing seemed to be a publicity stunt, although I’m still not sure what for. It was pleasingly surreal though. Here are some photos of the contestants before and during the show.

Every day we were told that we were going to visit Colonel G, or the Brother Leader as we were told to address him, and every day it didn’t happen - until the day it did happen. First though, we were taken on a tour around Gaddafi’s old house, the one that was bombed in ‘86 by the Reagan administration. The house has been untouched since the bombing and visitors to Libya are often taken there to witness what the Libyans call “evidence of American terrorism”.

Then it was off to the new, unbombed Casa Gaddafi. We rolled up in a bus - the girls, myself and Enda, a couple of other journalists and a film crew. Nervous looking, moustachioed Libyans in shiny suits were running around fretting about things. Just as we were going in we were told that we couldn’t take in any pens, paper or cameras - something of a style-cramper when you’re a photographer… So a few minutes later I found myself, without camera, in Gaddafi’s tent in the grounds of his compound watching him schmoozing the ladies. When he saw us, the aesthetically-challenged media types, standing in a small huddle looking a bit out of place, he asked one of the moustache dudes who we were.

- “Some media” he was told.

- “So why don’t they have cameras and pens?” he quite reasonably asked. The moustache apparently replied:

- “I don’t know, maybe they forgot them…”

The organisers steered Tecca Zendik, the American girl, next to Colonel G who was perched in a very unstatesmanlike plastic lawn chair. He started ranting about the ‘great Satan’ - America and Reagan. Tecca, who was 19 years old and had never been out of America found it all a bit emotional and started crying. This photo was taken by Gaddafi’s official photographer and given to us a couple of days later.

The next time we went to Gadaffi’s house was a few months later. Tecca was invited back by the Libyans in another bizarre PR stunt (for what?) and was made the Honorary Libyan Consul to the USA. She was also made a Libyan citizen and given a passport. They had a ceremony to mark this, which was a little weird - especially as the only people present were myself and Enda.

An hour or two after the ceremony wild-eyed Libyans were running around the place freaking out because Tecca had been wearing a USA t-shirt. This was not a good thing apparently, so she was immediately issued with this Che Gaddafi t-shirt and another ceremony was performed – again with just Enda and I shuffling around, smiling politely.

Tecca’s first diplomatic meeting was with the head of the Libyan Women’s Military Academy.

I’ve rarely been witness to a more awkward social exchange. No-one in the room knew why they were there or what they were meant to say… Eventually someone broke out the Academy’s photo albums to show Tecca.

Then it was back to Camp Gaddafi. This is the gate going into Gaddafi’s compound.

We were taken to the tent again and, after I was warned not to address the Brother Leader directly, out comes Colonel Gaddafi. Here he is shaking hands with Enda.

The translator on the left is helpfully pointing out that the guy in the hat is indeed Colonel G.

I can’t really remember what he and Enda talked about. I had about two minutes to photographically hose him down as he stood there ranting with his eyes rolling around in his head. The next thing I knew Gaddafi was wafting back into his tent to do whatever it is he does in there and Enda and I were in the backseat of the Merc looking at each other and wondering what the fuck that had all been about…

You can see some more photos here: http://www.muirvidler.com/projects/libyan-beauty-pageant

The other day Eliza languorously reclined, cocked a leg in the air and popped this out:

Elliot Arran Vidler. Not too shabby eh? As you can see he’s already got Eliza’s smile…

For the last 30-odd years I’ve become accustomed to being number 1 in my life, and now, overnight, I’ve gone from being number 1 to number 3. And that’s on a good day. On a bad day I’m number 4, after her courgettes or cucumbers or whatever it is she’s growing out there in the garden…

Still, I have to admit I like it. Even though he did piss on my Willie Nelson t-shirt yesterday…

I like big bumps and I cannot lie…

Eliza is, what I believe the medical profession term, ‘up the duff’. She still makes a good makeshift tripod though…

There has been some talk amongst the chattering classes about what the fruit of our loins will look like… A ginger Chinese? Well, we’ll find out pretty soon. Happily my brother, Craig, has cleared up what the correct term is for such offspring: apparently the young fella will be a ‘ninjer’.

I went mountain biking in Scotland. I wouldn’t recommend it.

Here I am in the Borders General Hospital.

Afterward we went to the pub. I thought I had been having a bad day until I saw this pig…