I'm sorry to report that I can't get me no satisfaction. (That's one of Marlon's phrases: personally, I think it sounds a little bourgeois.) I've been on the telephone machine all day and I can't get any sense out of the people in Communist Party Support. What's the point of a "party line" if nobody on the party line knows what the party line is? If you see what I mean. Not sure that I do any more.

If I don't hear anything from the Politburo soon, I'm going to have to start making up policy on the hoof. Not that that's anything I haven't had to do before, of course. Some of the movement's best ideas were just inspired improvisations - in fact, the New Economic Policy was originally just a put-down to a particularly annoying heckler. (Ruddy kulaks.)

It's at times like this that I miss Trotsky. He was very accomplished when it came to sorting things out on the phone. He must have loved Vivaldi, that's all I can think.

Disappointed that poor Michael Jackson has chosen to put out a moving picture presentation of his concert rather than doing it live - simply because he is dead.

My own non-living status has never caused me to miss a single date. But then I was always a tireless worker for the revolution, and a relentless critic of Jackson's belief in incremental amelioration of the working classes' situation. My dancers have always been better too.

Is it just me, or are the days getting shorter? I tried checking yesterday's length with an atomic tape-measure but I lost the scrap of paper I wrote it down on. Darn.

This would never have happened if we'd made a real go of socialism.

Back in Engerland, where the national air-conditioning industry is on strike. The country is baking in 100 degree Fuhrerheit temperatures and the railways, roads and buildings are melting like cheese under a grill. Several parts of downtown London town have dripped as far south as Brighton. Meanwhile forest fires rage at the site of the UK's first Krispy Kreme outlet, at the famous Horrid's store.

It's way too hot to write any new tunes, so I've been sorting out my photographs. But now my airbrush has packed up. I ought to get Marlon to clean the nozzle.

Appalling hangover. That's the last time I drink that cheap, capitalist embalming fluid.

Draw up a list of great new ideas:

- start beard factory
- invent sliced beard industry
- pop felafel and hummus in a toasted split beard pocket and sell from the roadside

Unfortunately, all these ideas turn out to be pointless misspellings of the word "bread".

I never used to have these creative blockages. Could it be something to do with being dead?

Better dead than bread.

I've been in the studio, trying out some new material. I have a great new riff about the inevitability of collectivization - even the engineers were humming it.

Marlon is talking about remixes - something I don't really understand. Apparently, I should be putting my speeches out in different versions, with other artists adding their own words. Strange idea, but what choice do I have? Being one of the undead, I have to do what the label wants.

Did you see Mrs Cherry Blair covering "When I'm 64" on TV? That chick's got a voice.

I was only 53 when I died, so I've never thought of that particular song as one of my favourites. I prefer "Yellow Submarine", which I wrote with Ivan Macartney, and which was originally called "Red Tank".

Cerys from Catatonia called for some advice on relaunching her career as a married, expectant folk singer from Nashville, Tennessee.

I tell her I find botox keeps me looking youthful, but only if I inject it. It doesn't work in a sandwich.

I'm also using "walking-around therapy" as a means of keeping fit and stimulating my speech-writing circuits.

I can hear Cerys scratching away with a pen as I go on to sing the praises of St. John's Warts. But then I hear her stifling a yawn, and I bring the conversation to a halt.

I wish Marlon wouldn't give my mobile number out to all and sundry. I've got better things to do than dole out free advice to "pop" artists. There's the revolution, for one thing. Also, I planted too much rocquet this year, so I'm up to my ears in salad.

I remember something dear Saddam once said to me, and pass it on to Clare Shorts, consort of renegade red-beard pacifister Robin Cook.

"We're all only 45 minutes from oblivion!" Mr Hussein told me, when we shared a corporate hostility tent at Wimbledon '03.

When I checked with his entourage afterwards, I was assured that Saddam meant that three quarters of an hour is the longest anyone should go without hydrating ie having a glass of water.

Actually, according to The Communist Manifesto, everyone should drink at least eight glasses of water a day. But you try telling that to the bosses.

I have been reading the works of English wordsmith George Orwell. The first thing we need to remember about Orwell is that he shielded himself - despicably - with a pseudonym. His real name - which he used in his career as a stand-up comedian, much in the mould of my good friend Andrei Marr - was Ernie Blair.

Several of "Orwell"'s books are thinly disguised attacks on horticulture. "1984" is a bleak vision of a future without hostas or verbena, while "Animal Farm" uses a fable about a group of lawyers sharing a house to satirise the reign of terror instituted by Tony Blair's "New Libel" party of our own times. Prescient or what?

And notice the similarity in names: "Blair" is almost identical to "Blair".

Investigated playing the WOMAD festival, under the illusion that it was about "weapons of mass destruction". How bitterly disappointed I was to learn that it is simply a gathering of diverse musicians under the leadership of Peter "the great" Gabriel. Though I can still blow a mean accordian, I have difficulty with blasting caps - so I would not be much use at such an event. Shame.

Interviewed this afternoon by Andrei Marr, formerly editor of scandal-sheet The Independent - which I like to pronounce in the French manner: "Andy Pandy".

Marr is now a standup comedian for the BBC, electronic mouthpiece of the former British Empire. He's recently also become the whisky correspondent of glossy magazine e-Squire, the post-Bubble, high-tech, wi-fu journal for the connected gentry.

I ask him why he has dropped the hairstyle he favoured when he was lead guitarist with The Smiths. He laughs and suggests that a good theme song for my World Tour would be his old fave Heaven Knows I'm Portable Now.

I like this guy's style! What a trouper.

Woke up this morning, with the blues. I've been so used to waking up with reds under the bed, that this was a big surprise. I got a bottle of tequila from the kitchen and went back to bed. Yes, I know this is no way for a world leader to behave. But do you think George W. never feels the same way? Hah.

Marlon put through a call from "the head of Jeremy Bentham" this morning - spooky. I thought that this "Jeremy Bentham" was some kind of organisation, and that the guy who was calling was the president, or whatever.

Turns out that this Bentham dude was never buried either. And it actually was his head that was calling.

Jezza's body is in a glass case in a corridor in London's UCL school (near the more famous "Habitat" store). But the head on the body is a fake - the real one is in a safe in another building. Apparently.

Anyway, Bentham tells me he's thinking of reforming the corpse, and going back on the road - and what do I think about the idea?

I tell him that his utilitarian philosophy sounds like a blast, and that with the right kind of marketing he might be able to draw the crowds. Especially if he puts some stuff about being married to Amanda Holden into the act.

I'm thinking of getting him to try out as my support. He could come on stage with his head under his arm. That would be neat - and tremendously modernistical.

Ah, May Day! How I love this international day of socialistical celebration.

I have asked Marlon to warm up the set so that we can watch the tanks rolling through Red Square.

Tony Blair, the English monarch, has been talking with the Russian leader, Monsieur Petanque.

It is something to do with poor Saddam's country, though I cannot follow the details.

I send a postcard to George in Amerika, asking if there is anything I can do. Perhaps a concert for peace? Or a concert for war. Paul Macartney tells me he does both at the same time.

Marlon has been reading to me from the works of Christian mystic W.H. Lewis.

His Banarnia books were written for children, as a kind of handbook for young capitalists. Although the kingdom behind the wardrobe is ruled by Aswad, the Friendly Lion, it is clear that the citizens are in thrall to turkish delight ie profits.

I had such a wardrobe in Berlin. But I was too busy fomenting to write any books about it.

I see Saddam's statues are coming down.

When I bumped into him at the Chelsea Hotel last year, I told him that - when the time came - he could join me on my tour. But he didn't seem all that interested.

Dolt.

Wow! The people of Cardiff gave me a rupturous welcome. They really seemed to dig my message - and I didn't hear any criticism of the New Economic Policy (the backing music drowned it out).

Who says the English are reactionary swines?

After the gig, a group of comedy actors called the Manic Street Teachers paid a call to my dressing room. They seemed like nice lads - except I couldn't understand much of what they were saying.

Dined on chips and gravy. Cloud formations in good order. This is somewhere I might retire to, when the whirligig of history lets me go!!!

Marlon has brought me this glass typewriter contraption. He says it is the new printing press of the masses! We shall see.

I cannot help but worry that it will simply become the magic lantern of the bourgeoisie.

Already he has told me about something known as Powerpoint, which freely uses so-called "bullets" to drive home the messages of capitalism in walnut-veneered boardrooms across the western world.

I will have nothing to do with it; nor its notorious "clip-joint art".

To Cardiff, England, for my next gig.