It's still spring but the sun has made a concerted effort to warn us of the summer heat to come. It's boiling hot and worst of all there's a 100 percent pollen count. At times it was hard to breathe. I received a call from Dounia, my Moroccan girlfriend, who tells me that a friend has managed to get us two tickets to see Billy Idol record a TV special for VH1's "Story Tellers" series in a film studio on West 20th Street. Well, being the old punk that I am – with memories of seeing Billy in concert back in Leeds some twenty odd years ago – it's quick sharp into my best old punkish regalia.

Soon, we're seeing Billy rock through his hits and talk about the good old days back at the start of his career. Idol is a real pop star, a product of the original MTV sensory onslaught that gave birth to so many video stars back in the '80s. The invited crowd of music executives and lucky hangers-on like myself loved it. Billy and band rocked and a great night was had by all, even though there wasn't a single drink in the house!

Later in the week, I see my beloved Leeds United Soccer Team lose their most important game in 26 years. It's depressing as hell but at about 7:00 p.m. a friend calls me out of the blue and pipes up "fancy going to see AC/DC at the Garden tonight?" It turns out another friend has scalped a couple of complimentary tickets, and before I know it I'm at Madison Square Garden with AC/DC rocking out for 20,000 metal heads – the perfect tonic to get me through the gloom of the inglorious Leeds soccer defeat.

A few low key days later and I'm back on my toes and out for dinner at Black and White, a little bar/restaurant on 10th Street and Third Avenue co-owned by Jesse Malin of D Generation fame, and Dick Manitoba of the legendary punk band, the Dictators. (Dick owns three bars in the neighborhood, not bad for an old rocker. There's hope for us all, I suppose.) Suddenly, Chris Shifflet, guitarist of the Foo Fighters, walks in and starts playing records behind the decks. Before we know it, the place is packed with friends from the Village. Suddenly, it's four in the morning and we're all on our way for Disco Fries at Odessa, the 24-hour restaurant on Avenue A.

The next night I'm booked to play a memorial show for the late, great Johnny Thunders at CBGB on the Bowery. Three hours before show time, I still haven't managed to find a pick-up band to deliver my set. A few calls later, however, and my boys Martin and Griff (both English) agree to play bass and drums respectively. I hook a local New York rocker for lead guitar, borrow a guitar for myself and before I know it, it's 1:30 a.m. and I'm rocking the crowd with a blast of Johnny Thunders covers. It's the first time I've been on stage in 10 years and it's a dream come true to play the famous Bowery home of punk rock.

I spend the next few days at the laptop hustling deals for the record label I run. I'm trying to hook up a connection in Mexico that will see me travel out to Mexico City and Cancun more than a few times over the summer, and I'm chasing up payments from various companies around the world. The weekend starts Friday night at 7:00 p.m., Dounia and I decide to distribute flyers for the new party I will be running on Sunday afternoons, "Stevie's Sunday Social Club." It's an English type of event featuring bingo and pop-quiz, rubbish music from the '60s, '70s and '80s and drink promotions from 4:00 p.m. until 10:00 p.m. I'm going to be the DJ for the event, although I've never DJ'd before in my life.

It's a hard slog handing out flyers and we manage to hit the "underground freak show" of "Foxy's Club," a theme night held at the Cock on Ave A between 12th and 13th. Amazingly, the girl collecting money at the door is also from Leeds and she lets us in for free. Inside, we're treated to the delights of numerous drag queens, transvestites, fetish nuts and plain weirdoes, taking turns jumping up on a tiny stage to display all their hidden charms, special tricks and freaky turns for the price of a beer.

Next to me, a man is wearing a full leather facemask. Something is protruding from the inside of his mouth making a decent conversation absolutely impossible. A seven-foot woman suddenly decides that my girlfriend will be going home with her at the end of the night – or at least taking a trip with her to the bathroom. "The toilets are disgusting," Dounia protests and that's our cue to move onto the more civilized haunt of Bar On A where people from bands like REM, Spacehog or the Lemonheads often stop in. Liv Tyler, Kate Moss or Sean Lennon also frequent the joint, and most of our friends spend a Friday night chumming up at the bar (which is manned by another lad from old England).

Saturday sees us having brunch at the Life Café on 10th Street and Ave B. We sit in the sun trying to act blasé at the sight of the local street gangs playing handball and basketball across the street in Tompkins Square Park. They're blaring out rap music and Latin beats from gigantic boom boxes and communicating with each other using a mixture of over-the-top greetings, back slaps and secret signs that they have devised.

Iggy Pop used to live across the street from Life Café on Avenue B and 9th Street. He once had a thing with the same girl that I had a thing with. Different time, same girl. (Anything is possible in this neighborhood where us mere mortals can pull the same girls as the rocks 'n' roll godfathers.) We spend the day in Tompkins Square Park with the street gang basketball players, the junky musicians, the dropouts, the beggars, the chess players, and the regular Joes just like us. Now it's Saturday night and we hit the local cowboy bar, Doc Holliday's, where bar wenches stomp on the counter tops to country music. A pool table causes a stir most nights and the drinks are cheap and plentiful.

Soon it's down to Abaya, a new market lounge bar with a killer DJ booth, a red-hot sound system and my pal, Ralphie Romance, on the decks, rocking the house, mixing house and garage classics. The crowd is well dressed and the champagne is flowing. Eventually, were off into techno/industrial heaven at Pyramid, which looks like a post-atomic film set. Everyone is in black, tattooed, with funky hair, and wacky make-up. And the music is banging like a drill on a Sunday morning.

Finally, we hit the after-hours joint where people try to play pool while filling their noses with various powders. The doorman, who knows us, moves us to the front of the line. Next thing we know, it's Sunday morning around 7.00 a.m. and we decide to go home and get a few hours sleep before the Sunday Social Club starts at 4.00 p.m.

We wake at 3:00 in the afternoon and hit Bar Route 85a, on Avenue A, for the Sunday Social. I get a quick lesson in the mechanics of the turntables, CD players and mixer. By 7:00 p.m., there's not a soul in sight but my girl, the barmaid, and me. Just as we are about to give in, we get a rush of 20 people. Before long, we're playing bingo and dancing to the Nolan's, Barry White and Bachman Turner Overdrive.

The party's in full swing for a few hours. It's like the worst wedding reception you've ever been to but without having to kiss your granny on the lips at some point during the night. Thankfully, by 11:00 p.m., it's all over and we can crawl home exhausted after another night in New York's East Village.