BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR...

TEMPTING FATE

The Taoists (well the Barefoot Doctor at least) insist that if you visualise something with enough conviction, then it will eventually manifest itself. Which is why it is always best to try and concentrate on good things, rather than bad. Contemplate wealth, abundance, happiness and fulfilment, and you will soon experience those very pleasurable things. Meditate on the dangers of being attacked by a slavering three-headed dog and you will soon find yourself an easily dispensed with extra in a low budget horror movie, with your life as the script.

It sounds like a rather fanciful notion, I know. But recent events would seem to suggest that it really works…

I spent the last six months of my last job sitting in my office wishing I was anywhere else. Anywhere. You could sense that doom was hiding, rather unsuccessfully with his big nose sticking out, just around the corner. I longed to be free from it all, to be doing something more interesting, more fulfilling. Anything. Anything at all. Like writing comedy, making films or maybe even …. playing guitar. (On the subject of which, I'm manfully struggling to learn Django's 1938 version of 'Les Yeux Noir' or 'Dark Eyes'. I've got the backing track (thanks Robin), I've got the tab… the only question is, have I got the patience? Or the dedication? Or the talent? There's an awful lot of notes in there, and even with the tab, getting the timing and the phrasing right is fairly mind boggling.)

Of course, rather than simply wishing I was somewhere else, I should have actually done something about it. Before they did it for me and gave me the heave-ho.

Looking back, I wonder why I was so unhappy. After all, I was paid well, and I worked with some really nice people - people who remain close and trusted friends. And I was supposedly in bloody advertising, for Christ's sake - a glamorous profession. What a lucky bastard. What a churlish bastard.

But, as much as I knew I should shut up and get on with it and be grateful for what I'd got, the truth is I was frustrated. Bored to bloody tears. I felt as if I'd no longer got the opportunity to do my job. I felt I rarely got the chance to use even an ounce of my talent. There simply wasn't much call for ideas and copywriting anymore. The clients could do all that (and art direct) themselves. With one hand tied behind their backs.

In all but a few agencies it seems to me that the 'glamour' - if it ever really existed for all but the very top echelon - has been replaced with mind-numbing drudgery, overseen by over-zealous bean counters. ('It's got to be a stockshot, and it's got to be royalty free'. The awful word 'stock' should be enough to tell people that it's no substitute for an original idea shot by a talented photographer - remember advertising photographers? - but no-one really cares any more as long as the price is right).

Most of the time it's more like working in Prontaprint than being in a creative department. More Civil Service than CDP. 'Ads while you wait!' Don't make it good, make it quick, and above all, make it cheap…

In fact, talking to the few mates I've got who amazingly still have jobs in the business, it feels like creativity is positively frowned upon these days. Rather than account execs excitedly going to clients and saying, 'Wow, have we got a great campaign for you…', they seem to work in league with the clients to keep the meddling creatives from sticking their oar in. A point which is proved when you notice that when recession bites, without exception, the very first people to get the boot are the creatives. They're dispensable. In the last recession I was laid off from an agency that actually got rid of the entire creative department - 'Come to us! We can't produce any ads, but boy can we do good meetings'.

And that, I fear, is where the problems lies. There's simply no demand for people who actually produce stuff anymore. Craftsmen (and women). People who make things, who create things. Who needs 'em? These days the money's in talking about it, not doing it.

Just look at Britain. We make bugger all these days. We don't make cars any more. We don't make ships. We don't make clothes. But throw a stick out of the window, and you'll hit half a dozen consultants on the napper. (If you make it a very big stick, it may go someway towards alleviating the problem).

I don't blame my last agency a bit - they were no worse than anywhere else, and they've got to balance the books. They're good people, and if all the talking and powerpoint charts ever result in them actually having to knock up an ad or two, I know I'll get the freelance. In fact I've already had some. And at least there are still some great little hot-shops out there still pushing the boundaries and gamely flying the flag for original thinking.

And while we're looking at the upside, hopefully this recession will force the dinosaurs of the ad industry to re-invent themselves, and the business will emerge on the other side fresher, leaner, more responsive and genuinely creative again. Maybe it will take a good kicking for clients to realise that the quality of the work is really the only differentiator worth taking any notice of. Anyone can have a meeting. But putting a great ad on a piece of blank paper is bloody hard.

Well, now I'm the anywhere else I dreamed of being. At home. And what the hell, as any good Taoist will tell you, it's all ying and yang. For every down, there's a corresponding up. Even if you seem to have to wait an age for it to come plodding round.

If I was still sitting in that office, copy-typing yet another client's emailed headlines and turgid, un-grammatical, deathly body copy, I wouldn't be able to discover the joys of playing a Dm7b5 arpeggio over a Bb chord. I wouldn't have just spent two hours trying to string together three different dimished arpeggios over two bars of A7, wondering why I'm still less than half way through when Django has not only finished, but skipped his sprightly two-fingered way through the following two bars of Dm too.

And I wouldn't be writing this to avoid tying my fingers in knots.

THE JOYS OF SPRING...

WHEN YOU'RE SMILING...

I woke up in a remarkably good mood today. Maybe because the sun was shining. Maybe because I've just discovered the joys of playing a C# diminished arpeggio over an A7. Maybe because I'll never have to worry about money again because I've just won a fortune on the lottery. (I haven't really, obviously, but I though that if I mention it now, fate may smile on me, and I can have the joy of saying to people tomorrow, "You'll never believe it but, as a joke, I mentioned in my blog that I'd won the lottery, and then I woke up this morning and…"

I promise to spend my tenner wisely. (Now that's put the mockers on it.)

In truth I've got no really good reason for being cheerful, given that the phone hasn't rung for two days, and the only bit of work on the horizon was put on hold yesterday. But there's no point in being miserable. After all, today's snooker day - and I missed the last three weeks due to work rearing its ugly head.

So I'll be (not) potting reds today, instead of not playing guitar or not getting on with the writing projects I've promised myself I'll finish while I'm lucky enough to have the time.

I managed to not do any of these things yesterday evening, because the thought of Chelsea getting spanked by Barcelona was far too tempting. I found myself, rather bizarrely as a devout Spurs supporter, congratulating the Chelsea fans on a fine defensive performance. Further proof that my enforced isolation has made me soft.

As I said to Sid, my new writing partner this morning, it's not like me at all.

Actually Sid isn't exactly a new partner, he's merely been brought out of retirement. I bought him for Suzy in an auction in the pub, well before we had kids, and during my last bout of freelance (lack of) employment, he was pressed into action to replace the art director I got so used to having at my side. He gives me someone to talk to. To bounce ideas off. To share a joke with. I don't know what I'd do without him, to be honest.

I'd probably end up talking to myself.

I AM NOT A NUMBER...

I'M A STATISTIC.

It's not as if I didn't see it coming. The sword of Damacles had been hovering over my head for months. So much so, in fact, that I was convinced other people could see it. I'm sure that's why no-one sat next to me on the tube. And why I always found myself in an inordinate amount of space in the pub. "Don't stand next to him, or you'll get the chop too…" I swear I could hear people whisper it under their breath. The bastards.

Still, at least I was already resigned to it when it happened. My bags were packed well in advance. I was almost looking forward to it. After all, it had happened before. It goes with the territory when you work in advertising. And we don't call it being out of work, anyway. We call it going freelance.

Don't you just love a good euphemism?

So now I'm my own boss. And it's great, really it is. I don't have to strap-hang with the rest of the rat-race every morning. I don't have to shave if I don't want to. Or wear trousers. I'm as free as a bird. I can come and go as I please. I can spend hours (thank you for the bed sores, Araucaria) on the Guardian crossword. I can play snooker on a Wednesday. Darts on a Thursday. Go fly fishing on a Friday. And I get to spend more time with my wonderful girls (when I'm not trout worrying, or missing easy reds, or forcing the chalker to reach for his tin hat).

I really couldn't be happier. If it wasn't for the appalling sense of dread that washes over me every ten minutes or so. And the lack of a salary. And the guilt…

But why waste an opportunity? This is chance I've been waiting for. At long last I've got the chance to fulfil a lifetime ambition. At last I've got the time to dedicate myself to learning proper gypsy jazz guitar.

I've invested a chunk of my redundancy money in a brand spanking new Gitane 'manouche' guitar (at least I got something out of the bastards), collected every decent tutorial book and dvd on the market, bought a whacking great 3mm pick (because the books said I had to) - and I'm ready and raring to go.

I just hadn't realised it was going to be so bloody hard.

It's hard because, every time I pick the guitar up, I feel guilty. (There it goes again.) Guilty because, in the back of my mind, I feel I really should be doing something more constructive. Something that might help me keep a roof over my family's heads. Guilty because there's a sit-com that I could be writing. And a bit of radio to finish. Guilty because I should be out networking. Guilty because I should be sending emails. And making phone calls.

It's hard because, however lax I am when it comes to networking, emailing and the like, I keep getting interrupted by the odd person offering me work. Then I have to strap-hang again for a day or two, or spend hours in my garret slaving over a hot keyboard.

And it's hard because Django's a right bastard.

I mean, I've got a machine that slows tracks down to half speed, and I still can't even hear all the notes he's hitting, let alone play them. And the sod had lost the use of two of his fingers. It's not as if I'm a novice either. I've been playing for the best part of thirty years. But you can busk the blues and rock 'n' roll - with this shit, you've got to be serious.

Still, I'm not a quitter (I usually get fired instead). I'm determined to nail it. And, I'm pleased to say, some progress is finally being made. At a snails pace, admittedly, but progress none the less. If I steel myself, stay sober (unlike playing rock 'n' roll) and concentrate like hell, with a good backing track behind me I almost sound like a Gypsy for a bar or two.

Funny thing is, things have gone topsy-turvy. Having spent years doing the usual writer's thing of finding any excuse not to write, I now find I sneak off to write instead of playing guitar.

Because it's hard.

Still, if work doesn't pick up, I'll probably find myself living in a caravan before long. Which can only add to the authenticity…