Russian here, Russian there, Russian everywhere…

All for the collective good...

If communism's about equal opportunities for all, then I'm all for it, comrade.

Because it seems my devotion to nailing 'Ochi Chyornye', aka 'Dark eyes', aka 'Les Yeux Noir' - Django's version of the unofficial Russian Gypsy anthem, has had a knock-on effect and caused fate to smile on my endeavours. No sign of a huge Cheshire cat grin quite yet, but there's definitely a noticeable flicker of kindly regard on the old girl's lips.

All of which means I've been rather busy of late…

A week working at an agency filled with some very nice chaps in Brighton (which prompted a lovely day out with all three of my girls perusing the pier and having a bit of a promenade), a day doodling up a bit of a corporate film script with my old mate Shaun, a few days back at my old agency in the in the always agreeable company of the marvellous art director Sir Martin of Cunningham, and a fantastic booking to work on a lovely, very high profile commercial with my old drumming, writing, Godfathering, sometime business-running partner John.

Not to mention getting logos finished for the new film company we're setting up (keep your eyes peeled - SINCH FILMS (Simon 'n' Chris and Spot) is coming your way very soon).

And somehow, in the midst of all this I've managed to visit Mum and Dad in Coventry, start a new radio sit-com script, stay awake during the odd England game, take the girls shopping in town (and down the local boozer to recover), sample the ales at the local beer festival, celebrate our good friend Sue's birthday with a barbecue and a beer or two (that is how you spell ten, isn't it?), knock-off a few frames of snooker, and introduce a few more trout to the joys of terra-firma.

(To be honest, much as I love catching fish, the real Joy was watching Andy expertly wheedle out the first fish of the day, casting to a rise with his own choice of fly. As Confucius say, 'old master has much to learn from gifted novice'. In fact, if he hadn't put me on to the right fly, I might well have come home with an empty bag, instead of staging a majestic Spurs-like second half recovery (with the aid of a rubber-legged daddy long legs - think an aquatic Peter Crouch) and coming away 4-1 up. Sorry (again) mate.)

All of which means there's actually been precious little time to give dear old Dark Eyes the attention she deserves. But you know what they say - if you want something doing ask a busy man…

So I did. I found a busy man and asked him, so I could go down the pub for a well earned Guinness instead, but he curtly told me he'd got enough on his plate and I could stick it where the sun don’t shine. (No surprise there, then.)

That meant I had to have a go myself. And boy, I am glad I did. Because I've nailed it. Sorted it. Beaten it, Jackie Pallo like, into (two falls and a) submission.

I can't say it wasn't a struggle, but then nothing that's really worth having ever comes easy, does it?

I think there are a number of reasons it's all finally fallen into place (at the right tempo, too). There's the great tuition stuff that's available these days (actually I think it's more that I've discovered people who really know how to teach, rather than shrouding it all in pseudo-technical mystery that ensures it’s a closed circle). Hat's off to you Mr Robin Nolan and Mr John Jorgenson.

There's the fact that the ground work that I did learning the basics of the style from these guys meant that I understood what I was playing and how it fitted together (the linked arpeggios, the chromatic runs, the substitutions, etc) rather than simply following dots.

There's the fact that I suddenly realised how important it is to use your ears, not just your fingers (I couldn't get the first long run to fit for weeks, until I listen to the original again and realised I'd somehow mentally put in a pause that wasn't there, which meant the phrasing was all up the cock (technical guitarist's term) and I was starting two beats late.

And there was the fact that suddenly having a bit of work on again means I can relax just a little bit and really enjoy playing, rather than feeling that indulging in extra curricular activities means I'm somehow cheating my family when I should be out earning a crust.

And that's the key to it all really, isn't it? Enjoyment. Learning to enjoy the moment (seems those Taoists have got it bang on again), rather than brooding on the past or worrying about what the future may, or may not hold.

So now I'm determined to fully enjoy writing. And enjoy not having to write just as much. I'm going to relish and enjoy the new challenges my change of circumstance brings. I'm going to enjoy being busy. And I'm going to really enjoy not being busy too.

Because, as far as I can see, that's the only way to make sure the guitar playing, the fishing, the snooker and the writing will improve.

Up the workers! (And the non-workers too…)

TURN ON, TUNE IN, DROP OUT...

ISN'T TECHNOLOGY A WONDERFUL THING?

Suddenly having time on your hands isn't necessarily a bad thing. It gives you a chance to sit back and think. To have a bit of a muse.

It gives you breathing space. It gives you the chance to discover new things. It gives you the valuable opportunity to develop new talents.

It's invigorating. It's stimulating. It's refreshing.

And it isn't half bloody quiet.

After weekends of teenagers slamming doors, playing i-pods, shouting up and down stairs and having a different TV programme on in every room, the silence of Monday mornings is astonishingly deafening.

Or it was, until I discovered the joys of DAB radio.

Apart from offering sound quality that's light years away from my old 1960s tranny (I mixed with all-sorts, I'll have you know), it also offers a range of choice we never dreamed of when we had our ears glued to Caroline under the bed sheets. (It wasn't until the latter part of my adolescence that I discovered the joys of welding more interesting parts of my anatomy to ladies…)

There are classic rock channels, indie rock channels, dad rock channels, classical channels, channels for just about every sort of music, in fact, that your little lug-holes desire.

But, strangely for someone who's spent a large part of their life as a musician, I don't play a lot of music during the day. Much as I applaud DAB for keeping me safe from the bigoted, humourless rants of arch egotists like the dreadful Chris (if-he-didn't-exist-you-certainly-wouldn't-invent-him) Moyles, or from being seduced into premature senility by Wogan's aimiable old-bufferish banter and smooth grooves, I actually prefer the sound of voices to tunes during the day.

Voices make me feel like I'm not alone, you see. It sounds like these people are actually there, in my house, performing just for me. Which I guess may something to do with being an only child.

Don’t get me wrong - I had a very happy childhood, but, from as early as I can remember I've had a thing about voices - and radio comedy in particular. I've got shelves heaving under the weight of cassette collections of Hancock, Round the Horne, Beyond our Ken, The Goons, I'm Sorry I'll Read That Again, I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue, Steptoe and Son, and the like. Not to mention Steve Coogan, Armando Iannucci, Jeremy Hardy, Jack Dee, Woody Allen and Emo Phillips (one of the best joke writers you're ever likely to find - trust me, you just have to get past the funny voice).

I've got dozens of beautifully delivered Sherlock Holmes stories on tape. I've got 'Talking Heads' and some great Alan Bennett collections.

And now I've got BBC Radio 7.

If you haven't turned on and tuned in yet, I heartily recommend that you do. And check out the listen again service online too. In the last month or so you've missed a fantastically funny detective spoof, 'Boxer and Doberman' by Alastair Jessiman, Philip Glenister in a brilliant adaptation of Anthony Burgess's 'Inside Mr. Enderby', a great play about Brian Epstein and the Beatles, the fabulous 'Beachcomber, By the Way', with Richard Ingrams, entertaining new detective adventures with Nick Fisher's Julie Enfield (and her dad), and a stunningly written and performed up-date of Faust by Martin Jenkins, starring the marvellous Mark Gatiss, amongst others.

And you get a good couple of hours of classic comedy a day, too.

The great thing about rediscovering radio is realising how much joy it is to really use your imagination, rather than being passively persuaded by the clever moves of a gifted director or the combined mega-gigabyte talents of a Hollywood CGI department.

And apart from offering stimulating entertainment, as well as blasts from the past they're commissioning writers too. Which can't be a bad thing. Must make a note to send them something.

And I will send them something, really I will, when I find the time to write it. I'm just so busy these days. I mean, with a couple of blogs to keep going and the fly fishing (3 nice trout last week - sorry Andy, your turn to catch next time), and the snooker, and the football it's a wonder I have time to play guitar at all.

But I do - and it's coming on a treat, thanks to a wonderful piece of technology.

I can't praise the Tascam CD-GT2 highly enough. It's a little box (that only costs around a hundred quid), not much bigger than a portable CD player that allows you to plug a guitar in and play along with any CD you like. And not just play along, but play along at any tempo you like - in the same key (you can even drop the original guitar out, so you can be the hero). So you slow a track down, practice and practice, then speed up gradually until you reach the desired tempo.

But what use is that, I hear you say, when you're playing gypsy jazz on an acoustic?

A lot of bloody use, you old sceptic you, I reply. Because it's got a handy line-out socket and a headphone socket too. So you simply plug in a simple little set of i-pod stylee speakers, load up your Robin Nolan, Colin Cossimini, or Stephane Wrembel backing tracks, and you've got a fantastic backing band in your living room - who'll play at any tempo you tell them to.

Actually, I wonder if they'd perform my radio play for me too?

We could star off rehearsing slowly and build up to speed. If I ever get round to writing it.

IN EALING, NO-ONE CAN HEAR YOU SCREAM...

IT'S LIFE JIM, BUT NOT AS WE KNOW IT…

Suddenly, I'm in an alien environment. Not that my home is particularly other-worldly - I don't have to navigate my way through surreal H.R. Geiger-esque landscapes to find the kitchen, or clamber over moonrocks to get to the bathroom - but it's a strange place to be, just the same.

It's strange because I shouldn't be here now. Not really. Not during the week. I should be at work. That's what proper people do Monday to Friday. They go out and earn a crust, instead of idly doodling away at keyboards or noodling away on guitars.

It's strange because it feels so distant, so far away from everything I took for granted for so long. It's only Ealing for heaven's sake, but if feels like a completely different world. A world that's cut off from the rest of civilisation.

I didn't really notice the strangeness of it for a month or so.

At first, the phone would ring a dozen times a day, and new emails would regularly ping their cheery way through, delivering messages of support, condolences, suggestions and invitations. I still felt part of it all. I still felt connected. I almost still felt busy.

Then, as the weeks went by, the calls got fewer and further between and the emails gradually dried up, until getting my penis enlarged was the only offer in my inbox. No offers of work. No-one offering to meet me for a pint and a chat. Just the promise of a bigger dick. And a link to hot babes on-line (which I suppose means your dick only virtually gets bigger, rather than actually necessitating an out-sized pair of boxers).

I've realised that it doesn't matter how many hopeful emails you send, how many calls you make, or how hard you try to stay in touch - once you're out of the club, your voice gradually gets fainter and fainter until you can't be heard at all. You're in a different space, and it's one that working people don't have the time or inclination to visit. Quite rightly.

Of course, as virtually every annoying bastard you meet in the boozer tells you (I know you're trying to be kind, but honestly it only exacerbates the situation - please just buy me a pint and talk about the football), this could be the best thing that's ever happened. It's a blessing in (a not very convincing) disguise. It's the chance to branch out, to move on and do something new.

The trouble with something new, however, is that by its very nature it's an alien world. And people aren't desperately keen to let you into it.

As complimentary as people have been about my writing, getting anyone to commission me for anything other than advertising work is like trying to get a Norwegian ref to give a penalty.

I was put up for a writing job a while ago, for example, but when I got in touch the headhunter (12 years old if he was a day), took one look at my CV and said, 'Sorry, this isn't for you. You're an advertising man, and they want a digital writer.' A digital writer? What do they do, then? Write in bloody binary?

I would have hoped that, having written award winning press and TV work for a huge range of clients over the years, not to mention having written DM, banners, comedy, speeches, brochures and even websites (covering subjects as disparate as the motor trade, insurance, incontinence pads and luxury golf clubs), he might have seen that I'm nothing if not versatile.

But the truth is, while one might have assumed that the brave new world of communication would offer all sorts of exciting possibilities for creative cross-fertilisation, the reality is that all that has been created are some nice new pigeon holes.

Still, even alien environments can be successfully explored if you've got the inclination and determination.

A couple of months ago, for instance, I thought the world of gypsy jazz guitar was inhabited by people very different from me. People with unnaturally dextrous hands and ears tuned-in to exotic harmonies. I, on the other hand, was from somewhere else entirely, where rockabilly and blues rule - OK?

But, thanks to no little blood sweat and tears, in a relatively short time I've actually evolved, and grown from a grunting leather clad rocker into a sophisticated manouche stylist.

Oh, all right, as anyone who knows me (or should I say used to know me) will tell you, I'm still a leather clad grunting rocker, and probably always will be. But at least I'm one that can now trip the light fantastic on the melodic minor scale, embellish things with a carefully chosen arpeggio or two and end with a nifty chromatic flourish. All with an enigmatic Gallic smile.

If only someone would let me flex my writing muscles…

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…