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…)

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…

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.