There's an old adage among musicians: bad rehearsal, great gig. This generally applies to the final rehearsal before a show during which everything went wrong, plunging everyone into a panic.

Nine times out of ten, the gigs that follow such train-wreck rehearsals go well. Whether this is a case of perspective, using the bad rehearsal as the benchmark by which the performance at the gig is judged, or there is some indefinable, karmic balancing act, or if getting all of the pain out of the way makes it easier to relax on the night, the outcome is usually the same. 

Prior to the show I played last night, the week had been the equivalent of one long bad rehearsal. Originally, it was a gig at which I was supposed to be playing with my good friends Adrian Dent and Mick Doyle. The first hitch presented itself with Adrian's not being able to play. This was purely a muso-satisfaction hitch, as I find it thoroughly enjoyable sharing a stage with Adrian, whose guitar playing and vocals work so well with my own.

Mick and I have played hundreds of gigs as a duo, so it wasn't too much of a setback. At least it wasn't until Mick broke his ankle quite badly early in the week.

So, now it was a solo show. Again, hardly the end of the world. I've played more solo shows than the average soul has eaten warm food, so I suppose this also fell into the 'muso satisfaction' category.

Everything now organised for a one-man show, on the morning of the gig, I decided to have a look at my main gigging guitar - a trusty Gibson J-45 workhorse, which had developed an annoying earth hum when plugged in. The first recourse, and general 'fix everything' tool in any musician's toolbox is switch cleaner lubricant, better known as switch lube. I sprayed the stuff liberally over all contacts, assuming this would solve the problem.

Instead, it stopped the pickup working altogether. It's an accepted scientific fact in the music community that if switch lube doesn't fix it, you have a serious problem. With the clock ticking, I scoured the Internet for circuit diagrams and idiot's guides on the guitar's electronic wiring. Let me make this clear: this is not my domain. It is the job of a trusted guitar tech. I'd called him. He couldn't help me in time. So, with the soldering skills of a Neanderthal in boxing gloves and diagrams that might as well be written in Arabic for what sense they made to me, I experimented with different wiring options.

Ten minutes before needing to leave for the gig, I got it working. Feeling immensely relieved, and now thinking all of the trouble relating to this particular gig were now out of the way, I set off. On foot. Oh, I neglected to mention - I can't drive at present. Because the DVLA has failed to issue me with a replacement Driver's Licence. I'm not going to start on that particular fiasco here.

Less than a mile from the venue, walking in glorious sunshine along a busy street full of shoppers, I was then taken completely by surprise by a pair of muggers. A burly guy, and a skinny runt. I didn't think anything of their walking toward me. There were hundreds of people around. It was broad daylight. But, in one of those slow-motion-stop-the-glass-from-falling moments, I sensed something was afoot as the skinny guy quickly moved away from his larger companion, moving to my side, as the big guy quickened his pace and started walking straight at me. Bouncer style, he pushed me in the chest, and I fell backwards.

Instinctively, my hands went out to stop my fall, releasing my grip on the guitar case, which was swiftly grabbed by the runt to my right. The two attackers then ran off in different directions. It took me a second to get to my feet, which would have been enough time for the runt now running off with my guitar to get away.

As fortune would have it, I saw two friends further up the street - the runt was hurtling in their direction. I shouted like a lunatic to attract their attention and it took next to no time for them to work out what was happening. They're big guys. Gym and steroid big. One of them grasped the runt and shook him as if he were a rabbit, while the other removed my guitar from his spindly fingers. I'll admit to getting in a gratuitous kick. But what could have been a potential heartbreaking disaster (I don't think musical instrument insurance covers 'theft from person by chavs') was averted.

You could forgive me for starting to have reservations about fate's intentions for me regarding the evening's gig. But, having shaken hands with my friends and giving the chav an extra kick in the ribs for luck, I resumed my walk to the venue.

And this is where the karmic egg-timer did it's mysterious flip: Everything at the venue was in place, another good friend arrived to loan me his PA, the sun shone undisturbed, the promoter provided me with free drinks and food, and by the time I started playing, the place was heaving.

All of the week's concerns and hassles forgotten, I played for over three hours to a great crowd, and. as the rule dictates, it was one of the most comfortable shows I've played in some time. Everything ran like clockwork. After a twenty-minute encore, I retired to have a few drinks with the staff. So, not knowing any of the above, with anyone who talked to me later, the conversation went something like this: "Good night, Miro?" "Great, thanks."

I love it when a plan comes together.