X.

I haven’t seen a single second of it.

Not a clip. Not a pic. Not a quote.

This year’s X Factor is a complete mystery to me. Who are these ‘twins’ people speak of with such derision? And how can I generate a Facebook campaign with even half as many signatures on it as their I bet I can find a million people who hate the twins group? Some of us can only dream of such exposure.

It’s not that I took some high-minded decision not to partake in the shiny ITV1 shenanigans. I think watercooler telly is not only the most transatlantic of phrases I could have made up there, it’s one of the saving graces of modern life. Something we can share with strangers.

It’s just that, well… when am I ever going to be in the mood to watch a programme that is as much about toe-curling car-crash talentlessness as it is about soulless slickibility. (Yeah, chew on that, automatic spellchecker.) I mean, I have enough of all this at home.

—

One of the key daft things about working at Momo is the split personality it requires. Yes, it keeps me entertained, swapping hats as I do, but it begs the question: When am I going to knuckle down with something and start to get properly any chuffing good at it?

I’ve spent today generating big sheets of layout paper with numbers scribbled all over them. Next week, Julian and I are in the Middle East, trying to convince a significant client that we do in fact know our seating facilities from our articulation in the arm – and for this we obviously need to demonstrate fairly clearly that we know what we’re talking about.

Now, you might say that given my preponderance of coping with too much to do by winging things shamelessly, this is an uncomfortable state of affairs for my company’s creative director to find himself in.

But, while I’m putting together a strategy and a budget for something that will take a year for us to deliver to a growing international business, I’m also trying to release a record.

If nothing else, this presents a significant challenge to choice of haircut.

I mean, two more different markets I could not be trying to serve. And there is only so far the idea of ‘idiosyncratic’ will get you before you luck out, suddenly very obviously dressed for the wrong context.

—

Thing is, big break for Momo:typo as this gig would be, I do feel happy that we can help the client. We’ve done some great work for them before and we’ve got some great people involved, ready to jump all over it. I’m mainly just, kind of, excited. Sure – I’ll need to wear a tie when operating this side of the business. This side of the business is often talking in board rooms and sensible grown up places.

But, y’know, I rarely wear a tie to these places. I prefer to be conspicuously human in formal environments – so long as I look like I know what I’m doing there in the first place. The human bit is, in fact, the whole point of my work. And these days, I’m more likely to put on a tie to go talk to some musos – a nice, trendy slim one. I think I did, in fact, recently.

It was a meeting about our little bit of conspicuously shiny ITV-type work, going out in time for Christmas.

Olu and Lou are seasoned musos, each having been signed to majors at some point in their careers and each knowing a thing or two about being very cool very naturally. I’m not sure whether they noticed and appreciated my nice trendy thin tie or not, when we met the first time to discuss Thinking Juice’s little advert for the telly. I’m sure they did.

As amusing as the paying demands of advertising are, it’s still hard not to feel something uncomfortably approaching serious pride in some bits of work you get to contribute to in this business. Silly does not always equal ridiculous. At least, not when you receive the cheque.

Squeezing into their roof-top studio with three brass players, or hearing the session cut of the strings part in the mix for the first time, I feel as comfortable with the work we’re turning out here as I do anything grown-up enough to dress open-necked in the boardroom.

It’s all a bit of a weird cross-over, I’ll grant you. But I’m oddly comfortable with Momo’s split personalty as I prepare for the Autumn shift.

Don’t ask me what it is, but something tells me it’s too soon to cut my hair.

Therapy.

I have no particular need of therapy at the moment. Other than as I always do, for the backdrop, bedrock barking. Things are okay, I should say – but busy.

People like busy people. It sounds credible. It’s a good problem. But you can be busy being an arse, remember. And I should know.

No, I’m thinking of a type of therapy that’s so universal, so multi-practical, so everyday-useful I mention it now as a helpful daily tip, should you find yourself ‘busy’.

Need a pep?

Pertness pooped?

Feeling less than frisky?

Really f***ing depressed?

I defy you to find me a human condition that is not downright righted by taking the following simple steps:

1: Locate a music playing device. A proper one, not a phone. One you can annoy the neighbours with (which if you do, you can instantly return to point one to feel better again, remember).

2: Locate a playable copy of Earth Wind & FIre’s tunes In the stone and Star.

3: Turn up volume a tad beyond Loud Enough.

4: Press Play.

Really. I frankly DARE you to try to prove me wrong. I would prescribe this on the NHS for people with the most fearsome personal obstacles to overcome. Only I might prescribe the whole damned Greatest Hits for hardcore cases.

Trust me. I’m not mad.

Despite being off to the physical therapy of a circuits class.

Old blogger.

It’s not exactly been a jolly bloggy kind of few weeks, it has to be said. The pithy mirth and incisive observation you’ve come to rely on, oh utterly imaginary reader, have not been bubbling in the gullet ready to spill out of the creative windpipe into an entertainingly explosive coughing fit all over the Mac monitor quite as normal. I have had indigestion. Or whatever the upright version of constipation would be, suffered metaphorically. Off-colour in some way, anyway.

Which you undoubtedly are now after that little picture.

My point is that the only news I’ve had and the only interesting happenings I’ve witnessed in that time would have been so tedious to report, I’d have had no trouble conjuring a pretty accurate atmosphere of slow death. And, like every Hollywood take on the second world war ever released, the point of all this is hardly historical realism, is it.

You come here for succinct entertainment and pseudo-clever enlightenment mixed with just a self-affacing twist of zeitgeistian insight, masquerading only flimsily as proper personal journal. There’s no way I’d expect you to read what I’m REALLY doing every day, any more than you’d expect me to give you what you really want – detailed but readable proof that my life is actually fairly devoid of any truly decent stories, star-struck chance happenings, big creative achievements or half way sodding decent pay packets.

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So yes, I’ve not been in the mood to rock the blog. Not had time either, really.

Not the way I wanted to start my 40th year.

For I have. Today. Today marks the completion of my 39th year on Earth and the inexorable skid through my fortieth into my actual fortieth birthday, one little year from now. I have, as my sister put it, just one year left of legitimate kidulthood.

I don’t know what’s more tragic – that my generation’s main claim to fame is that it invented this shameful reflection on our inability to grasp responsibility, or that I would describe any occurrence of it, at any age whatsoever, as legitimate.

Age itself hasn’t usually been an issue for me, I have to say. The numbers are pretty meaningless. If only they’d take the hint and consistently feel so.

The numbers are, in fact, more than meaningless – they start to sound just ridiculous. I mean, who the hell would let an arse like me near the age of 40? I’m the same time-wasting bastard I was two decades ago. What am I going to do with an adult age like 40? Really? Find a point to all this arsing about all of a sudden?

I think we all tend to be judged on track records. And there’s plenty of track behind me now, apparently. And not many records.

Apart from this heavily edited and incidental blog, anyway.

I suspect I know exactly what I’ll do with an adult age like 40.

Put it off for a year.