Fin. And Vin.

Fin. And Vin.

No, now I’ve been thinking about this and I don’t believe it. I’m going to put my foot down this time. This time it’s pushing it. Someone has to take a stand.

I flatly don’t believe it’s 12 MONTHS since I pressed Play on the Paradiso new year’s epic iTunes playlist. It… can’t be.

>SIGH< >PAUSE<

>SIGHHHHHHHH<

Rubbish too, because I kind of feel I want to really, y’know, own the idea of tomorrow being a new year. A new start. A Day One. ..A Tomorrow I’m Going To Be Dead Good sort of day.

Oh don’t snort. You’re not helping.
>BORED FIDGET<

Ah, well. I currently have FIP on, playing some random Cuban-sounding thing by a bloke apparently called Oran Oran. Just so you know. I’m tempted to put on my last-minute-possible-favourite tune of 2009 on to make it seem more like a party – Lindstrøm’s Baby Can’t Stop. It’s disco heaven. Very groovy. Will really get the party going. Yeah.
>EMPTY MOMENT’S GAZE<

..You, ah… you doing anything tonight?
>SUDDEN FLOUNCE TO FEET<

Oh that’s it. I’m going to go and find the Adam Ant costume I was wearing this time ten years ago.
>THOUGHTFUL FREEZE<

Ten… years.

It’s really ten years since the millennium started?
>SLIGHT SHOULDER SLUMP<

Well, I can hardly complain. The last ten years have been ten of the most formative and vital of my life. A fair bit of cool stuff has quietly happened in that time. Momo, for one. So perhaps the ol’ Adam Ant outfit will work its charm again tonight. Even if I’m sitting on the sofa with a mug of bleedin’ cocoa while wearing it, things will still seem more rock and roll as we start the new decade.

And so here’s to it. Here’s to turning the last ten years of learning stuff and mucking about into ten years of finally becoming a properly useful member of society.

(I said don’t snort.)

Happy New Year, with important capitals, to you and the whole bally family. See you in 2010, inshallah.

Break out the cheese and wine, I feel a middle aged new year coming on. And someone PLEASE turn up that there ruddy disco…
xxx

Cold.

Cold.

Of course, one of the best things about Christmas is the appearance of unexpected gifts.

In that respect, tussling with the small army of nephews and nieces that one always does at this Yule-ish time of year should have rendered the element of surprise moot in the case of this particular gift – but I was none-the-less wrong-footed by the joyous outbreak of colds chez Paradiso, just a day or so after returning from the bosom of the rellies.

I am now a bit fed up with sitting about on the sofa, ashamed as I am to say such a reckless thing.

But a raspy-arse throat and sniveling, sniffing, dripping, pounding head do rather combine to lay out a chap uncomfortably. And even a chap has his things to do. Like shopping for shoes; I had not the fortification for this important task in the front-line affrontery of sales crowds yesterday. Too much. I feared the need for smelling salts as I giddied through the throngs of John Lewis.

And this nasty nasal adversary even floored the lovely first lady of Momo too – which is unfortunate, since our remarkably compatible constitutions helpfully tend to pick up different sicknesses, on the perhaps unfortunately-rare occasions we have legitimate medical excuses to bunk off a decent day’s work.

Last time we were sick together was food poisoning – I remember one of us lying on the floor of the lounge and one of us on the sofa, but I can’t remember which was which as we limply held pale hands and periodically made little sorrowful noises to eachother. I do remember thinking that that would be the last time I had fish pasta at Casablanca airport.

But today, manfully, I’m back at work. And womanfully, the lovely first lady of Momo is actually back at work, while I do this.

Can it really be a year since the spectacular Paradiso new year party, which rocked the neighbourhood with my 12-hour iTunes playlist and to which about five people came, including my mum? Can’t believe it.

And what kind of year has happened in between?

Well, I’m not about to try to review it in any detail. I’d say that I’m left with a bizarrely positive feeling in the ol’ gut regions about it, and about the impending new year, even though much of 2009 on paper was not an easy one.

Simply surviving the recession for another 12 months makes one feel profoundly thankful – we both kept earning this year, while others have lost work or been unable to find it in the first place. But it should be said that Momo:typo did see more than its fair share of inefficient or awkward jobs and working just as hard as normal seemed to yield less impressive full-time scores on the books. And all that went hand in hand with a surreal year for us personally.

Still, it feels as if a new road lies ahead of us beyond Thursday night, wherever we can find to spend it. And that’s at least partly a simple relief. And beyond that, I can’t help but feel a growing nodule of something that feels remarkably like excitement about what Momo:tempo might get up to in 2010. I should be working on skits for Sophie in the Orient instead of doing this, for example. And the preview edition covers to The Golden Age of Exploration are waiting for me at the printers.

It will be a year of change, 2010. For us. I expect to be saying goodbye to the blessed Momo Arnewood studio and trying to find another one, for one thing. And that could be the experience that breaks the Momo stiff upper lip, I imagine.

I hope, as much as anything, that it’s not a year where friends drift apart. Rather, I hope we as a family will find new ways to grow together – I certainly know how much we going to need them, if not the other way around. Celebrating birthdays with conspicuously round numbers is on the cards again in the coming weeks and I know how easily life can take us away from eachother. Though I’m very aware this Christmas of how often it also gives us reasons to really need eachother.

So I’m thinking warm thoughts, not chilly, about the next 12 months. Even if I don’t know quite what to do first. Apart from wipe my chuffing nose again.

Wish the kids had given me a bumper box of tissues for Christmas. That might have been a useful gift.

Idea.

Idea.

Very nice little print campaign here.

In the car back from the MIN awards the other week, I asked quiet advertising legend, Steve J – whose first ever advert was signed off by Charles Saachi in 1975 or something – what was the one thing his years of advertising experience had taught him.

He paused thoughtfully for a heartbeat and then smirked.

“You’ve always got to have an idea” he said.

http://www.ibelieveinadv.com/2009/12/sooruz-merry-christmas/
Sage advice; nail the idea, and the ad will ride itself.

Moral drilling.

Moral drilling.

If ethics or politics tutors wanted to make up a conundrum for their students, one to really bend their beans around like a kind of Kobayashi Maru No Win scenario, they’d be hard pushed to make up anything as effective as one particular one-word agenda item looming over the Copenhagen climate talks like a giant bovine methane cloud.

Brazil.

I mean, this one’s like some sort of twisted boardgame for Geo-suffix nerds.

If you are one – sitting there, getting off on your global issues and your impossible political predicaments and your sickening, cynical desire to make an actual difference to this world we share with tomorrow’s children and all the little woodland creatures – then you’ll really be rubbing your thighs at Brazil’s current teaser. You probably already know about it. You’re probably writing a bloody ‘blog’ about it right now. You lefty, conshy pervo.

Now, I won’t pretend that my own knowledge of Brazil extends much beyond the two most pertinent facts of the place – namely, that the country’s cultural GDP ballooned in the late fifties with the invention of lift music, and that the female population’s freakish levels of natural beauty are apparently genetically inverse to the male’s – but I do know that they really have it in for Wales.

As every schoolboy knows, Brazil has been destroying areas of its rainforest that are specifically the same size as Wales since, ooh, the late seventies.

Why, is anybody’s guess. People have been asking for it to be verified in double-decker buses, elephants and football pitches for a long time, but nada.

I digress.

The moral condundrum in question is this:

Brazil, right? Largest country in South America, fifth largest in the world and fifth most populous to boot – some M192 people spread unevenly over more than three million square miles of diverse geography, from Atlantic coastlines to mountain peaks, by way of lots of scrubland, low plains and altitudinous highlands. Though not the sort with tartan kilts and swearing.

Oh, and the single largest tropical forest in the world of course.

Now, if you’re as ignorant as I am, you might be forgiven for thinking that a Latin American country will have its work cut out to keep its head above the Third World waterline – what with all those cocaine-filled, twin-engined planes crashed in jungle trees, and militias in the hills and what not. Right?

But Brazil is something like the tenth largest economy in the world. And, lest we forget again, it’s the country that invented culturally sublime things like Bosa Nova, chic-sharp space-age architecture, football as a creative genre of ballet and all manner of spectacular ways to keep girls from Ipanema and everywhere else just about in their famous carnival outfits. It’s a country of a very great deal of groovyness and even, reportedly, happiness. And it’s in the middle of spending a fortune in improving its infrastructure.

The thing is, of those almost two hundred million groovy citizens of said Federative Republic, more than fifteen per-cent still live below the poverty line.

As with many countries juxtaposing fast-growing post-modern parts of themselves with almost pre-industrial parts, Brazil as a whole is made up of all kinds of parts that don’t all fit together comfortably. The cities grew so fast in the late 20th century, that people flocked to them from the countryside – and found themselves living on the urban periphery in favelas. Today in Rio, for example, it’s thought that one in five of the city’s residents now lives in of of its six hundred police-no-go slums. Favelas represent the fastest growing populations in Brazil still.

Meanwhile, people in many of the inland areas are facing poverty that so many others left behind when they headed for the cities. And climate change predictions threaten to make some of these dry parts of Brazil uninhabitable by the end of the century.

And then there’s the key factor with Brazil as far as the geography schoolboy is concerned – the rainforest. If the Amazon is the lungs of the world, how can the country find a financial way to stop the loggers, ranchers and miners tearing it apart? How do you fund such a fundamental shift in cultural finances locally – and how the hell do you police an area so utterly vast?

It’s going to take more money than the middle classes in Rio or Brasilia have got, right?

Now, let’s add two facts that turn this interesting but largely academic study into a right bloody moral conundrum.

Firstly, and randomly, I think, Brazil currently has a world-leading status as a green energy provider. Almost all its cars currently run on bio-fuel. A country struggling to catch up with the ‘developed’ world is actually leading it in eco-economic vision. A recognised pioneer in its field, renewable energy is becoming a key part in Brazil’s future.

Secondly, it’s just struck oil in the Campos Basin. A staggering shite-load of it.

So now what?

What the arsing hell do you do, when you have a green agenda pressing down on you from the rest of the world that will only dramatically hasten the swelling economic pressure from within, just as you feel your country might stand a chance of taking a more important place at the global table – when someone pipes up: “Ah, you’ll never guess. Funny thing, but we’ve discovered enough black gold to pump a world record-breaking 100,000 barrels of crude a day into our economy. Eh? Cuh.”?

Chew on THAT Copenhagen hopefuls.

It doesn’t get us anywhere, sitting in our lounges across the UK, but watching Channel Four News’ week of special reports from the balmy waterfront at Rio last week was inspiring. I have no idea what else to do now, but I can only hope – as I did with such teeth-gritted conviction about Spitting Image, 20 years ago – that some politicians were watching and feeling challenged.

If there are still journos with enough vision to turn their caravan 180° from where everyone else’s lenses are currently focussed and get to the heart of an issue’s impact, then maybe these people can also give the politically powerful, the scientifically informed and the financially invested a right bloody drilling about what should be done next by all of us.