2. When the music stops.

Kia Ora.

There’s 27 of us here on this little adventure so far. In on the ground floor. Exciting. A few more might join. Invite friends if you want. There’s room. And I know some of you will leave. Although I hope not.

I’d recommend hanging in for at least another 3 or 4 posts, but I’m sure you’ll know when it’s time to go.

Unlike me.

When I started work in advertising in 1980, the music was already cranking. Split Enz and ‘I Got You’ were bounding up the charts. The party was well and truly underway.

If you thought Mad Men, set largely in the 60’s was nuts, then the 80’s was a whole other level again. By 1981, the dogs had long since slipped the leash.

For someone as completely lacking in discipline as I am, this should have been the worst possible place in the world to be. But for someone who didn’t like holding onto the guardrails, for a jumped-up, ten-foot-tall-and-bulletproof, 18-year-old me, with an eye for opportunity and an instinct for trouble –

what unbelievable fucking luck.

Like Roy Batty in Blade Runner: ‘I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.

Sure, not ‘attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion’, but drama nonetheless. Especially after a nosebag or two at the pointy end of a two day lunch.

And no, I haven’t seen ‘c beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate’, but I was at the Summerset that evening Len whipped a cloth out from under a fully laden table without breaking a glass or spilling a drop. I’m sure that counts for something.

‘Shit, that was a great lunch we had last night’ Len would often say, way back before optics and hand-wringing put the skids under most things.

Roy mate, you have no idea.

By the time the 90’s were ending, having a lazy sharpener or three before a presentation barely raised an eyebrow.

"Half for a laugh matey?” Paul would casually ask. "Or one for fun?” he’d add with a mischievous grin if it was a particularly important meeting. Or Friday. Work was sandwiched in, but it was never an afterthought. Shit got done.

It couldn’t last. The music or the madness. In spite of what I told myself. Had I paid any attention in physics, I might've figured things out sooner. Equal and opposite reactions and all that. Probably not though, in all honesty. Back then I liked a decent night on the razzle and a bit of nonsense too much.

Once, just after half past silly o’clock, Jude made the astute observation that I seemed to lack ‘the going-home gene.’ The gene is basically a switch, that when activated, sends a message to the brain, something along the lines of ‘Mate, enough. Time to go.’

Yeah, well anyway, mine didn’t work.

Knowing when to leave anything is tricky. There’s an art to it. Apparently. Like a good story, you should arrive late and always leave early. No-one looks any good when the house lights come on.

Forty five years is a long time in the same business.

It’s a business that’s fuelled by energy and passion, and I just don't have it. Not anymore. Not for this business. Besides, there are so many smarter, younger, keener, and infinitely more sensible people who do. And thank God for that.

Only the other day I caught myself talking in fluent scribble about conversion funnels and content messaging frameworks. Really? For fuck's sake. I reported myself to head office for a slap.

There are only so many times you can let yourself off with a warning.

So in the nicest possible way - and hopefully in the nick of time - I’m done. Even more likely the business is done with me. Either or. Two things can be true at once as Geoff will tell you.

But there. I’ve said what had to be said. The boat is burned. Time to go.

At 62, I’m selling the house, giving away my stuff, moving cities, looking for completely different work and making a whole new life. Swedish Death Cleaning or Marie Kondo-ing the shit out of things. Or both. Take your pick.

If it can’t fit in one suitcase, it won’t be coming. Maybe two. Let’s not be silly. 

Should you care? No, not really. Just know two things: I genuinely have no idea what comes next. Curiosity has the conn.

And - oh ok, three things then - given that I’ve never really done anything else apart from peeling spuds after school at the chip shop, it could easily go either way. Can’t imagine it will be tidy, and you could very well be in luck, as bad decisions make for better stories.

Now, who doesn’t want to see how that turns out?

The good news is, if you're already signed up, you’ll be able to, since the plan - such as it is - will be to write about everything in real time. Or close to it.

Yeah, sure, the music stops. It always does.

But there’s an encore. There always is.

It’s when the music cranks back up, and the band brings down the house.

Tell the others.

The Full Catastrophe promises a real-time account of chaos, consequence and change at least once a week. Next post: Selling Up