Too much, too stupid…

So, the dangers of multi-tasking have finally been exposed, thanks to some ground-breaking investigative journalism from BBC Breakfast. Puts me in mind, somewhat, of an incident involving a long-standing client of mine. (There was a time when I could have called this person a 'friend', but these days – due to nothing more sinister than a misunderstanding over a jar of pickled onions - our relationship is entirely pecuniary.) Our short-lived but, for all its brevity, passionate friendship was yet to develop at the time of the incident I shall share with you here, so let me press on…

This chap, a rather well known sports performer of the footballing ilk who, for the sake of this story, we shall call David, came to me for some coaching in the art of stagecraft and enunciation following a period of prolonged and, I must say, reasonably justified ribbing doled out to the poor boy by certain sections of the popular press. I remember the first time we met. The man was such a gibbering, slobbering wreck that his wife at the time, a rather underfed former celebrity who, for the sake of this story, we shall call Victoria, had almost to carry the chap into my studio. Never one to stand idly by and watch a lady struggle, I sat down and poked my nose back into that week's copy of The Stage which, from memory, carried a rather entertaining article on Johnny Sessions' fall from grace due to what I shall refer to here simply as 'the curtain incident' following his appearance on the BBC's scrumptious and much missed Hotel Babylon (a tale to be recounted in more detail on another occasion, perhaps.)

After some time, the wifelette managed to arrange young David as best she could in my reindeer-skinned Paimio, making some comment as she did so about Ikea – to which I chose, to my credit I think, not to rise – before tottering off to what she charmingly referred to as 'the bathroom'. Whether she actually took a bath is anyone's guess, but her withdrawal was sufficiently well-timed and prolonged to enable me not only to diagnose David's issue, but to – and I use this claim in the firm knowledge that it is, to the best of my belief, wholly accurate – cure him immediately and entirely of his condition.

In a nutshell, and to cut a longish story down to size somewhat, the man was trying to do more than he could cope with. Not - and you will have to forgive me if this is the obvious conclusion to which my story telling to date has caused you to leap - juggling the demands of international sporting superstar, model, perfume salesman, sporting, national and cultural ambassador and part-time dancer. No – his problem was more fundamental than that. You see, the poor boy was trying to think and speak at the same time! And how, you may well ask, did I provide the bullet-proof cure I've already teased you by mentioning? Here's what I did – I simply asked him which of the two activities played to his strengths – talking or thinking. After a rather long pause, during which I almost convinced myself that he was answering my question with the power of thought alone, he mumbled 'Umm…tawkin…er…spose.' And that was it! 'Make yourself a talker, David' I instructed. Think if you must, but do so at your leisure, when all the talking is done and never, never attempt to do both at once. And do you know what? The dear boy simply hasn't looked back from that day to this.

To close the circle in a rather pleasing way, I believe that David has both a personal shopper and a personal texter. Most wise, dear boy – most wise.