On thursday of last week we returned after a fantastic trip to Italy. During that time I was very, very, very naughty.

I didn't look at a single email; I didn't pick up a single phone message; I found, and didn't enter, an internet cafe - even though that old monkey was on my shoulder saying 'you really should check up on things - make sure everyhting's ok'.

Well, I didn't. I took my life - and our business - in my hands and risked 'not getting things done'.

It was FANTASTIC. After about 5 days I could sense a magical feeling of relaxation and peace coming over me that is difficult to access when the calls of business and technology are permanently upon us. Just not having a computer whirring away in the background leads to a different state of consciousness. I learnt to love my Italian lifestyle...

Admittedly when I came back I found over 1000 emails in my in box - but the spam filter managed to get them down to 250. Over the next few days we managed to get those whittled down to next to nothing, and it was clear that no clients or customers had been upset that the whole Art of Change team had disappeared for a few days. The World had carried on ok without us!

Since it's moving towards summer I've adopted a more Italian approach since we've been back - I'm getting up early and dealing with business/clients first thing,  having a nice long crash/family lunch/walk around lunch time (hopefully in the sun) and then returning to work stuff later on in the afternoon. Whilst the warmer weather is with us, it works nicely.

So my holiday reminded me of what I'm often reminding my clients; the world will carry on ok without  my constant interference; I reach a much deeper state of peace and creativity without constant interference from computers, telephones, tvs. And most importantly...

Chilling out in the sun next to some beautiful warm water and loved ones is one of the most important jobs any one can ever do...

The papers are full of it - oil crisis, food crisis (see news feature above), housing crisis, political crisis etc etc. Every day we are reinforcing a fear based paradigm with more and more news about what is going wrong.

When are we going to start looking at what is going right? When are we going to start championing the wonderful people doing wonderful work that are already changing the world for the better?

Humans are incredibly resourceful, creative beings. We thrive when we are creating, but we shrink when we are in fear. Scare us and you'll shrink us. Inspire us and we'll grow.

Mother Theresa once said something along the lines of 'don't invite me to your anti-war rallies, invite me to your peace rallies'. She knew the magic; that the way not to have wars is to create peace. The way to avoid having anything in your life that you don't want is to work on creating its opposite.

The Universe doesn't understand negative creativity - ie 'I don't want...'. It can't help you create nothing. It only understands positive creation. When we look to create we'll find magic can happen. When we look to 'uncreate', we'll find only emptiness... 

Adult Material - For those of you of gentle or faint dispositions probably best to stop before you start this particular blog...

Extreme Sport - definition -  "having a high level of inherent danger".

Adrenaline is rising. In this arena of highly-charged emotions, testosterone-filled warriors jockey for position. In these pre-match moments, the pushing and shoving is but a shadow of what will follow in the following two hours, when all those present will, at some point, be liable to risk of physical violence and mental/verbal abuse.

Once I'm in position, I know there is no escape. No escape at all. The arena goes dark. The speakers turned up to ear-splitting level; a sudden silence as the formalities take place. And then, within an instant, the moment of truth.

The referee blows his whistle and I'm 'down pub', in one of the biggest in the town centre watching Manchester United and Chelsea thrash out the Champions League Final... it is, indeed, extreme support of the most extreme kind.

Sitting next to me are another bunch of 40-somethings (with the odd 50 something thrown in for good measure); one is an antique dealer (who normally watches games like this in the comfort of his own lounge whilst sipping wine from a white, french grape), a computer consultant who likes to take people on extreme cycling trips, and an IT head (as opposed to a 'S*IT head', who seemed to be about four rows further back) . All mature, sensible blokes. We're sitting in the front row, whilst behind us gather a mass, and I mean a mass, of 'extreme pubbers' who seem hell-bent on experimenting in every way possible with the english language to demonstrate that their own commentating skills are far superior to those of the faceless professionals emanating from the sound system.

"Aw, f*** off Ref you f******* b******! What the f*** are you playing at you c***".

The dreaded moment arrives when one of the teams score. It's United. Now what? Do we cheer and risk getting 'noticed' by the Orcs in blue or say nothing and risk being singled out by the devils-in-red ? Forget enjoying the action replay , we've got important decisions to take here.

We decide to go down the general bluster, head nodding/shaking route. Our accents have audibly changed in a matter of a few moments to those of almost genuine football supporters. "Aw, naarh - can't believe it - f*** me!' Yep, we're getting positively bullish in there...

Thankfully just before half-time the boys in blue score too. We go through a similar round of delighted/devastated expressions and expletives. And then in a moment of pure theatre the referee blows his whistle for half-time, the neon strip lights are blasted on as if we're going to be interrogated, and three large snakes of beer-filled warriors form out of those assembled.

Snake number one spits and curses as it moves like an arrow, smashing down the bar on the emergency door; fresh air hits my face, followed all too soon by the rush of smoke being blown back into the pub by the now fully exited human snake; as the door blows the wind open again, a large huddled mass of warriors is visible on the fire escape puffing for all they're worth. Clearly preparing themselves for another 45 minutes of extreme sports...

Meanwhile snake number two has managed to coil entirely around its victim -  the bar staff - and squeezes and squeezes until it has achieved the magical position of being served a few more pints.

Somewhow I find myself an innocent member of snake number 3. This snake has no choice but to move swiftly, and uncomfortably up the stairs in search of its prize - a urinal that you can pee in without needing to wear an anti-nuclear suit. Just walking in to the smell-hole-from-hell, made me realise my extreme sport training is still very much 'a work in progress'.

'Oi, that geeza wot u was torking 'bout - ee's bollocks ee is', shouts out a young gentleman from one of the wall-mounted units. 

'Yerrrh, I know' comes the reply from his colleague, who is mysteriously located behind a locked lavatory door  - 'e's bollocks, e is.'

Returning to my seat I do a quick head count; all my friends are still there, thank God. They're talking about something - haven't got a clue what, and I'm not sure they have either since you'd be doing well to hear a 747 above the cacophony of footballing insights being bandied around by our extreme sport experts.

Miracle of miracles, someone managed to join snake number 2 and fill my glass. At least I hope that was someone from snake number 2 and not number 3. Next to me my antique dealer friend is beginning to earn his extreme sport colours and is starting to get excited by the thought of violence and confrontation. Mind you, when you're 6 foot 3 you can probably confront a bit more confidently.

The lights are off again, snake number 1 reappears in a frenzy of activity and  as the second half begins the extreme sporters shout  more and more loudly everytime someone on the pitch commits a foul, demanding heavy tackles and red cards, my antiques dealer friend amonst them. The sofa and chardonnay seem a long way away now...

Full-time goes into extra time. A red card comes (much to the delight of many it seems)  -  and the cup is decided by penalties. Cheering, booing, shouting; lights on -  the room is awash with blotchy faces and pumped up emotions.

Risking the wrath of all the United fans we manage to get up and sidle out of there, cursing, smiling, and pushing as we go in the manner of true extreme sporters. Out, out into another dimension - a world of fresh air, peace and space.

Returning home I find my girls curled up on the couch watching the last few devastating moments of 'Desperate Housewives'. I go out into the garden for a few minutes of silence and fresh air and stars. For a spiritual life-coach, it's been an interesting night...

I set myself a question for further investigation. If I wanted to 'reach' those blokes in the pub, where would I start?

You know it's a funny old world isn't it? I mean, who would have thought twenty odd years ago when I was writing and producing house music and the like that today I'd find myself championing a cause such as breastfeeding?

If you'd placed a £1 bet then, you'd probably have become a millionaire now!

And yet here I am, having spent much of my spare time in the last weeks, poring over government and global statistics as I dig deeper in my quest to support the cause of breastfeeding.

That journey has thrown up some fascinating discrepancies in the message that has appeared to be emanating from the NHS about the apparent success of their breastfeeding campaigns. Those discrepancies we will be revealing today in a press release that coincides with a couple of lectures being given by The Mother magazine editor Veronika Robinson as she addresses an NHS Breastfeeding advisors' conference in the West Midlands.

Watch this space for the update...now then, where's that drum loop?

Well now this might sound a bit weird, but this blog post is celebrating the passing of someone very special in my life.

My 20 year old Volvo 740gle. Bear with me a minute.

You see, this car, or the Big Friendly Gasguzzler (BFG) as he was affectionately known by all of us, has chaperoned our family and friends through years and years of changing times. The BFG has protected my daughters as they have grown from children to young women; the BFG has helped move a whole garden of plants, been the emergency van for many house-moves not only ourselves but also for friends who couldn't afford hire transport; the BFG has taken many groups of sometimes 7 plus children from home to secret party destination or education experience; the BFG has escorted us excitedly through the joys and delights of weddings and christenings, and taken us with dignity to the hospital visits and funerals of clients, friends and family.

Being environmentally aware, the BFG has had to pay its way ecologically; this he has done by often restricting the need for two vehicles (and receiving grateful thanks along the way from parents not needed to make that return party journey!); he has also removed the need for commercial pick up of bigger items - amazing what we could get in the BFG when the seats went down as well. The back became like a beautiful carpeted palace...

So, this is my public acknowledgement to my car; you served us selflessly; you provided us with experience after experience of magic, hope, joy and sadness; you helped us get the things we needed, and shelter things which just couldn't fit anywhere else during torrential downpours. And you did it all without asking for anything back.

And now? Now you provide the ultimate sacrifice; allowing yourself to be recycled, every part of you, so that the love which has flowed through that life with us can continue to flow into the lives of many, many more.

Thanks BFG.