The Diary: James Palumbo

My trainer roars back into the gym. He has been away all summer on a jungle endurance programme and is now a whirlwind of raw energy. Each morning he sees me at the gym. It’s as important a part of my life as work. I believe in keeping fit. Apart from the obvious health benefits, it helps me make clear decisions.

I train with the oldest trainer in the gym. His hair is greying, like mine, but he’s a tough nut. We begin to spar. I can see he’s calculating how much my fitness has fallen off over the summer. Several rounds in, I begin to tire, lower my guard and am caught by a punch. I totter backwards, trying not to fall. I should have been honest about the time I’ve spent on the beach.

After the gym, I’m ready for whatever the day has to throw at me. I’m off to talk to a group of students about my new book, Tancredi. I enjoy sharing my thoughts with others but I’m not quick on my feet like a politician.

I begin by explaining what the novel is about – the dumbing down of society; instant gratification, quick fixes, people turning themselves into morons. There are lots of serious books on the subject but I wanted to do something different. Immediately I’m under attack.

“So it’s not a serious book?” one of the students volunteers.

I realise it’s the job of students to give people a hard time. I’ll need to keep up my argument without coming across as overbearing. I explain that my book is part satire, part fairy tale, part science fiction. It’s set in a world of the not too far distant future where humanity’s addiction to short-term thinking and idiotic behaviour has reached a point of total absurdity.

I tell my audience there are many issues with which they’ll be familiar – the corrupting influence of media, obesity and the health system spinning out of control, politicians talking nonsense in order to get elected. But while I raise the questions, I try to do it with a light touch.

“So you don’t think that these are important issues?”

I manage to battle through the session.

At the offices of the Ministry of Sound in south London, I realise it is 20 years to the week since the club, which I founded, first opened its doors. I rarely visit the business nowadays, having stepped away several years ago. I remain the biggest shareholder but letting go of running the business was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I’ve noticed that a lot of entrepreneurs cling on to their businesses when it would be healthier for everyone if there were a new boss.

The head office is located in a giant warehouse where 150 people work on the open floor. There are no individual offices and the chief executive sits in the middle, where I previously sat.

Although best known as a nightclub, Ministry of Sound operations include live events, bars, consumer electronics, merchandise and multimedia platforms. Its biggest business is recorded music, a market that has collapsed over the past few years.

I stroll over to see the chief executive. He shoots off some rapid statistics – we have had four number one singles in as many months; last week a number one album; more than 1m singles and albums will be sold before Christmas. We’re having a great year but we deserve our luck.

We muse on the disasters that have befallen the industry. Because music is based on the subjective opinion of whether an artist will sell, it’s difficult to instil discipline in a record company. That’s why it’s such a sloppy business – people arrive late for work, basic financial disciplines are ignored, artists are allowed to get away with murder. It’s all just a mess.

I’m pleased to hear that the guidelines I helped to install in this office are still in force. The office starts to fill from 6am, all decisions are taken collectively, there is a zero tolerance of ego, compensation is based on results, and we work only with artists we like. I am really proud of what has been achieved and wander around the office chatting to people.

After I’ve done my rounds, I pop into the club, in an adjacent warehouse reached through a door in the office. It is a vast space that looks spooky when empty, bathed in the silver glow of its halogen cleaning lights. I stand in the middle of the dance floor and remember opening night in September 1991.

I had sunk most of my money into a nightclub located in one of the roughest parts of town. It didn’t open until midnight and didn’t sell alcohol. Its only attraction was a dance box whose giant speakers blasted out the loudest music you’ve ever heard. These were the criteria for almost certain failure and my friends thought I was mad. Who’d have thought I’d be standing here 20 years later?

I have a friend to dinner who is a psychiatrist. He always gives good, calming advice. I am a private person, not good in a crowd. I prefer dinners or meetings one-on-one where I can focus on a subject. I tell him about my session with the students and wonder what the critical reaction to my book will be.

Writing a book is more revealing about oneself than walking nude down the street. One’s innermost thoughts are laid bare for the world to excoriate. I show my friend one of the online reviews of my first book, Tomas. It reads, “I can’t believe I’ve wasted hours of my life reviewing this book. God will never give me this time back.” He tells me not to worry about negative reviews – they are no more than people projecting their own negativity on to the author. I laugh out loud.

He decides to anaesthetise me by giving me a dose of reality TV and switches on the television. A contestant in a singing competition is being flayed alive. With each flunked note the crowd breaks into hysterical laughter while looks of practised incredulity flash across the judges’ faces. After the song ends, the camera pans in on the contestant. His grin is particularly gormless.

This sort of music is the antithesis of everything my business stands for. I write about reality TV in my new book. ITV’s latest offering Red or Black? – in which contestants guess which colour a roulette ball will land on – is the pits, the lowest form of entertainment. It requires no skill, talent or strength of character, just the ability to speak a one syllable word.

By now we’ve fallen for the lure of the ritual humiliation. We are transfixed by the inhuman ghastliness before us and await the judges’ verdict. The put-downs are short and nasty, following which the crowd breaks into cat calls and boos. The contestant slinks off stage, his disgrace complete.

“The reviews of your new book can’t possibly be that bad,” says my friend.

‘Tancredi’ is published by Marlborough Press on September 29, RRP£9.99