Another birthday and I have moved up another age box on those magazine questionnaires. Now I think I've moved into the bracket for all these spineless, worthy acts that clutter up the ad breaks on Friday evenings. The James Blunt's, Dido's and Norah Jones's of this world. Confession time; yes, I have been known to spend time in IKEA. Yes, I drink mochas. Yes, I walk the dog on Sunday afternoons. I am sure these things would mark me out as the perfect consumer for Jamie Cullum, but I'd rather have my teeth pulled out with rusty pliers than listen to this again.

If this is Jazz then I am the ghost of Princess Diana. Little Jamie has gone for a funk-lite backing. It's the sound of Clive from accounts getting drunk and dancing like a clown at the Christmas Party. I guess it was an attempt to steal a little dance floor space from Jamiroquai.

This is so bland, so beige it makes Jay Kay sound like hard-boiled '70s funk. This is musical vomit from being force fed too much rich food. Sure, Jamie can play, and the band are tight, but it's far to smooth for me. He may think it super cool but it sounds like Leo Sayer. Yes, that's Leo Sayer. Buy it for someone you hate this Christmas.

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