Passing through Stamford Hill a minute ago on the way to my local supermarket I saw a Hasidic Jew crouched down on the pavement smoking a cigarette in the dark. He looked pretty old and messed up and my first thought was: freelance journalist. My second thought was: me in 20 years time, no 10 years time, no tomorrow. My third thought was: ask him if he’s okay and he said that he was and for a second I thought he was going to offer me a cigarette (all I want to do these days is smoke), but he didn’t.
Yes, me in 10 years time, me tomorrow, all fucked up smoking cigarettes and curled up in a ball on the pavement. Two weeks ago I was earning 80p a word, but it feels like a lifetime ago. Scrap that: it feels like another person in another lifetime.
I’m surprised that my football pitch hasn’t got anywhere. To my mind, it’s the best idea that I’ve ever come up with, but that’s not saying much. My most pleasing response so far was from Steve Gritt (wish I was called Steve Gritt) at Charlton, who has passed on my enquiry to their chief scout. He ended the email saying: “Good luck in the future with your ‘new’ career, but I would keep the pencil sharp just in case.” This probably makes little sense to new (or for that matter regular) readers and I can’t really be bothered going into it all again, but to briefly sum up I’ve asked for trials at every football club in the football league with a view to writing about the scouting process.
Ah, well that’s it for today. I’m off to curl up on the pavement and chain smoke.
Pitching the World 