Pitching the World

So, I’m in Paris. Paris hates me already, Paris wants to beat me up. I suspect Paris hates me because I’ve spent the last day or so walking around in some fizzy, angular fog due to a lack of sleep, a waking hangover, and an excess of coffee that somehow seems to have both negated and intensified the lack of sleep and waking hangover. Yesterday I arrived at 6:00 am having not slept and spent the day still not sleeping whilst looking and behaving liking a maniac.

It hasn’t been fun. In fact, it’s been disastrous. For a start I can’t speak French. In order to make up for this I’ve embarked on some English-Spanish-French hybrid language, the likes of which hasn’t been heard on the streets of Paris before, perhaps hasn’t been heard anywhere. I keep saying “Si” when I mean “Oui” and blurting out “No parlez vous Francais! No French! I’m English. J’Englais! Hablas Espanol?!” when anyone asks me anything which seems to be all the time. Seriously. I’ll be sitting there minding my own business in a park or outside a cafe and strings of people will come up to me and ask me things. What things I don’t know, so I’ll just bark at them in my mixture of French and Spanish and English or otherwise just sit grinning at them like a maniac until they leave.

I don’t think I like travelling to foreign countries. I don’t like it because I’m pretty terrible at it. I hate those travel writers – or any writers – who write stuff like: “This hip, easy to miss gem is tucked down some obscure side street but make an effort to find it and hang out with the beautiful people.” I don’t think I’d ever like to visit a hip, easy to miss gem and if I ever did want to, wouldn’t have the patience to find it. Wherever I am I like to know – or at least look as if I know – where I’m going. I also hate consulting maps and so I’ve spent the last day or so just careering round Paris, pounding the streets as if I’m on my way to an important business meeting and am already late but this acting means that I keep getting lost and having to walk much further than I should and so spend all my time thirsty and tired and covered in blisters. If I were to ever write a city guide book my advice would be along the lines of: “Just fucking bowl around the streets chain smoking like a maniac until you collapse.” It’s actually quite good fun, in a way.

But as regular readers will know I didn’t come to Paris to simply pound the streets and have some kind of irregular holiday. I came to Paris to write, to work on the three books I feel I should be working on.

Regular readers won’t be surprised to hear that that hasn’t happened. Nor is it going to. Shakespeare and Company – the bookshop I was hoping to stay in for free – is full of writers at the moment. They can’t house anymore. They told me as much this morning.

“We’re full,” said the girl behind the counter. “We’re always full. And the owner’s not here. All I can suggest is coming back at the weekend and trying again when she is here.”

“But you’ll be full still?”

“Probably, we’re always full.”

“Okay. But if you weren’t full – if I came back at some point and found out you weren’t full – what are the criteria for staying?”

“You have to be a writer,” she said and then looked at me for a while. “And young.”

I wanted to say, “Is 35 young for a writer?” or, “I thought this was a refuge for penniless writers, not a place for young rich American college girls to hang out in the summer and pretend to be writers” but I didn’t, I probably said something like, “Cool, I might pop back then” and walked out.

When I walked out Paris was still there, still hating me, still sucking what little money I have out of my pockets and I thought about buying a raft of wine and sitting in a park and drinking until I passed out but instead I just pounded business-like through the streets until I found a cheap hostal where I am now. I’m a little concerned that I have hardly any money, only one pair of clean underpants and no clue what to do next.

I need a plan, and fast.

Want to hear something stupid? I’m going to Paris next Tuesday. Want to hear something more stupid – even stupider? I’m going there with the intention of staying for free in a bookshop called Shakespeare and Company which houses young (and otherwise) writers. Apparently August is the worst time to try and stay there because it gets very full and the worst time to visit Paris in general as everyone is on holiday and those who aren’t on holiday are moody and hate you and spit at you. I don’t know where I’ve picked this information up from. It’s quite possible I made up.

The reasoning that lies (more cowers) behind my decision to go to Shakespeare and Company at the worst time of the year is that I intend to work on three books. Not one book – one book would be more than enough – but three books. One of those books is the book that I was working on in Dubai and the dog-end of last year. The other book is a book based on Pitching the World. The final book is a novella. A fucking novella.

Why I thought booking a coach – a coach! – to Paris to stay in a bookshop to write three books was a good idea is currently beyond me. I’ve had 35 years to write one book and failed. What are my chances of writing three books in a week or two whilst sleeping in a bookshop? Slim, would be my guess. And that’s assuming that they have room and like me. I might have to write three books whilst sleeping in a park in Paris. Perhaps that’s what I need. Perhaps my life has become both too unbearable and too comfortable at the same time. Who knows? Not me.

I could perhaps do with your help. Do YOU live in Paris? If you do and would like to take me out for cocktails on my birthday in a couple of weeks then please let me know. Otherwise I’ll be spending my birthday in a park alone trying to write three books at the same time.

In other news, I met a friend last night who is the deputy editor of a fitness magazine and he wants me to train for a triathlon and write about my experiences. This I like. This is the sort of stuff I should be doing. I might have to fit the training around my writing of three books – oh, and an article for a magazine about the bookshop – in two weeks in a bookshop in Paris, but I’m sure I’ll manage.

Oh Jesus, I thought when I woke up this morning, not again. Not another hangover. Please not another hangover. How many has it been this year: 60? 70?100? Some people don’t manage 100 hangovers in a lifetime. I asked my Nan recently how many hangovers she’d had in her life and she said one. Wish I’d only had one. Wish I was my Nan.

None of that’s true. Well, some of that’s true: I do want to be my Nan and I probably have had somewhere in the region of 100 hangovers this year but I didn’t wake up this morning and think ‘Jesus not another hangover’. For a start, I don’t wake up anymore. Something happens to me in the morning but it certainly isn’t waking up; more moving from one petrified state to another. Second, I didn’t have the cognitive ability to think ‘Jesus not another etc.’ so probably just thought ‘erk’ or ‘uhhhng’ or ‘neerrff’ – I’ve given up thinking in nicely constructed formations of words and prefer to think in grunts these days. Much less taxing. Try it, please, it’ll change your life.

Where were we? Ah yes, we were hungover except we weren’t hungover. I’ve had a period of sobriety you see (since Sunday – doesn’t really qualify as a period) and so there was no way I could have been hungover. Except that I was. So it seems that I get hangovers even when I haven’t been drinking. Where’s the justice in that? Up my ass, that’s where.

I think this morning’s hangover was a stress hangover. I’m currently working on my proposal for a book based on Pitching the World and that proposal is being sent off to my award-winning agent tomorrow and he in turn is going to send the proposal round to a bunch of publishers who in turn are going to tell me go fuck myself, to perhaps stick my proposal up my ass along with the justice. Oh please don’t let that happen. Please, publishers, don’t tell me to stick things up my ass.

The reason for them potentially wanting me to stick my proposal up my ass is because I have no idea on this retarded planet what Pitching the World is about. None. Do you? How do I make it attractive to publishers? My approach at the moment is all “In 2009 Steven decided to pitch all 642 magazines in the Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook. Now, some two years later he’s pitched very few of them, hardly been commissioned at all, has lost his hair and his looks and his confidence and learnt nothing. Seriously, nothing. If anything he’s unlearnt stuff. He also suspects he has been blacklisted by the entire UK media industry. If he has, he’s fucked. If he hasn’t, then he’s genuinely paranoid, and fucked. He did, however, have a football trial and drew some good pictures and wrote for the British Journalism Review. Thanks. Can I have a £45,000 advance please.”

That’s my approach so far. I know: not good. But what’s it all about, this whole Pitching the World business? This is half rhetorical/half please help me out because otherwise I’ve a lifetime of hangovers and hangovers that aren’t even hangovers to look forward to.

Thoughts welcome. Thanks.

Me to my brother the other day:

“Men shouldn’t work like this. We should be fixing cars” – I don’t have a driving licence, a car, or any interest in cars or fixing cars – “or building houses” – unbelievably, I can sort of do this – “or, you know, just getting out there.”

Where is out there? What should I – we – be doing when we get there? Who cares – the point is men shouldn’t be huddled over their prissy little Macs in their Nan’s dining room all day and calling it work. They should be working on cars (trucks better) or getting out there.

That’s not really my point. In fact, that’s not point at all. The point is that I’ve had a sea change in my thinking. Rather than spend day after nerve-jangingly day looking at the details of these 642 (Jesus) magazines and wondering what I can write for them, I’ve decided to do it the other way around: decide what I want to write about and approach these magazines accordingly. Here then, slightly long-windedly, is some of the stuff I’ve come up with that I would like to write about.

1. Have we Created Our Own Universe? Assuming that time doesn’t exist in the way that we imagine and assuming that in some point in the future we are scientifically literate enough to create an embryonic universe and let it grow does that mean that we are indeed living right now in a universe that we have created in the future? (Note to commissioning eds: further details sketchy at this stage. The above was based on a conversation my (scientist) brother had with me recently and it led to me having a panic attack which led to me having to drink four whiskys. If interested, I can go back to him armed with questions.)

2. Where Have All the Proper Dogs Gone? It struck me the other day that all the dogs hanging out these days are squat, muscley, man-eating fucks. What’s happened to Labradors and Golden Retrievers and just ordinary dogs? Exactly, they’ve disappeared. If I had been in a coma for the last 20 years – and I wish that I had been in a coma for the last 20 years – then the dog landscape of today would be completely foreign to me. With that in mind, imagine what the dog landscape will be like 20 years in the future. Go on: imagine it.

3. Can I Eat Myself Clever? I spend a month eating food and drinking drinks that are supposedly good for the brain: oily fish, certain fruits and vegetables, other stuff that I’m not aware of yet. At the beginning and the end of the month I have an IQ test to see if I can eat myself clever.

4. Can I Fuck Myself Clever? I spend a month sleeping with very brainy women. At the beginning and the end of the month I have an IQ test to see if I can fuck myself clever.

5. Can I Drug Myself Clever? As above, but with drugs.

6. How Many Old People Look Like Vince Cable? I’m writing this in a cafe and a man just strolled past who looked EXACTLY like Vince Cable. Maybe it was him. But then I looked across the road and saw someone else who looked EXACTLY like Vince Cable and it got me thinking: as men age, many of them begin to resemble Vince Cable. How many? Fuck knows, that’s what I’m going to find out.

7. Can Thinking Like Marcus Aurelius Cure Depression? Answer: yes, probably.

8. The No Man. I say no to everything for a bit. Probably for a month. Can make a lot of it up. Might be a problem accepting the commission.

9. Can I Think Myself Fit? There is some evidence to suggest simply thinking about certain muscles promotes growth. I spend a month (it’s always a month) in a room thinking about my triceps, then another month thinking about my calves, and then another month trying to grow a massive neck.

10. Why I Love Cricket.

Any takers? Come on you miserable fucks. You know what to do: pitchingtheworld*at*hotmail.com

In my more idle moments (i.e. all the time) I often wonder if my talents might be better directed towards writing situation comedies. I know, I’m full of my damned self. It’s just that this freelance journalism business can be disconcertingly gruelling, full of rejection and hope and uncertainty, whereas writing for television is a breeze.

So, this afternoon I was playing around with a few ideas for sitcoms. I’ll pop them down below. I better warn you though, if you’re writing a sitcom yourself and it isn’t terribly brilliant you may want to look away now as this is gonna hurt.

What Am I – A Fucking Town Planner? 35-year-old Danny Rampton is in the pub with a few friends one evening in (probably) October when one of them (Mark, possibly) asks the best way to get to a certain street on the other side of town. “What am I – a fucking town planner?” Danny responds, to much hilarity from his friends. It is the first time ever that Danny has properly made them laugh. From that moment on, Danny decides to answer every question posed to him – from his wife asking him if he’d like a cup of tea, to his boss wondering how far he has got on that report – with the same response: “What am I – a fucking town planner?” (Note to Commissioning Editors: might struggle to stretch this beyond Series One.)

Where’s My Sandwich? Set in Huddersfield. A man keeps being unable to locate his sandwich. The end of each episode sees him wondering aloud where his sandwich is, hence Where’s My Sandwich? (Note to Commissioning Editors: Potential Series Two – Have You Seen My Other Shoe?)

Acid Gran An OAP takes loads of Lysergic Acid Diethylamide everyday, much to the amusement of her friends. (Note to Commissioning Editors: If we manage to dig up some of those 1960s/70s illustrators, this could work equally well as a children’s cartoon.)

ShitCome Initially ShitCome was going to be simply titled Sitcom and was going to bleak, post-industrial and entirely joke-free. Much like anything on ITV. Then, I thought, perhaps call it ShitCom and it be about a web developer with incontinence. Finally, splendidly, I thought of ShitCome, set in Cheltenham and about a builder who suffers from premature ejaculation/no ejaculation/generally poor loads. He also has problems giving women orgasms. (Note to Commissioning Editors: Danny Wallace has expressed an interest in playing the lead role.)

Further note to Commissioning Editors: The raw ideas above are available at between $15,000-$20,000; fleshed-out forms at $30,000-$40,000; and six-part series’ with rewrites from $200,000. Please email pitchingtheworld-at-hotmail.com for further information.

“Do you know what your problem is?” A friend asked (or rather wanted to tell) me one evening last week. Oh God here we go, I thought, please don’t tell me what my problem is. I know what my problem is. And it is not a problem, it is a series of problems and I have become pretty adept at hiding from them and I don’t need you adding to the list, giving me more stuff that I need to hide from.

So instead of listening to what my problem was, I looked around the bar we were sitting in and tried to work out if there was some way of letting the tables of pretty women in there know that I was a writer. I took out a pen. It did not work. Then, for no discernible reason whatsoever, I thought about a giant balloon version of Shaun Ryder just endlessly drifting through space. Three days of constant drinking can do that to a man.

“Sorry?” I said. “What was that?”

“I could tell you weren’t listening. You want things to fuck up for you. You want to deliberately make things difficult for yourself. You get yourself in these good positions, then find a way to fuck them up. It’s weird.”

For a bit I couldn’t reply. I couldn’t reply because my brain was yelling at me to blurt out “SPACEAGESHAUNRYDER!” Jesus, I thought, that’s a new one. I wonder what it could be? Tourettes? A brain tumour? Cancer of the speech?

In the end I said: “That’s the most ridiculous fucking thing anyone has ever said to me. But it’s also probably true.”

And so, a change. From now on I’m going to try to not deliberately fuck things up. But how does one start? Yesterday I started by waking at seven and meditating and reading a book. Blimey, I thought, that felt pretty good. So I did some more meditation and read some more of a book and exercised and ate a grapefruit and trimmed my armpit hair and emailed some people wondering if they wanted someone like me doing some work for them and then made a short film about Jesus and then came up with a three-month plan. The film was pretty awful. But the day was pretty good and my old pals the night terrors didn’t visit me yesterday and it’s a start.

One can start again at 35 can’t one? Of course one can, of course I can. If not, what’s the alternative? Not make a fresh start? Carry on as I am? Try and find God and tell him that I’ve fucked this life up and can I have another one please? No, no and no.

Oh, and I’ve decided to tinker with my pitching style too, decided that whilst these jokey woe-is-me affairs have been fun – and, come on, we’ve all had a good time – it’s perhaps time to toughen them up and make them sing. And dance. My pitches from now on, then, are going to be tough cold hard steel song and dances. That sounds terrible – worse than my film. They will be something though. Something good. Just you watch.

Holidays. I´m not sure if holidays are my strongpoint; not sure if holidays are supposed to be like this. For a few days I did nothing but drink and sleep and once I´d exhausted both of those, I did nothing but analyse my life to date.

Have you ever analysed your life to date? Don´t bother, it´s scary. Of all the things you can do with your life, analysing it to date is not recommended. Someone once said that the unexamined life is not worth living, but whoever that someone was clearly hadn´t spent a week or so in Mallorca with me.

So, Mallorca. Thirteen years ago I was in this town with a girl I loved and who loved me back and I messed it all up. Last year I was in this town with a girl I loved and who loved me back and I messed that up as well. I´ve had jobs over here that I´ve messed up. And friendships. And bar tabs.

I´ve come to realise that I´ve messed a lot of things up. I sit on my balcony drinking too-warm cans of beer and chainsmoking too-nice cigarettes and I watch the happy families and happier couples and they don´t seem to have fucked anything up at all. I don´t have anyone to go to dinner with or a driving licence or a mortgage or any possessions beyond two bags of clothes that I´m fast hating and I don´t really have any work at the moment and am possibly becoming more atrophied and Octoberish by the second and and and.

And perhaps I´m not very good at this. You know, perhaps I´m not cut out to live my life very well.

That´s one way of looking at it. Another way of looking at it is better.

Another way of looking at it is this: I´m 35 and a professional writer and have written for some of the best publications in the world and I am drinking warm beer and smoking cigarettes on a balcony somewhere in Europe and writing in my notebook and although I´m getting divorced from my (pregnant) neuroscientist wife I´m not being a turd about it. If I´d told all that to an adolescent me, the adolescent me would have buckled, would have been so overwhelmed that he would have tried to fuck the 35-year-old me in a bin somewhere. Probably.

And I´ve got money owed to me. Not loads, but enough to go anywhere in the world – Africa, Australia, Argentina – and rent a small room and live for a month, possibly longer and earn more money. And if I´m so worried about crumbling self-esteem, self-respect, self-discipline and so on (anything to do with the self, then) I can decide to do something about it. “At the moment of commitment, the universe conspires to assist you,” someone once said, and someone else once said: “If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything,” and I think – hope – that they´re both right.

Oh dear, this hasn´t been about the writing yips has it? And hasn´t it been terribly pretentious too, quoting Plato and Goethe and Marty McFly all in the same post? I did have them though recently. The writing yips, that is. Couldn´t put a word down. Terrible. Worrying, too, when your income depends exclusively on writing one word after another. Still, they´ve gone now, or are at least in the shadows. This has helped. So, you know, thanks very much for that.

I’ve been ever so slightly concerned about my recent erratic behaviour, ever so slightly concerned that over the weekend I sought (and took on board) the advice of an ant.

Picture this, if you can be bothered. It’s Sunday and I’m sitting in my Nan’s back garden chainsmoking. The bulk of my chainsmoking, incidentally, takes place in pubs, but if the financial gods are against me – as they often are – then I’m forced to conduct my chainsmoking in my Nan’s back garden. This is not good. It’s mainly not good because my Nan is unaware – or gives the impression of being unaware – of my smoking and I’m forced to come up with excuses as to why I’m spending huge chunks of my time in her back garden. For a while, I pretended that I was very enthusiastic about using my telephone; I would say things like “I’ve just got to phone one of my editors” or “I’m going to call my agent. Big things are happening you know. Very big things” and off I’d go to hide and smoke. But not now. Now my phone’s bust and she knows my phone’s bust and so I’ve started saying: “Oh, I think I’m going to do some press ups in the garden” and off I go to not do press ups – in fact, to do the exact opposite of press ups – and I suspect my Nan is worried that I’ve got some sort of muscle wasting disease because the result of all these press ups is unapparent. If anything, my arms and chest are getting smaller. This is no way for a 35-year-old man to live. I don’t think I need to tell you this.

Fuck, where were we? Yes, smoking. No, ants. So, I was staring at an ant in the garden and it was crawling towards a crack in the concrete and I thought: “If that ant crawls into that bit of concrete, it means I need to get away.”

About a day later, two things occurred to me. First, that this has the makings of a book, a book about a man who bases all his decisions on the actions of small animals. It’d be like The Dice Man but watered down and, unbelievably, worse. Perhaps Danny Wallace could write it. My second thought was better. My second thought was: If a man bases his decision about going away on whether or not an ant crawls into a bit of concrete, then perhaps he needs to get away regardless of what that ant does.

So, I’m going away. To Mallorca. Tomorrow. For how long I don’t know. I just phoned up my bank to tell them that I would be away for a while and when the telephone operator asked me where I was going and for how long I didn’t want to just say Mallorca as I thought she might think I’m a bit shit, so I said: “Mallorca. For a bit. For how long I don’t know. And then I might be going to Malawi for a while.”

When I got off the phone I thought, “Well maybe I WILL go to Malawi for a while. I have a friend out there who keeps (twice) asking me to go and see him. Perhaps it’s better to take heed of my own words, the ones that come out of my own mouth, rather than the advice of an ant.”

I read something the other day and it’s the real reason I want to get away. Here it is:

It is hard work to slaughter a beast but when it is done it is done. If you are MAKING ART the labour never ends, no peace, no Sabbath, just eternal churning and cursing and worrying and fretting and there is nothing else to think of but the idiots who buy it or the insects destroying TWO DIMENSIONAL SPACE.

The capitals aren’t mine. And it’s not that I’m making art, but journalism can feel like eternal churning and cursing and worrying and fretting and I need to run away from it for a while and drink three bottles of red wine a day and take two swims a day and maybe – you never know – just relax for a bit.

So, on Tuesday evening after a gloriously upbeat supper (a Kinder Egg with a whisky chaser, if you’re at all interested) I decided to send an identical email to 50 publications. I’ve run out of steam, you see, and didn’t have the stomach to pitch actual thought-out ideas. I realise this is not good. Anyway, here’s the letter:

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To: Loads

From: Pitching the World

Subject: Belief

Dear Editorial,

I am in the process of trying to write features for all 642 magazines listed in the 2010 edition of the Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook. Among those 642 magazines is yours. This ridiculous process began back in 2009 (for a while I called it a ‘project’ but I’ve given up on that now) after I had quit my job as a political speechwriter.

Now, if you consider my decision to quit my job as a political speechwriter and return to journalism to be a terrible one – and you’d be right to – my idea of writing for 642 magazines is even worse.

You should see me now, almost two years down the line. When I began, I was living with my neuroscientist wife in Stoke Newington. Now I’m getting divorced and live in my Nan’s dining room in Boscombe. Before I had hair, lots of it, and it wasn’t grey. Now I have little hair, and it is grey – white, even. I had money and shoes and confidence. Now, well I suppose I don’t have to spell it out, but now I have none of those things. What do I have? I have night terrors, addictions and crumbling self-esteem. Oh, and belief. I still have a sliver or two of belief.

After describing myself in such thrilling detail it seems a little ridiculous to say that I’d like to write for you. But I would. I’m in a hole you see, and it’s a hole I’d like to get out of. Are you farming work out to freelancers at the moment? I’ve written hundreds of pieces over the years for the Guardian, the Independent, Square Mile, Square Meal, the British Journalism Review, Business Destinations and plenty more. I reckon I could write a nice feature for you. Or a mini-feature. Or an opinion piece. Anything really. A paragraph? Do you need any paragraphs writing?

What are my chances? Slim? None? Reasonable? Please leave me alone?

Splendid clippings available on request.

I look forward to hearing from you.

With best wishes,

Pitching the World

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Now, that’s not the sort of letter established or prospective journalists should be sending out. Go on a course called How to be a Journalist and you will be told to do the opposite of what I’ve done in that letter. For a start, it isn’t in any way tailored. I’ve sent it to generic email addresses (editorial@wherever.com) and haven’t addressed anyone specifically, simply plumping for “Dear Editorial”. This, apparently, is not good. I’ve no clear ideas of what I want to be writing about – in fact no idea at all. I point out that I don’t have shoes, money, confidence and that I live in my Nan’s dining room. I say that I have night terrors and addicti – fuck it, you’ve read the letter already, you don’t need me going over it again. You get the point, I hope, that perhaps it’s not a very good way of trying to go about getting work.

Well – and perhaps one or two of you have seen this coming – you’d be wrong. Check this out, my first reply and from the Senior and Online Editor of Prospect, one of the finest magazines in the world:

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To: Pitching the World

From: Mary Fitzgerald

Subject: Belief

Hello Steve,

What an undertaking. I can’t promise we can help, but let’s try.

A few questions: how many of the 642 have you written for thus far? Does online count? Is there anything in particular you’d like to pitch? And do you think there’s anything you’d be able to fashion into an item for our diary section?

Very best,

Mary

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Well. Well well well. That’s probably a one-off though you turd, I thought to myself, an anomaly. Yeah? Well anomalise this:

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From: Caspar Melville, Editor New Humanist

To: Pitching the World

Subject: Belief

Well Steve what can I say? If I say no I’m dooming your project to failure, if I say yes I’m fuelling your self-delusion and making it more likely that you will write a book about it all and get rich and famous and find a new wife and be able to afford a Rooney-style weave-on.

So it’s a dilemma. You can evidently write and are funny.. so find something relevant to New Humanist- work that pitch babee

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And then this:

From: Jamie Melville

To: Pitching the World

Subject: Belief

Hi Steve

Thanks for your letter.

Sadly we are no longer commissioning new writers for paid work. We do accept some unpaid submissions, however. Having said this I’m not sure how keen you are to write articles about sex, gender (rather than party) politics and erotica, gratis, for the doubtful kudos of being published in ER.

And this, from the Oldie this morning:

Dear Steve,
We do accept freelance submissions for Modern Life, Olden Life, Rants and World’s Worst Dumps, as well as features. Please do send submissions to jeremylewis@theoldie.co.uk and note that we do not commission, all articles are done on spec.
Very best wishes,
Claire

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And I’ve also been commissioned by Yoga & Health to write a piece on meditation (can someone please tell me something about meditation), and encouraged to pitch Your Cat with ideas and have even began some sort of correspondence with the people hanging out over at Practical Boat Owner.

The lesson? The lesson is do what you feel, fuck around, be honest and everything will be okay.

Here’s a reply from a Christian magazine:

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From: Russ Bravo

To: Pitching the World

Subject: Belief

Sorry, Steven – I’d like to help but …

3. Danny Wallace

There’s no way this series isn’t going well. The first instalment back in (I think) September 2010 featured Alexis Petridis and Neal Butterworth and definitely wasn’t shit. This is the second instalment and might be a bit shit. Might be. For a start Danny Wallace isn’t really a journalist, but he has written whimsical pieces for a handful of broadsheets and has a regular (whimsical) column in Shortlist and I do want to kick the you-know-what out of him so he’ll have to do.

So, Danny Wallace. I want to get away. I need to get away. I’m broke, going mad and drinking too much and I’m hoping that going away will magically sort all of this out – that somehow being somewhere that isn’t here will make me less broke, less mad and less reliant on alcohol to get me through the day. It will won’t it? Just say yes.

Which brings us slightly clumsily back to Danny Wallace whose second book, Yes Man, I found myself reading in Boscombe library yesterday. I read it – or rather, I read some of it – as a mistake. It was among the travel books (I need to get away) and I remembered someone saying to me once that my writing was a lot like Danny Wallace’s so I picked it up and read a hundred or so pages and wanted to cry.

For those of you who don’t know, Yes Man is about Danny Wallace saying ‘yes’ to stuff instead of ‘no’ to stuff and finding himself in all sorts of hilarious, improbable and probably falsified situations. His first book, Join Me, was an hilarious, improbable and probably falsified account of him “accidentally starting a cult”. This is the kind of caper that he gets up to. He wrote a travel column for (I think) the Guardian about going around Australia with his (probably) lovely wife and visiting big tomatoes or something. He can write about anything now. He’s in a situation where he can go to his agent or publisher or a newspaper editor and say: “I’d like to do something where I go around the world talking to fish who wear hats” and they’d say yes. Or:  “How about a column in which I document my crazy decision to wear ONLY red trousers with yellow shirts or ONLY yellow trousers with red shirts. And I do this for a year. Don’t worry, I can make most of it up.” Or: “Maybe I should just say “Ooohh” for a whole year, or eat my underpants for breakfast, or fuck all of the truck drivers in Leeds…” and people who commission this stuff would say yes yes yes.*

This is what I want (perhaps not the truck drivers) and I’m jealous and the reason behind this vitriol is I know that if Danny Wallace had come up with the idea of Pitching the World he would have made a success out of it, would have landed a book deal and column and television series. What have I landed? I’ve landed night terrors, crumbling self-esteem, a growing problem with addictions and eczema on my hand. The idea behind this project is good, but the execution has been woeful. Perhaps I should lie about stuff more, like Danny Wallace does.

Danny, if you’re reading this I don’t really want to kick the fuck out of you. The main reason I don’t want to is that if you did happen upon this you’d probably take it to your agent and he’d say: “Do it. But write a column and book about it and we’ll sell it for loads” and you’d write about your training and make it quite funny and use loads of exclamation marks but you’d get pretty fit and punchy as well whereas I’d just sit in my Nan’s dining room and chainsmoke and drink. About two days before the big fight I’d do some press ups and give up after about nine, thinking “Fuck this, I’ll just get drunk and smack him” and I will get drunk and try and smack you but I’ll miss and you’ll smash my stupid yet once handsome face to bits and you’ll make a million pounds from it.

Next up: Dave Gorman. And probably Johann Hari.

Danny Wallace, earlier

* Jesus, after writing that I looked at his Wikipedia entry and read the following:

“On 16 December 2008 he presented his second episode of Horizon on BBC2, Where’s My Robot. In it, Wallace travelled the world to meet roboticists and ask them, simply: “Where’s my robot?””

You couldn’t make this shit up. He could, but you couldn’t.