Pitching the World

I have a favour to ask. No, no – wait, come back, I don’t want money or sex from you.* Rather, I’d like you – that’s right, YOU – to tell me what your favourite posts have been over the last year and three quarters. This isn’t to feed my crumbling ego,** but my agent and I are putting together a proposal that we’ll soon be sending to publishers and some of the material we’re submitting will be previous blog posts. I know, I know, we’re both lunatics.

But can you help? Please. You don’t even have to be specific, you can just say “I liked that one where you drank Pernod in the shower and played with yourself”or “That was good, when you were in Dubai and couldn’t find a supermarket” or “You know that time you fucked up? That should be in there.” Actually, perhaps not that last one; perhaps I’d like you to be more specific than that.

Anyway, you’d be helping me out hugely. And whoever I judge to leave the best suggestion gets a can of Skol Super and 10 Camel Lights in the post. I’m serious about this. For the record, I think the best post I’ve written is Accentuate the Negative (February 2011) and the worst one Five of the Best (June 2011).

Thank you all very much. If you’re a little wary or shy about putting your suggestions up here, feel free to email me at: pitchingtheworld*at*hotmail.com

*I do really.

**It is really

INT. DINING ROOM – DAY

14:16 Thursday 16 June, 2011.

MATTHEW HAMILTON: Hello. Is that Steven?

ME: I think so. Is that my award-winning agent?

MH: Hahahahaha. Yes.

ME: [TWITCHES]

MH: I was speaking about you last night. For an hour.

ME: Fuck. Really? To the police? They’re lying. Your therapist?

MH: –

ME: It wasn’t my Mum was it?

MH: Ha. [beat] Look, let’s talk Pitching the World.

And so we do.

Here’s what we’ve decided. Matthew is going away on holiday and I’m going to work on a proposal (and sample chapters) for a book based upon this blog. Sounds – or rather, reads – ridiculous written down, doesn’t it? Once Matthew gets back from his holiday (wish I was going on holiday) at the beginning of July we’re going to send off the proposal and sample chapters (wish I was a proposal and sample chapters) to publishers. Said publishers are going to start a bidding war (wish I was etc.) and eventually one is going to rise out of all the filth and offer me lots of money to write a book based on Pitching the World.

That, I think, is the idea. And there’s no way it’s going to fuck up (wish there was no way I was going to fuck up).

I haven’t quit by the way. That last post wasn’t my last post, by the way. I think it all just got a bit too much – my soupy ways, lack of money, living arrangements, the ridiculous idea of pitching all of these magazines – and I just wanted to curl up in a corner of a room somewhere and stay there, like a dying mouse or bear or horse or whatever animal goes to the corner of a room to die.

But then, this morning, a breakthrough. Who says this whole caper needs to be a success? I mean it clearly will be, but so what if it isn’t? Isn’t that something still? A kind of anti-journalism book, or a guide on how not to live your life – wouldn’t that be something still? The best bits of biographies are always the first 70 pages or so when the subject is struggling – going to auditions and not getting anywhere, or having manuscripts rejected, or living in a subway eating cans of tuna and drinking super strength lager. These are the best bits. And the book could – could – be like that. Imagine: a whole book of that. With no success (in fact I’m far, far less successful than when I started), no uplifting finale and no lessons learnt except perhaps JOURNALISM IS FUCKED or THE WRITER OF THIS BOOK IS FUCKED.

I don’t know though. We’re tossing around a few ideas at the moment. That’s right, tossing them around. And the end of the book could – could – be more uplifting than the end of Rocky, you never know. After posting this I’m going to write and send a letter to editors of magazines practically begging to write for them. It will be a good letter. A begging letter – can you imagine? Oh I’ve sunk low, I’ve sunk low all right. But I can sink much lower. Just you watch me.

If anyone needs me, once I’ve written that letter I’ll be in a subway in Boscombe eating tuna out of a can and drinking super strength lager. Come and say hello.

*Format courtesy of Rob Long, author of Conversations with My Agent. Go and buy it, it’s good. Incidentally, Rob Long’s second book was represented by my agent – perhaps you can go and buy that too, although I can’t remember the title. 

Dear Readers of Pitching the World,

This is my hundredth post. Shouldn’t I be getting a telegram from the Queen or something? How does it work? A hundred posts. What on earth have I been writing about? I remember something about beetroot and something else about pie charts and I’m pretty sure I’ve even been including pitches recently, but other than that my mind’s a blank. Well, perhaps not a blank exactly, more a slaughterhouse. Or a malignant cartoon. Yeah, that’s more like it: Malignant Cartoon Slaughterhouse Mind – that could be my new nickname.

Anyway, I’ve had a little ditty going through my (slaughterhouse/malignant cartoon) mind all day to the tune of Happy Birthday. It goes:

Congratulations to me,

Congratulations to me,

For being such a fucking idiot,

Congratulations to me!

Good, isn’t it? And good, aren’t I? One hundred posts! Crikey. I always thought I’d write a hundred posts and end this nonsense there and then, but as I wrote post number 87 or 94 or even 99 I thought ‘How ridiculous I once was – to believe I would only write 100 posts. What a fool. I’m going to write way more than 100 posts. I might write 200. Or a thousand.”

Well. Well well well. I’m beginning to think that my original thinking was on the money and my subsequent thinking far sloppier. This, I fear, could be my final post. I’ve had enough. Enough of being a writer or a journalist or whatever the hell it is I’ve turned into and I am on the verge of quitting. The reasons are too numerous and complicated to go into, but let it be known that I’ve had enough. Enough enough enough.

You know what the worst word in the English language is? Hope. I’ve had it with hope. Me and hope used to be pals; I used to take hope round the back of supermarkets and have sex with it in big bins. That’s what I do with my friends by the way: fuck them in bins. But not anymore – the hope stuff I mean. Every week I think this week’s going to be better. This week, I think, the man who once paid me £3 a word is going to get in touch and ask me – beg me – to write his autobiography. Or: this week my agent, Matthew Hamilton of Aitken Alexander Associates, is going to get in touch and say, “Look, Steven, the reason I haven’t been in touch is because I’ve been working on a book deal for you. A secret one. And it’s big. Oh it’s big, it’s fuck-the-publishers-in-the-ass big.” Or: this week I’m going to be whisked off somewhere exotic with my ex-election team to write award-winning and morally affirming political speeches. Or: something else, something equally good.

God, what a melodramatic fool I am. But better a melodramatic fool than a hopeful one. Because, you know, this week isn’t going to be any better. If anything, this week will be worse – much worse. My whole life has been spent thinking that this week is going to be better and it never is. In fact, that’s going to be my epitaph – on my gravestone: “Here lies Pitching the World. He thought this week would be better.”

Someone once told me that “To get out of hell you’ve got to use power” and so I’ve decided that I’ve got just about enough energy for one final push. One final push then I’m giving up and going back to painting houses and building walls for a living. The rest of this week will be spent pitching editors with ideas for features that I actually want to write. I’m going to make them the most well honed and attractive pitches ever created and when editors read them they’re going to feel all oily and do remarkable things in their undercrackers.

At least I hope they will. And if that doesn’t work – if I get nowhere trying to make editors all oily or if I get nowhere with my massive fuck-them-in-the-ass secret book deal – then I’m going to put this advert in Private Eye, assuming I can find the money to do so:

Ex political speechwriter and current journalist seeks adventure. Anything legal or otherwise considered. Discretion assured. 

Fruity isn’t it? I’ve no idea what it means. I think whatever it means I mean it though. And if THAT doesn’t work (and it clearly will) then I’m either going to go back to painting and building walls for a living or I’m going to get a National Express coach to Paris for £25 and just hang around and try and find my own adventure. I don’t know what I’ll do for money. I’ve thought as far as dancing like a bear in a square somewhere. I know, I know: I’m having a breakdown.

So, you know, if it doesn’t all work out one way or another this week and I do give up and end up dancing around Europe like a bear, I’d just like to say thank you. Thank you for reading and commenting and subscribing and generally making me feel better about stuff. It’s been emotional. And perhaps a little too melodramatic.

Pitching the World. X

Apologies for the profanity but I put the word ‘fuck’ in the title of a blog post on Tuesday and then yesterday had the highest number of visitors all year. “Ah yes, I thought, that’ll be the fuck. I must remember to fuck more in the titles of my blog posts. I wonder if I can somehow slip a fuck into my next blog post title. Bet I can’t.”

Well I have, and brilliantly. Anyway, I need a holiday. I need a lot of other things too, but primarily I need a holiday. As a successful freelance journalist with an unblemished track record in writing travel features you’d think it wouldn’t be a problem to go on holiday for free and then write words about it. You’d be wrong. It’s increasingly hard to get travel commissions. Hard, but not impossible. Not if you put some thought into it. This morning, then, I sat down and hammered out ten ideas that I don’t think have been covered yet. Here they are.

1. In the Rockies with the Rockys. I visit the North American mountain range and do nothing but watch the Rocky hexalogy. That’s right, hexalogy.

2. See Naples and Die. I go to Naples and try and join the Camorra. If I have to whack my photographer in an initiation ritual, then so be it.

3. An Englishman in Old York. I go to heritage-rich York for a bit. Possibly with Sting.

4. Disneyland Paris! Alone! I go to Disneyland Paris and try to drink myself to death over a two-week period.

5. Where Am I? I deprive myself of sight, touch, smell, hearing and taste and get on a plane headed somewhere. Once there, I have to guess – by thought alone – where I am. Then write 1,500 words about it. Pictures could be a problem with this one.

6. Morecambe and Wise. I go to Morecambe on an intensive two-week course studying Greek philosophy.

7. Terry and June. I go on holiday with a couple called Terry and June.

8. Terry in June. I change my name by deed poll to Terry and go on holiday in June.

9. June in June. I change my name to June and go on holiday in June.

10. May in June. In this one, I don’t actually go on holiday but I research the various holiday options available in June and then decide whether or not I’d like to go away then.

I’ll let you know how I get on with these. I sense ten commissions, though the ‘May in June’ one might be a bit late for this year. Wish me luck!

Earlier this year I found myself in Tesco Express in Finsbury Park trying to buy some wine. I can’t remember when exactly this thrilling exchange of money for wine happened, only that it was cold and wet. Nor would I care to remember exactly when it happened. I’ve fallen out with my memory, you see, my memory refuses to do what I tell it – it refuses to remember stuff for me – so in turn I’ve decided not to even try and remember stuff as some sort of punishment. That’s right, I’m ‘punishing’ my own memory now. Weirdly, this has left me feeling both noble and elated.

Anyway, I do remember it raining outside and the floor being wet inside and that it was around ten at night and the place was full of plums buying shit food for their shit selves. I was in a foul mood. I’d just finished work and all I wanted to do was drink wine, smoke and try to sleep without my shoulders hunched up at the side of my head. But there was a massive queue of people in front of me and I felt slightly uncomfortable buying my wine surrounded by all these people because my wine cost £3.69 and had a blurty, fun label on it saying “Spanish Red Wine!” or something like that and just looked a bit, well, shit.

I remember (fuck you memory) that the wine cost £3.69 because I’d checked my bank balance shortly before leaving work and was disappointed – though not entirely surprised – to find out that I only had £3.73 in my account. This meant that those bottles of wine that everyone thinks are quite good because they’ve stopped being eight pounds and are now four pounds were out of my reach, financially speaking.

And as I queued I spent a lot of time right next to a whole display of these half-price wines. I could sense people looking at me. I could feel their eyes going from my blurty “Spanish Red Wine!” to the much more tasteful display of red wine behind me and I could feel them thinking. “Why’s he not getting that red wine, the stuff that used to be eight quid? It’s only four pounds now and much better than the shit he’s about to drink. What’s the matter with the man?”

That’s what they were thinking. And I couldn’t explain to them that I only had £3.73 left in my account – not with my eyes, anyway – so I took out my bank card, a card that they only give to fourteen year olds and psychiatric patients, a card without even a hologram on it or an embossed number, a card I’m surprised that before sending out they even bothered to put my name on rather than just scribbling “FUCK YOU, CLOWN” all across it, and started tapping it on my wine bottle. “Happy now?” my eyes said, “Happy that you’ve reduced me to this – to tapping my Visa Bastard Electron card on my “Spanish Red Wine!” bottle just to prove a point. Well fuck you. And fuck me too. Fuck us all.”

That, I hope, is what my eyes said.

When it was my turn at the register I felt my face flush as my card was put through and there was a moment that just hung there when I thought my card was going to be rejected. “If my card gets rejected,” I thought, “I’m going to kill everyone in this shop. But not right now, I’ll find out their addresses and over a number of – ” but it wasn’t rejected and I walked out of the shop but before I got to the door I opened the bottle and began taking a huge swig of it thinking “That’ll show them” but it didn’t show them, if anything it showed me because I slipped on the wet floor and did a sort of strange-wobbly-drinking-dance thing out of the shop.

I should explain here that the rubber on the bottom of my shoe had worn away, exposing the wood underneath. Not fully, but enough in certain places to cause me to slide around and slip over when it rained. And when I was back out onto the mean streets of Finsbury Park I took very small, very careful steps. Everyone walked past me, brimming with confidence. People who I’d seen way back in the queue at the Tesco Metro and who’d witnessed my drinking-dance as I left the shop walked past me, brimming with confidence. A man who I judged to be about 90 walked past me brimming with confidence, and when that happened I decided to go into my fake limp and periodically stop and swig from the bottle when I sensed people coming up behind me, just so that I wouldn’t feel the shame of them walking past me, brimming with confidence.

That was a low point. But I managed to fake-limp my way to a friend’s flat where I was staying and I sat on his balcony and drank the remaining wine and smoked three of four cigarettes and thought: “It’s going to get better. I’ll stick at my well-paid job in Mayfair and I’ll buy lots of pairs of shoes. And I’ll smoke cigars and things will be fine.”

They’re not though are they? Fine, I mean. Things – they’re not fine. If anything, they’re a lot worse: I still have and wear those shoes (except when it’s raining) and they’re the only shoes I have apart from a pair of George Costanza Nikes that are falling to bits. And everything else is pretty much falling to bits too. My shoes, then, are a sign. A sign that I need a new pair of shoes, but also a sign that perhaps I need a new way of living my life. I think the way I’ve carved out isn’t working for me.

From: Pitching the World

To: Teagan Maddocks, DV8 Magazine

Date: Thursday 2 June, 13:31

Subject: The Horror of Being a Restaurant Critic

Dear Teagan,

This time last year I was the North London section editor for Square Meal’s 2011 Restaurant & Bar Guide. Wow, you’re probably thinking, and you’d be forgiven for doing so. Around that time whenever I told someone what I did for a living, the response would be the same. “Wow,” they would say, and then say it again, “Wow, that’s my dream job – being a restaurant critic. That’s so cool.”

Well, it wasn’t so cool. In fact, towards the end it was pretty bloody terrible. I had to review around 130 places and at first it was quite enjoyable. I’d caper around and get comped seven course meals and £100 bottles of wine and smoke cigarettes with the chefs and get shown around their kitchens where I perfected an expression and a nod that suggested I understood exactly what they were talking about. Occasionally I’d write reviews – one or two a day at most. Some shone.

As my deadline approached, however, I had a creeping feeling that I had a lot of work to do in not a very lot of time. As usual when I have these creeping feelings, I was proved right. I had about 100 reviews to write in a month which meant no more long lunches and knowing facial expressions and lots more traipsing around Archway and Tottenham and Wood Green trying to ‘interpret’ menus and get an accurate impression of a place during a 15 minute visit. I started to panic, and the more I panicked the less I looked like a restaurant reviewer and the more I looked like a man descending into madness. It was sort of like Black Swan, but bleaker. And with less dancing. “You’re no restaurant reviewer,” an owner’s eyes would say when I told them I was from Square Meal and helping to put together their 2011 guide. “At best you’re a madman. At worst, you’re going to chain me to the radiator and rob the place.”

You’ll be pleased to hear that I didn’t rob anyone. I did write some pretty terrible reviews though. When I began I used to really take my time over reviews – I remember describing 69 Colebrooke Row as a “pipsqueak of a speakeasy” and feeling so chuffed with myself that I took the rest of the day off. Towards the end though I was writing three or four reviews an hour and the stuff was pretty laboured. It was especially tough as North London is crammed with gastropubs that are all pretty much the same. “Oh, brilliant, this place has got wooden furniture reclaimed from a church. The barman’s got a checkered shirt on. And a crap moustache thing. Ah, I see, there’s a blackboard with stuff written on it that I don’t understand. What the hell is a seviche? Or a jus? Or a pork chop? Jesus, I’m losing my mind.” That’s how my reviews would be towards the end. I’m paraphrasing, a little.

There’s a point to all this. The point is that after filing, I split up from my neuroscientist wife, and moved (via Finsbury Park, Clapton, Dubai and East Horsley) to Boscombe where I live in my Nan’s dining room and often think that it’s about time that I got back into reviewing restaurants. Do you think you might be able to make that happen? I ate at the Cellar Bar in Boscombe recently and thought that might be a good place to start. I’ve included a few reviews I’ve written below. Very hard to pick the ‘best’ ones out of over a hundred, so I’ve just chosen a few at random.

Many sincere thanks for reading, assuming you’ve got this far.

All the best,

Pitching the World

Gallipoli

North Londoners have been sprinting to Gallipoli since it opened in 1996, lured in by its heady Turkish flavours, down-home prices & rollicking, slightly barmy atmosphere. The kitchen does the business by turning out waves of moreish kebabs, koftes & crisp falafels – all vividly spiced & fresh as a daisy. The waiters also play their part, singing happy birthday & banging pots & pans while someone dances on a table – you get the general idea. Although weekends are brilliantly rowdy, weekday evenings are more sedate: share a splendid platter of hot & cold mezze, nibble excellent baklava & sip apple tea while dreaming of faraway lands. There are two further outposts just a few doors down – Gallipoli Bazaar, 107 Upper Street (020 7226 5333) & Gallipoli Again, 120 Upper Street (020 7359 1578).

Dotori

Although the dog-eared surroundings can seem bleak & the interior uninspiring, Dotori’s food is anything but. In fact, its marriage of Korean & Japanese cuisine is turning lots of heads & booking is fast becoming essential at busier times. Sushi zings out of the kitchen spankingly fresh & firm, while nods of approval go to the excellent-quality kimchi, sizzling bowls of gutsy bibimbap, crispy tempura & dae-gh-tang (fish soup). Set meals are a steal at around £20 for two people. A couple of years after opening there are still one or two teething problems to iron out, especially when it comes to the ‘charmingly awkward’ & irritatingly slow service. Either exert a little Zen-like patience, or plump for a boozier way to enlightenment with cheap bottles of Asahi beer.

Island Queen

Apparently the only pub in the UK bearing the name, this Island Queen is certainly distinctive. Off the well-beaten Upper Street path, it’s a grand Victorian neighbourhood boozer with magnificently high ceilings, chandeliers, large windows, delightful floral mirrors & seafaring curios. There’s a quirky, offbeat charm about the place that attracts designers, architects & Noel Fielding wannabes from neighbouring Stoke Newington, Dalston & Highbury – although they mingle merrily with the hardcore locals. Despite an emphasis on drink (a top-notch selection of draught beer & lager including Paulaner, Sierra Nevada, Leffe & Meantime) & heaps of frivolity (weekends can be ‘colourful’), you can still bag better-than-average pub grub at keen prices: witness the £5 daily specials such as chicken burgers, handmade salmon fishcakes, corned beef hash & so forth. Lazy Sunday lunches are also much in demand. Service can be fetchingly slapdash.

It’s quite a balancing act this, this whole business of pitching the world. Look, let me show you. Out of the six pitches I sent out last week, two have been commissioned and one looks as if it will be commissioned if I put in a bit more effort and seduce the editor with my excellent research skills. Not bad, is it? Well you’re wrong, it is bad. Because it’s brought home a dilemma that’s been playing around in the back of my mind since this half-baked project began.

And the dilemma is this. What if, out of the 500 or so magazines I have left to pitch, half of my pitches get commissioned as (seductive, excellent research aside) happened last week. What then? What then is that I have to sit down and write the things – write 250 features. That’s a lot of features. For someone stable, educated, disciplined and skilled that’s a lot of features. For someone unstable, uneducated, ill-disciplined and whose only real skill is just about being able to negotiate a drink problem then – well it’s still a lot of features but it feels like a lot more. And if you are the second person (the second person is me by the way, I hope you got that) and live in your Nan’s dining room (still me) and have two books to write and a career as a political speechwriter to resurrect (this, unbelievably, is still me) and a divorce to sort out and probably loads of other shit going on too that you can’t even begin to think about then the task becomes that much harder still.

Not that I couldn’t manage. If I perhaps cut down on my drinking and took some exercise and read about stoicism every morning and maybe even moved out of my Nan’s dining room, got a place of my own by the sea and a part time girlfriend – a young widow, say, or a single mum, or a crazy psycho stalker bitch – and became settled then I could maybe push out two or three features a week. Maybe. Yet even at that rate it would still take a couple of years to wrap this project up and that’s without really having a great deal of time to work on my speeches or on the books I have to write and the kid of the single mum will probably want shoes and for me to take him to the park and play cricket which I’ll enjoy but my enjoyment will be tempered by my being aware that instead of enjoying cricket with my weird stepson thing I should be writing a feature instead or at least going to see my widow girlfriend (I’ve decided to have two girlfriends in the future, by the way) and – oh, look, it’s crazy psycho stalker bitch hiding in a tree.

That’s what the future’s going to be like my friends. But what else can I do? Not do this project? Do this project but do it sloppily so I don’t end up playing cricket in a park with weird stepson thing? Get commissioned and then farm out the work? Stop getting ever-so-slightly ahead of myself and realise that there’s a big difference between pitching Mike Rampton at FRONT or Zachary Petit at Writer’s Digest (both of whom I’ve written for before) and pitching the likes of Black Beauty & Hair, British Deaf News or Brass Band World Magazine who all strike me as much tougher nuts to crack?

Yeah, I think I’ll do that.

If I encounter any more upheaval and heartache over the next couple of days I think I’m going to explode. Or thrive. Probably thrive. I found out yesterday that my wife is pregnant. Now, I understand that we are going through a divorce and I am genuinely pleased and touched that she’s pregnant but it is still quite a thing to discover that your wife – your own wife – is pregnant with another man’s child. Quite a thing. Such a thing, in fact, that as soon as I heard the news I thought, “Right, I’ll show her. I’m going to go and get someone pregnant. And maybe not just someone, but loads of someones. I might go and get ten people pregnant. That’ll show her.”

So I went off to the beach and smoked loads of cigarettes and tried to look all sexy and French but there wasn’t really anyone about, certainly not anyone who looked like they might want to get pregnant. “Fuck this,” I thought, “Fuck getting someone pregnant. Everyone gets someone pregnant – how about getting something pregnant. I could get a dog pregnant or a bear pregnant. That’ll show her. It would also help with the writing of College Dog-Bear in about eighteen years time when my half boy/half dog-bear is ready to pursue higher education.”

But the thought of having sex with a dog or a bear didn’t really appeal. “I could get a tree pregnant,” I thought. “Could I fuck a tree? Probably. Or a bush? Hippies apparently used to hug trees and bushes, why not bang one? Why not become a super-hippy? Or a pavement? Or a bin? Could I sink that low that I could actually have sex with a bin? Yeah, definitely.”

Well, yes, of course I’m going slowly mad and, yes, there may well be a point in the future where I do try and settle down with a tree or a bit of pavement or a bin but that day isn’t upon us quite yet. When it does happen though, it’s going to be spectacular.

In other news, someone on Twitter said about this award-winning blog and my pitches that they found the “whole oh-so-self deprecating thing wildly annoying” and that “nobody should try that hard to be funny.” Well I’ve got news for you sunshine: the pitches sent out at the end of last week were splendidly received and I thought they were ace. How’s that for self-deprecation? Not very good, I reckon. Out of the six sent, four have been replied to and all favourably; two with pretty much definite offers of work. And of the two editors who are yet to reply, one of them, Mike Rampton, is definitely going to reply and offer me work because he reads this blog, is the most talented writer I know, and responds well to flattery.

I don’t know whether I should post up the replies though. Should I post up the replies? It feels wrong. But of course I should. The monster that is Pitching the World has been rumbling along for a year and a half and I really should be putting up replies from editors. I will then, but not yet.

In the meantime I was looking over my archives (yes, I do have archives) at the weekend (yes, I do have weekends) and came across (yes, I do come across stuff) this ‘introductory’ letter from an editor who used to oversee a couple of magazines that I wrote columns and features for. I found it pretty annoying and it made me want to give up journalism. The stuff about his supreme skill set nearly had me smashing up my office and I feel that in his sign-off he is trying too hard to be funny. Nobody should try that hard to be funny.

Peace out.

From: Redacted

To: Pitching the World

Date: 29 May 2008 14:12

Subject: SOLDOUT MYSTERY SHOPPER 

Hi Pitching the World,

I will be dealing with you from now on.

Firstly I would like to say that I enjoy your writing and I think you are extremely funny! Now that rapport has been developed I will move on to the business side of things.

I was the assistant editor before Kimberly arrived and I aided her through the process while she was here. I am however part of the sales team, but I specialise in media and writing and was furiously multi tasking. I will be moving to the editorial side of things once we have secured sufficient sales people to replace my supreme skill set.

We are focusing on Reading this month and I have selected out 5 estate agents that I hope will be a good bet. I have attached them in a word doc. The sooner you can crack on with these the better, I will keep you posted on the cover stories and features for Sold-Out and TIA.

All the best Pitching the World, and lay off the pints!

Ed

From: Pitching the World

From: Pitching the World

To: Mike Rampton, Editor (I think) FRONT magazine

Date: Wednesday 18 May 2011 15:48

Subject: Me Probably Not Writing Features For You

Hello Mike R,

It’s been a while. Remember when when I used to write good features for FRONT? You know, the stuff about faking my own death or trying to change my life through replying to spam emails or that thing about the ten gayest films of all time? There were other good ones too. I did some bad shit. Oh, I did some bad shit – the Lionel Messi feature that I completely misjudged being one such piece of bad shit, but generally I did okay. I think.

Anyway, I’m in a hole and I thought you might like to help me get out of that hole. I thought you could help me get out of that hole by farming out a feature to me. Or letting me write “FRONT’S GUIDE TO HAPPINESS” – the thing I pitched about a month ago and can only assume you didn’t get back to me about because it blew your lovely socks off. I’ll make it really good, promise. And once I’ve done it, I won’t ever ask for another favour or feature – I’ll just disappear like Keyser Soze. I’ll even do his funny walk.

Can you help a man get out of a hole?

Pitching the World

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

From: Pitching the World

To: Zachary Petit, Editor Writer’s Digest

Date: Wednesday 18 May 2011 16:02

Subject: (none)

Dear Zac,

“You can’t wait for inspiration,” or so said Jack London, “you have to go after it with a club.” I’m thinking about going after inspiration with a club, Zac. Specifically, I’m thinking of finding a suitable writing retreat and nailing myself to a desk for a month to work on my book. And in my research about what may or may not make a decent writing retreat for me I’ve come across a lot of ideas and material – certainly enough for a feature. Is something on this the sort of thing Writer’s Digest might be interested in running? Looking at, say, ten of the best, most unusual retreats dotted around the US (predominantly) and Europe? Might also be an idea to weigh up the pros and cons of writing retreats with first person accounts.

Legs?

All the best,

Pitching the World

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

From: Pitching the World

To: Redacted

Date: Wednesday 18 May 2011 16:17

Subject: Peach of a Speech

Dear B,

I miss writing speeches and I miss working with you. Anything on the horizon, in the pipeline or just hanging around the bins at the back of your office?

Cheerio,

Pitching the World

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

From: Pitching the World

To: New Internationalist

Date: Wednesday 18 May 2011 16:50

Subject: Guidelines etc.

Dear Editorial,

I’m a former political speechwriter and current journalist and would like to write for you. Rather bold, aren’t I? Well it’s true I would like to write for you and I think I could do a good job. According to my Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook the New Internationalist “examines one subject each month.” With that in mind, are you able to give me an idea of the subjects you’ll be covering over the coming months please and I’ll pitch ideas accordingly?

I promise you won’t regret it. Actually I can’t promise such a thing: you might regret it, but hopefully won’t.

Oh, and I particularly liked this from your site: “We focus attention on the unjust relationship between the powerful and the powerless worldwide in the fight for global justice.” I’d like to be part of that fight.

With very best wishes,

Pitching the World

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

From: Pitching the World

To: Lewis Eckett,  Editor Greetings Today

Date: Thursday 19 May 2011 15:38

Subject: Column

Dear Lewis,

I’d like to write a column for Greetings Today magazine. How bold and ridiculous and to the point is that? Pretty bold and ridiculous and to the point in my book, but please hear me out. Around six weeks ago a friend and I came up with the idea of reproducing the ‘two dogs’ painting in Goodfellas (you know the one: “One’s going east the other’s going west”) and selling it as a greeting card. I say a friend and I came up with the idea but it was really just me – the friend was going to paint the thing. Anyway, after a cursory search on the internet I found out the some other outfit had beaten us to it and was already producing the Goodfella’s painting as a card. Well, this got me thinking. It got me thinking that it must be incredibly hard to come up with an idea for a greeting card these days that will actually make any money. Everyone, it seems, is at it.

My point. My point is that I would like to conceive of, produce and sell a successful greeting card and write a regular column about the whole process for your publication. What are my chances? Slim, I reckon. But what if I told you I was 35, getting divorced and living in my Nan’s dining room – would that swing the odds in my favour?

Plenty of clippings available from the Guardian, Independent, Daily Mail and a whole heap of magazines if you’d like to see some examples of my work. Oh, and I also had a column for two years in a magazine that catered for estate agents. My column involved me visiting estate agencies and writing about it and I somehow managed to make it gripping, informative and funny. I could make my column for Greetings Today even more gripping, informative and funny. Probably.

It’s not going to happen is it? Never mind, thanks for reading.

All the best Lewis,

Pitching the World

Beadier-eyed readers will have noticed that this post isn’t called College Dog. I’ve had trouble writing College Dog. For a start, College Dog turned out to be about a bear. This isn’t what I wanted. I wanted College Dog to be about a dog. Second, it was the most depressing screwed up piece of shit I’ve ever written. Again, this isn’t what I wanted. I wanted something a bit loopy and surreal – possibly even upbeat – not a depressing screwed up piece of shit.  Regular readers will know that despite occasional appearances to the contrary, I don’t like writing depressing screwed up pieces of shit.

It’s been a strange day. This morning, after yet another night spent dreaming about rats, I began thinking about College Dog-Bear. “Ha,” I thought “How boringly predictable that I haven’t written that. Or at least written it properly. And how predictable that I’m still living in my Nan’s dining room. I wonder how long I’ll be here for. I wish I had some money. Why don’t I ever have any money? Or rather, why do I get big bits of money and just spend it really quickly? And why do I write less now for newspapers and magazines than I’ve ever done? Fuck, I’m shaking. I have to stop drinking from Thursday night until Sunday evening. Ah, that’s why I don’t have any money. Is ham and coleslaw a good breakfast? Fuck it, I’m eating it anyway. God I need a walk.”

This is true – I did need a walk: the thought processes outlined in vivid, thrilling detail above probably went on for an hour and at the end of that hour I needed a walk more than I’ve ever needed a walk before. About ten minutes into my walk I met a fat messed up tramp with crazy hair who was looking in bins on the beach. The beach looked splendidly bleak; French-cinema bleak. I gave him all the money I had on me and a cigarette and asked him how he was.

“I’m trying to get over a divorce. I can’t handle it.”

Oh dear, I thought, I’m going through a divorce. I hope I can handle it.

“How long has it been?”

“Twelve years. Can’t handle it.”

I can handle it, I thought. Or can I? Am I doing? Maybe I’ll be looking in bins in twelve years’ time, I thought. Maybe idiots who live in their Nan’s dining room will flee to the beach and give me cigarettes and money when I’m looking in bins in twelve years’ time. Or twelve weeks’ time. Or tomorrow.

We talked some more, mainly about his inability to handle things, but after a while my ability to handle things was also evaporating and so I made my excuses and left, and walked for about an hour without looking at where I was going and ended up on a stretch of prehistoric-looking beach and there was no one else around as far as I could see and I was suddenly reminded of the end of Planet of the Apes which I had seen at some point during my drunken weekend stupor and so decided to get down onto the sand and scream: “You MANIACS! Damn you! Damn you all to hell!”

That, dear readers, was pretty much my whole day. I’m not sure what any of this means. I think it might mean that I need to finish this project and go and do something less stupid instead.