Some people I spoke to last night had some interesting things to say about Pitching the World. One of those people was a girl at a party. Another one of those people was my wife. The girl at a party reckoned she had been on this award-winning fucker, but had cause to read some posts “three or more times” to understand them. Is Pitching the World sometimes impenetrable? Is my snazzy journo-speak offputting? All this talk of copy, filing, rewrites, deadlines and so forth – although that, really, is about as technical as it gets, I don’t really know many more journalistic terms – is it not what you want? Maybe I can do a glossary. Or maybe – check this out – I can write with a little more clarity.
Second then, my wife. She claims – and you’ve got to hear this, it’s ridiculous – she claims that I’ve exaggerated my heavy drinking, poverty, cigarette smoking and general deadbeatness in order to impress readers and present an image of myself of how I would like to be. Her argument for this, being that I “buy the most expensive sausages in the supermarket”. Now, my wife is mostly brilliant, but here she’s talking complete rot. I could go into the ins and outs of why it’s bullshit, but I’m drunk, and poor and smoking four cigarettes at once. I’ve also got to file some copy, copy that was in before the deadline but had to be rewritten.
Plus, if that’s not enough to deal with, I’ve got my trial at the peerless Colchester United tomorrow and need to spend the next few hours having a series of panic attacks. Wish me luck. With the trials, not the panic attacks. I’m pretty ace at those by now.