Being On A National Express Coach Makes Me Want To Cut My Throat Open

You’ll never guess where I’m writing this. What do you mean you don’t want to guess? And what do you mean the clue is in the title? Well it’s true, I am on a National Express coach, but the title is somewhat misleading: I don’t want to cut my throat open. In fact, I’m hanging out with all the old people and their funny ways and having a ball. In fact, I’m thinking of buying in bulk return tickets from Truro to Aberdeen and conducting all future writing and pitching business on National Express coaches. Perhaps they will sponsor me. Perhaps, like Relentless (the drink that keeps on giving) they will send me nice packages of things in the post. I love National Express. The title of this post is clearly bullshit.

But while the title of this post is clearly bullshit, what clearly isn’t bullshit is that I haven’t written up College Dog. I’ve been busy, you see. Mainly I’ve been busy thinking. God it’s exhausting. But I’ve been busy doing other stuff too. I’ve been busy drinking, busy smoking, busy shaving, busy writing reports and reading reports and busy interviewing people about the economy in Afghanistan. I’ve been busy remembering to pack a banana for this journey (I’m going to London by the way) and busy ironing shirts and busy packing away my duvet and pillows and storing them underneath the sofa bed that hangs out in my Nan’s dining room. I know, I know: my life is thrilling. Busy, but thrilling.

You know what my life is like? It’s like the start of those films in the 80s where the main character (Danny DeVito, if you’re lucky) is making out with some hot chick in a bedroom somewhere in LA and then – fuck! – the husband comes home and so the main character leaps out of the window and scuttles off down a sunny street whilst shaving and eating a piece of toast and then he gets to his car and – fuck! – there’s a parking ticket on it. Perhaps a few of them. But he doesn’t care. Danny DeVito just screws up the parking ticket or tickets and finishes his shave and toast and probably, hopefully, lights a cigarette before getting into his car and screeching off somewhere.

I remember watching films like that in the 80s and thinking ‘THAT is how I want my life to turn out’. And that kind of is how my life has turned out: I feel like I’m always walking down a street shaving and eating toast and hiding from parking tickets.

What the fuck am I going on about? No, don’t tell me. My point is, by the end of the week when I’m less busy I’ll write College Dog. How long does it take to write a short story about a dog going to college? An hour? Two? Two days? A week? A lifetime? I’ll let you know.

Some toast, earlier

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19 responses to “Being On A National Express Coach Makes Me Want To Cut My Throat Open

  1. Think of all the time you could save by not shaving! And by eating untoasted bread. College Dog will practically write itself. CBx

  2. Pitch,

    Danny De Vito? Nah. More like the lead character in that 80’s movie Salvador. You’re a dead ringer for Richard Boyle Pitchy.

  3. You’ve been ” busy interviewing people about the economy in Afghanistan”?

    I would imagine the busy part of that would be countering the interviewee’s response of “Who the fuck cares about the Afghan economy? I’m here to talk about bin Laden getting popped”

    I’m a little concerned that you harbour ambitions that your life turns out the same as a fat, four foot tall, bald bloke . . . . . whatever rocks your boat Pitchboy.

    Enjoy the bus trip. English roads aren’t quite Route 66 but do you conjure up a mental image of Flagstaff, Arizona as you pass Basingstoke?

  4. Romancing the Coach! Pitchy; I imagine you more Michael Douglas what with all your adventuring around and being slightly manic on Relentless.

  5. My God Chris, I look EXACTLY like Richard Boyle. How did you know? And good to have you back round these award-winning parts.
    Lisa – I am EXACTLY like Michael Douglas in Romancing the Stone. How did you know?
    CB – EXACTLY: if I don’t shave or eat toast, CD will write itself. How did you know?
    Old Bloke – Danny DeVito’s the nuts. But I was thinking more in terms of personality that physique. That said, after the year I’ve had I’d kill to have a body like his. I did indeed enjoy the bus trip, thanks.

  6. EXACTLY: Salvador. Great movie. So I’ll be the Bellushi character to your James woods. Forget writing about Afghanistan Pitchy. Let’s fucking go there! I’ll take the photos. You write the words. Drink! Dodge bullets! Maybe even do some work.

    Oh dear…I’m getting carried away again.

  7. You are a soldier of Fortune Pitchy… keep us updated!

  8. Let’s indeed fucking go there Chris! Life is all about getting carried away. That’s the best bit about it. Probably.

  9. Hi,

    I’d really like too. I probably will. It’s just that I promised a lot of people I’d try to be normal and stop doing stuff like that. It’s not easy is it? Am I allowed to upload a photo of me and a tiger in Thailand?

  10. Of course you can Chris. Be my guest. In fact, if anyone else has pictures with them and animals they would like to put up, they can also be my guest.

  11. oh if there ever was a week I need a PTW update! donde esta Pitchy?!? CBx

  12. Waiting several weeks for college dog was just about ok but waiting over a week for another installment of PTW is fucked! I’m going to jump straight on a National Express coach, come to bournemouth, and pistol whip your candy ass!

  13. Right now I would like be on a National Express reading College Dog – going anywhere. However I have some bad memories.. Once, on the overnight to Scotland a tramp (an unknown to me tramp) put his hand up my skirt whilst I was asleep, I screamed and he got thrown off the bus by the 26 stone Geordie bus driver (in a tight white shirt, buttons fighting for control) My hero. He was so proud of himself (the bus driver – maybe the tramp also, not sure) Pitchy, ‘The Peoples Friend’ may like this tale? I felt revolted. Or maybe even ‘White Shirt Weekly’ (exciting events for those in white shirts) or ‘Geordie rescue missions monthly’ (When Men from Newcastle show the World it is not just Gazza or 5 bellies that can take on the Dentists’ chair) ‘Tramp Action Fortnightly’ (How to get your kicks for free) etc etc

  14. Lisa Williams

    Was is a kilt or skirt you were wearing Marge? I just really want a clearer picture …. you sound hot stuff.

  15. A little while back I was mugged by a tramp outside Victoria Coach Station. I’d been on my way to catch the overnight to Scotland. My attacker robbed and stripped me to my underwear, donned my not inexpensive suit, shirt and shoes, and left a pile of his dirt engrained clothing.
    I had no other recourse than to dress myself in the abandoned festering rags and head for my bus (fortunately, I had secreted my ticket in the waistband of my boxers . . . . . . don’t ask)
    I settled into my seat on the bus and ignored the ‘I smell shit’ looks from my fellow passengers.
    Across the aisle a young lady with a rather fetching skirt was also making herself comfortable, I nodded a polite “hello” but she just looked down at the sole of her shoe, as though expecting to discover she’d stepped in something. As we left the capital she got from a bag a paperback book and flicked it open. Trying my best not to be obvious I looked, from the corner of my eye, to read the title . . . . .Cologne Drag . . . . College Dig . . . . . Cottage Dog . . . . . . I couldn’t quite make it out, so gave up and turned my attention to the darkness out of the window and my plan for the extermination of every fucking tramp I ever get my hands on.
    After dozing for an hour or so I woke and idly looked across the aisle at the skirted reader. The book lay on her lap, only loosely held between three fingers, with the front cover just out of view. The holder of the book was in the head back, mouth open position that usually signals ‘out for the count’.
    My curiosity got the better of me and I half stood, leaned across the aisle and reached out my hand to gently lift the cover to make the title visible.
    At what can only be described as the worst possible moment, the bus hit a bump in the road and I stumbled forward, my hand came down roughly onto her leg just above the knee, the momentum of my stumbling sent my hand sliding along the thigh and under the skirt, by the time I had controlled my balance my hand was in contact with what my imagination tells me were frilly silk knickers.
    The following 20 or so seconds seemed to pass in a flash – I retracted my hand at about the same time as a female hand connected with my face, someone shouted “Bastard”, the bus screeched to a halt and a hand with a grip of steel lifted me by the scruff and propelled me toward, then out of the door, as it hissed open. The bus pulled away as I heard a Geordie voice call out “Are ye’s alreet Hinnie. Them soothern pervs are reet bastards”
    I lay, face down, on the litter strewn verge for some time trying to collect my thoughts. I still hadn’t read the title of the book, but had caught a fleeting glimpse of a hand written message inside the cover . . . . . . To Marge from Pitchy.
    I’ve often wondered who Pitchy and Marge were . . . . . . . I also wonder if the ‘bump’ in the road was a tramp thumbing a lift, I fucking hope so!

  16. Oldbloke saves the day!!! I was really starting to feel like a tramp waiting to get his next fix of pitch but that wonderful, true story, has made up for the lack of anything from you, PTW.

    Yours,
    #1 Oldbloke fan

  17. That was hilarious…..Cologne Drag, love it.

  18. Oldbloke – you should write a book. That was brilliant.
    You too Pitchfork x

  19. You’re all ace, thanks.

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