You can feel it in your water. And your bowels. Possibly even your gizzards.
A pitch is coming. The traffic guys look over. Then quickly look away. They start MURMURING.
Getting asked to work on a pitch is like premature ejaculation. You know it’s coming but there’s nothing you can do about it.
The traffic bloke wanders over casually and softens you up with a few hopeful words about a big TV job coming in a few weeks.
Then just as he leaves, he drops the news, “Oh there might be a pitch coming in for you guys”.
He’s gone. But the news lingers long after him, as if it had been farted out.
Now you know two things. First, you won't be socialising, seeing your family or sleeping for the next two weeks. And second, at the end of it you will almost certainly be hated.
Because chances are you won’t win. Success or failure depends on a zillion possible factors, only three of which you actually have any control over.
It's not all bad though. There’s a wonderful sense of camaraderie with a pitch. Everyone mucks in with an opinion on exactly what you need to change, or what the client might be thinking. Right up until the last minute they’re offering suggestions for changes, or even completely new bits of work.
Thankfully this is one deadline that doesn’t move. Finally the day comes when the people with the expensive clothes totter off with their bodyweight in foamboard and you step out blinking into the daylight.
You remember grass. And trees. And friendship. And beauty. And love.
Then a few days later you find out that you lost the thing.
No one in management looks you in the eye for a week. You carry the stale stench of failure, which at least guarantees you won’t be asked to work on another one for a while.
It's back to business as usual for you. Ah yes, business as usual. Now we can go back to baulking at even the client’s most reasonable request. “They want me to write an introductory paragraph? In three days? Can’t be done.”
Good old current clients, with their low expectations.
3 hours ago