The CASE
OF THE MISSING
american
football.
Part 1.
May 17th, 1981.
My Dear Ouseph,
How are you, you utter bastard?
Sorry about that. It's been a hard day, and I've still not quite forgiven you for uninviting me to Praveen's barbecue. I don't care if the text was sent in error, I'd bought gammon and bananas and was really looking forward to it.
I woke up this morning to find a stain on my carpet, as if Mikhail Gorbachev's archipelago birthmark had been transported from his forehead to my living room. Turns out poor Twinkle had over-licked.
I walked to the High Street and waited in the Post Office queue for 25 minutes behind a chap bearing a passing resemblance to Vanessa Feltz. Unbearably twitchy, and whiffy (egg / lavender), it took every ounce of decency for me not to push him in the back.
I then went to the butchers, but they had run out of brühwurst.
Just when I thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, I accidentally kicked a small stone as I was walking. Fortunately, it narrowly missed a small dog waiting patiently outside Budgen, but fuck me if I didn't almost have a fucking heart attack as it slo-mo'd through the air towards the poor creature, before flicking the bonnet of a red Vauxhall Corsa. The driver flicked me the bird, and I pretended it wasn't me.
....What a day it's been.
I'm writing to you as I've become disillusioned with writing. I spent last night trying to write a feature for the upcoming BAFBA almanac - a piece entitled 'Boules by Myself: The art of Solo-Kugel'.
My descriptive powers when explaining the art of 'Jacking off' alone completely failed me, and in my haste I threw a wine bottle into the canal. I regretted it straight away but sharted freely when I tried to retrieve it. Karma, as you know more than most, can work in swift, aggressive fashion.
Frankly, I can't write for love nor Lira, and am in danger of missing the deadline. Although thinking about it, I did buy Valerie Morgue a glass of rosé at the fundraiser for the Club, so perhaps she'll be gentle with me. If you want to write it for me, then fill your boot. Since when did BAFBA need an almanac to boost its profile, anyway? Fucking hell. What next, Park & Darling interviewed on breakfast telly? Ball sacks.
Ooh, before I dash (the oven's beeping), I found a small padded American Football in the boot of my car - it's not yours is it? If not, I might keep it. It looks fun, is soft to the touch, and Twinkle loves it.
Very best,
Pitkin
The CASE
OF THE MISSING
american
football.
Part 2.
MAy 25th, 1981.
Dearest Pitkin,
What a treat to hear from you so soon after our last encounter, even if you must still insist on labouring the point about the barbecue. As I explained to you last week, it wasn’t even an official meeting, merely a spontaneous sit-down between two old school pals over some ribs and potato salad (and I know your feelings about the latter!) If it’s any consolation - not that you should require any - Jackie and Megan couldn’t make it either, which I think left old Praveen rather stumped. He’s become very tiresome since his ‘procedure’, hasn’t he? Not half the bon vivant he used to be. He’s also taken to saying ‘anyhoo’ in place of ‘anyhow’, which will perhaps suffice as evidence of just how far he’s lapsed.
I’m sorry to hear about your ordeal in _________, and of the deleterious effect it appears to have had on your writing (in my mind the two things cannot be unrelated). I’m reminded of Baudelaire’s advice: in any literary difficulty recall what you were at the age of seven. Sound words, no doubt, though in my case almost totally redundant; I was a complete shithead when I was seven: cloying, timorous and doughy - it’s a wonder my father didn’t stop paying the fees! I suppose a more charitable (modern) reading would point out all that stuff with the housekeeper and the linseed oil, though other boys had it far worse than I ever did, and I can see no excuse for blubbing my way through morning prayers for as many months as I did.
Anyhoo, as far as the almanac goes, I think it would be folly to write it off so soon, though I quite understand your hesitation about getting it off the ground, as it were. To give you a little pen portrait of my condition since touching down, I’ve only just removed the complimentary stockings; both thighs look as if they are bedecked with a crimson garter, as if I were auditioning for some bordello in Hell; I’ve eaten approximately a third of a scotch egg and a cereal bar; my study smells like a charcuterie. I suppose this is the flip side of the peculiar life we have chosen for ourselves; still, if, as they say, the proof really is in the pudding, I think I’d rather skip to the cheese and biscuits.
As ever,
Ouseph
p.s. Yes, that is my soft American football, and I’d like it back please - usual address.