The CASE
OF THE MISSING
Mojo.
Part 1.
AUGUST 20TH, 1982.
My Dearest Pitkin,
This is not an easy letter to write. It was, after all, early on in our courtship that certain unspoken ground rules appeared to establish themselves - like maggots in a sun-bathed cadaver - and I’ve no great wish to start soiling the linen or pissing on the windbreak now (you must forgive me, sincerity increases my predilection for abstruse euphemism and metaphor, like a mountain goat butting at a cat flap.) I remember talk of a shared secret, or, perhaps, private joke, the punchline of which could be known but never stated. However, some mansons are simply too big to ignore or offset with a well-timed Jaffa; I’m reminded of the notorious ‘huggies' incident at Compton Beck when poor old Courtney Sheridan ended up with more than just egg on his face, and I’m sure you haven’t forgotten the mess that Maurice found himself in towards the end of last year, deserved though, in his case, it undoubtedly was.
Anyhoo, the turd I’m buzzing around, though am clearly reluctant to land on, concerns, of course, the news that your recent difficulties have not been wholly confined to the training paddock, and that, indeed, your vista has, in recent months, seemed even more manson-strewn than might have come to be expected by men of our peculiarly heightened sensibility and moral rectitude. What can I say? I realise, at this point, there is probably little to be gained from my attempting to blow extolling smoke up your dungarees - my pipe-ravaged lungs would struggle to maintain such a necessarily lengthy exhalation as it is. I also know that one of the cruellest aspects of your particular malady, if not the malady itself, is the inability to receive or register - let alone, capitalise upon - the esteem, love and gratitude people - such as myself and Mindy - feel towards you. We are, of course, all similarly encased to some extent. It seems to me no accident that the language of uplift, comradeship and solidarity almost always tends towards the vague and platitudinous, whilst expressions of contempt and repudiation are invariably precise and discriminating. I suppose the wonder is anything penetrates at all. Yet penetrate it does. And, for what it’s worth, it occurs to me you should know that you’ve probably penetrated me more than any other man I can remember (my so-called ‘Lost Weekend’ - June ’91 to May ‘94 notwithstanding).
As I say, of what immediate practical utility, if any, this disclosure, and the others contained herein, may be to you - given your current disposition and locale - is unclear to me; though I think they count for something. Thus, as your friend and business associate, I commend them to you, in the hope that somewhere within their muddy and half-literate expression might be found the kernel of a genuine sentiment, which, in the fullness of time, may even aid you towards the recovery and restoration of your unique, prodigious and, to me, invaluable, mojo.
As ever,
Joseph
The CASE
OF THE MISSING
Mojo.
Part 2.
SepTEMBER 5th, 1982.
My Splendid Ouseph,
What fun.
I was delighted to accept your considered note. You are a wonderful old knapsack of a man; so useful in keeping all that one holds dear, worn, wise, and grudgingly prepared to provide when called upon. Indeed, I haven't been quite so thrilled since I remembered I had packed a secret stash of cotton ear buds in my private compartment. You know all too well how my ears become a quarry of sin and ming when left unsupervised - they are now as fresh as an irrigated square at Lord's.
My brain, on the other foot, is as fresh as a bag of prawns left overnight on the radiator. My skull, a vessel of woe, like a tired brogue full of monkey piss. Mojo broke rank and fucked off long ago. My poor form on the paddock, as you so cruelly pointed out, a humble metaphor for acute mental malaise. I can only pray that, unlike our mutual chum Sid Performance, I manage to relocate said mojo sharpish - honestly, who could forget the night he shimmied and shook, sans briefs, through the buffet car, offering up his own unique array of salty snacks?
To quote Sir Bernard Cribbins: 'There is hope beyonde the perforated page. Hope of yore, hope of alleviation. Loe is he who knows not the sleeping beast beyonde, with mittens raised like antennae to the stars - for it is he who raise the gloomy fug'.
I hate perforated pages. They're tearable.
That's correct. My sense of humour has taken a further turn south. In one group session, entitled 'The Future', everyone had to offer up a compliment for someone else sat there:
Paul is intelligent.
Sam has a good heart.
Ruth has firm legs.
Pitkin is quite funny.
'Quite' funny?
There is hope, I hope, but I must say it's all very strange. I'm down with the premise of a cocoon, stepping off life's hot plate to find a mythical reset button. That's alright, Jack. But doing so whilst surrounded by a gang scarred with joylessness, isn't necessarily the tonic for my gin. We'll see. Think I'm just about done with the victims of mind oscillation - I'm certainly done with hearing gubbins like 'I am my own life project'. I want to avoid these people, but here I can't avoid these people.
Anyhoo, perhaps when I get out we could have an actual gin and tonic, and enjoy a quiet bastard together. I've been trialling a new move, I like to call 'The Elephant Dick' - might well be a breach of BAFBA article 78, but I'm always willing to push boundaries in pursuit of excellence.
Up yours,
Pitkin