The CASE
OF THE MISSING
NUTBAG.
Part 1.
OCTOBER 23rd, 1981.
My Dear Ouseph,
Dear me. And poor you. I had a similar issue following the ‘divot’ incident at the undertakers in Cleveland.
Look, if you can, you can, but that doesn’t mean you should. And if you can’t, you really can’t, but that doesn’t mean that you wouldn’t. Anyhoo, advancing to the crux of the issue; the nub, the core, the essence, the heart, the kernel: distinct fug, putrescence and denouement.
Do not fear repercussion, as this will only delay the gross formality of unilateral movement. In brief, if you were to infer guidance, that would undoubtedly indicate a timid malpractice and potential disappointment. And if you were to condone enhancement, then this would probably impede protocol. There are numerous texts that forbade the atonement of ‘creative’ ventricles, and subsequent research offers scant consolidation. To quote Engels: "If geniality prevails, so must the blockade."
Indeed, proof if needed from the late (and for my money, great) Windsor Davies: "Tread carefully, lest ye jump the shark. Society promotes a grand indifference, and ye alone will enable positive deviation through strength of good and yore."
I do hope that’s helped clear that up. And I hope it gets cleared up. Do clear it up.
In other news, my own (slightly less distressing) passage to enlightenment took an awkward turn. The package arrived but did NOT contain the nut bag. Well, really. How does one maintain scruples, whilst others insist on vomiting them away? Pathetic.
Marilyn was the unfortunate soul who suffered most – she’s been on the 'pecan plan' since November, and so had to make do with slices of Manchego dipped in Prosecco – apparently the only suitable substitute. Duncan left soon after arriving, in protest, and Eunice barely spoke for the duration.
These things are never ever easy.
Been struggling for form on the Boules front. Took my pert new Christmas globlets (thank you) out for a bastard at the weekend and couldn’t land a single jaffa. I’ll never qualify for the Prelim’s at Pontefract if I don’t raise my game by several echelons. Didn’t help that Enzo - the partially deaf Weimaraner who pissed on my bag last year - pissed on my coat when it fell on the tarmac. It put me off during the match, and put others off when we went to the club afterwards, as apparently my coat stank of chicken soup, and piss.
Might have to return to my old technique; despite the discomfort and strain on the clavicle, it can’t be bettered. I read an alerting article on the ‘Angle of Perseus’, an old Welsh term which describes the precise thrust and trajectory required for glory on the Boules battlefield. Turns out it doesn’t help a jot unless you favour a goosewing, schnæhgel, or snow leopard putt-putt toss. I should have read the foreward, but noticed it had been scribed by Ginty, so assumed it was hogshit and left it well alone.
Onwards and forwards. I will write again when my wrist is out of plaster and my coat has come back from the dry cleaners.
Very best,
Pitkin
The CASE
OF THE MISSING
NUTBAG.
Part 2.
OCTOBER 31st, 1981.
My Dear Pitkin,
By my calculations, this is the longest period of silence to have passed between us in some three years.
How demoralising, then, to discover that the blame for this version of what our Welsh friends call correspondus interruptus lies almost entirely with me. I wish my explanation were more straightforward; alas, I fear it is incommunicable even to myself. I suppose, I could try and give you a few tidbits (or tit bits, as I believe is now the common usage) from the metaphorical (and, occasionally, literal) boulder I have been obliged to manoeuvre up hill and down dale over recent weeks. I could even, should they be required, produce copies of the court transcripts, despite, what I still consider to be, their less than satisfactory claim to veracity. Yes, I could do all that, though I suspect you’d still be none-the-wiser. All I can really offer in way of my defence is my continuing conviction that there are some bastards you have to play alone, distasteful as the idea of jacking-off in isolation may remains to some. You and I differ on this, I know; but if there is one thing I have valued about our relationship (and there are, perhaps, as many as seven things) it is our tacit agreement, early on, to dispense with the need for tribunals and inquisitions. If I might be so bold as to quote you back to yourself: ‘That way lies armageddon.'
Now that’s out the way, I was most distressed (and more than a little enraged) to hear of your ongoing difficulties on the training paddock. What the fuck does Maurice think he’s playing at? Or perhaps, who the fuck, would be a more pertinent question. Either way, he really is behaving like a prize cock. It’s as if he's taken ‘Brexit’ as some kind of personal endorsement or vindication; at the very least, it’s got his dander up. It all puts me in mind of the shameful ‘treatment’ that was metered out to poor old Sylvan when he was having his problems. Had the board proceeded differently then, I’m convinced the 'Budgens incident' would never have happened. As it is, there are currently several sitting members (inc. Maurice) whom I consider virtually put the salami in Sylvan’s pocket. As you may have guessed, I do still miss him terribly. I think I shall forever be haunted by that vision of him standing alone - and quite naked, but for his trademark beanie - on the ninth tee at the Persepolis singing 'To Be Young, Gifted and Black’ at full tilt. Incongruous as it was, his voice really was rather beautiful, and even Lionel Collqhuon acknowledged how it was difficult not to be moved.
Anyway, let me know how/if/when/where/why you want to proceed.
As ever,
Joseph