Dear Mr. Wylie
Re: The Story Of The Blues
"Here in my my pocket I've got the story of the blues
try to believe me 'cos it could be front page news"
You will no doubt recognise the words above as the opening passage of your ‘soulful evergreen’. Forgive my flippancy, Sir, but I am finding it difficult to fathom exactly how you have managed to cram a definitive chronicle pertaining to the comprehensive annals of a maudlin, predominantly twelve-bar anchored musical genre, Chelsea Football Club, a salmagundi of amphetamine and barbiturates and/or being a bit fed up into a small bag sewn into your trousers or jacket. I shall concede that if said bulky narrative has fitted snugly into the habiliment pouch without causing seam strainage or outright fabric rupturing, then both tabloid and broadsheet headlining is indeed inevitable, demonstrating, as it doubtless must, that, not unlike Dr. Who’s T.A.R.D.I.S., the interior of your pocket is considerably greater in scale than its outside. Although I am “trying to believe you”, I am afraid that striving to endow your assertion with credulity is proving to be problematic when cogitating that this alleged spatial capacity transcending idiosyncrasy contravenes all presently accepted laws of physics.
I feel it only fair to inform you that my wife Jean has just read my computer screen whilst bringing me a cup of tea and a Breakaway and correctly declared that there are many other kinds of pockets in addition to those that I have considered, a crucial three examples being the elongated nets situated at the edges and corners of a billiard table, segregating thin vinyl walls popular in attaché cases, and the external buckle secured compartments to be found on some of Angus Young’s satchels. I have told her that I would prefer a Viscount as they are closer to their sell by date and countered that, although she is not incorrect, it cannot be contested that firstly the snooker goal’s cotton mesh is likely to be even more diminutive and perishable than the receptacles presently under perlustration (rendering durable storage of a hefty tome even more dubitable); secondly, that although the schoolbag and businessperson's carryall repositories are slightly roomier, they would still not be sufficiently capacious to be fit for purpose; and thirdly, that your reference to “my pocket” as opposed to that of a chattel (ergo “the pocket of my”) is a clear inference to an article about your person, ie. clothing, rather than an external accroutrement.
I once again feel it only fair to inform you that my wife has now returned to the lounge without my replacement biscuit but instead flaunting her new ‘Kindle’ under my nostrils and excitedly declaring that it easily fits into my ‘Cargo Pants’, tracksuit bottoms and raincoat. Granted, the ‘hardware platform’ does have enough ‘virtual pages’ to archive an entire ‘The Blues’ library, however you first informed the general public via the pop charts of your carrying it in a garment in 1982, predating the ‘First Generation’ (released on November 19th, 2007) by at least 25 years, hence her gleeful demonstration is misguided.
I apologise for potentially offending you by stating that in an idle moment this evening I consulted the internet in a bid to ascertain the derivation of your nom de guerre, musing that, my son being a keen guitar player, it may have originated from fifty per cent of an ‘effects pedal’, or, at the very least, the egocentric squall of an infant. I was therefore flabbergasted to establish that a ‘wah’ is in fact a synonym for a much loved endangered Chinese Bear. “The Mighty Wah” therefore literally translates to “The Potent Panda”
I am pleased to avail you of this new pseudonym for your next ‘project’, free of charge, as a gesture of goodwill and in appreciation of your ‘back catalogue’. Please continue with you your pop music; "it's sinful" to do otherwise!