13. The Geologist

Sir Alexander Lyell, the famous Scottish geologist, spent a major part of his formative years as an amateur rock collector combing the beaches and fossil deposits of the Fife coast. Sandy, as he was known to his colleagues, was credited with piecing to-gether the geological record of the area based on his discovery of exposed layers of Precambrian era sandstone laid down by vast waters eons ago. Locals had come to regard him as part of the furniture because he was seen so frequently in his distinctive green jacket excavating along the shore. Invariably he was to be found clambering over dunes and scrambling out of deep sand bunkers as if he were a week-end golfer. Soon his understanding of the region’s links to the past exposed him as a real master of his field. In his native city, Edinburgh, the Athens of the north, his fame came to rival that of the august citizens of a less influential Athens. Deciphering his scribbled notes caused scholars years later no end of grief, some saying it was all Greek to them others more informed saying Double Dutch. Sandy’s contribution to the earth sciences however is undeniable. Coincidentally, Arsenal fancied himself a geologist one day, should he ever find himself discarded and rock bottom in the managerial world of competitive football. He and Rotter frequently retraced the imagined steps of Lyell along the coast as if indeed he, Arsenal, could see illustrious footprints cast in stone. Although he knew himself not to be on a par with Lyell, Arsenal would often putter away in his garage with the samples he would amass with the premonition he was about to make an earth shattering discovery. He spent many hours cataloguing his finds which worked well as an antidote to the stresses of managing the Aces.

 

Lilliput went mental whenever she found yet another sea-shore-combing absence of her mister fix-it husband upon whom she relied to keep her home (she had her name on the deed) intact. She was all thumbs yet Arsenal was the quintessential handyman, always with a make-do solution. Some of his methods were antediluvian but she recognized over time that his imperfect ways were practical and worked, that is when they worked. As autumn approached Lilliput was anxious to get several domestic projects completed. Arsenal, not so much. His approach went something like this. He would encourage his players when they were chasing down a fifty fifty ball to rush to collect it then have time to decide how best to proceed once in possession. “You have less time than you think but more than you know,” he would say. So when it came to beating seasonal deadlines for handyman stints Arsenal knew to start early and relax once on the job. But what he knew in theory was rarely implemented in practice. One thing held him back. Lethargy! The fact the chimney pot was teetering with the gales of November forecast to come early was worrisome but not critical, yet, he would think. Time is still on my side, for this instant at least, would then formulate as a back-up thought. Lilliput’s latest hobby horse was to install an island kitchen. This potential construction disruption had Arsenal scurrying out the door for the safe haven of another island. His lame excuse was that he was needed at the ground, at 11 pm when no one was ever around.

 

Strangely enough the floodlights were on when Arsenal pulled up. They illuminated the pitch as if it were an oasis seen from distance. It was an even more eerie and incongruous sight when seen from offshore. Arsenal was curious as to who on earth was around at that ungodly hour. Turned out it was the latch key kid himself, Duncan. At 32 Duncan still lived with his parents. There were multiple explanations why this was the case. Whatever. On this particular evening his parents were attending a Ceilidh at Lord McGillicuddy’s Estate and they had inadvertently left him locked out of the house, an all too common occurrence in his household. Duncan was still not trusted with a key of his own or perhaps it was just that when last the locks were changed mum and dad had failed to notify their son. One way or the other Duncan coped. One mechanism was to shoot on down to the field where he knew how to operate the floodlights at night when the place was abandoned. Bogey, the groundskeeper, had shown him the push button in the hidden panel box some months before. Duncan had retrieved a mesh full of practice balls and when Arsenal arrived he was firing balls at the empty net, ostensibly practicing his dream goal. Ideally it would zing one off the post and he would flick the resulting high rebound off the underside of the crossbar into the yawning goal with the goalie left flailing. In a game situation it would be a spectacular scene and make it to Scotsport TV highlights one would imagine, although TV programmers usually gave visits to Anstruther the thumbs down.

 

Arsenal had first encountered Duncan at Frothy’s. Duncan had been a waiter there and upon first clapping eyes on Arsenal had said to him “You’re Arsenal Wenger, ain’t you? So what!” and had precipitously walked away to serve some more worthy customers. Despite this affront, over the succeeding weeks Arsenal had got to know the lad and upon Lachlan’s recommendation had given him a trial. Result, flying colours and a place in the team. Arsenal had recognized the sandpaper in Duncan’s make up and this he needed in his starting eleven. Duncan had been an early adopter of Arsenal’s innovative tactics and this lead had rubbed off on others in the team. Duncan was a fanatic user of his fit bit wrist technology and his hard scrabble attitude played a large part in the Aces reversing a game day tendency to slip sideways.

 

On Thursday morning Nobby came to the cubby hole which served as Arsenal’s office in the converted shipping container. He reported that travel arrangements for the next away game were concluded. Could he get the 2400 pounds to buy the tickets? Arsenal thought he must have wax in his ears. Twenty four hundred quid to get the team to Easter Road? Yes, but that’s return Nobby was quick to underline. Arsenal smelt a rat. Nobby was used to inflated costs related to being flown all over hell’s half acres in his mum’s chopper. Exorbitant amounts of money washed like water off a duck’s back as far as he was concerned. He saw nothing suspicious. Arsenal worriedly embarked upon a deep financial audit. It turned out Nobby had mixed up Hibernians in Malta with Hibernians across the estuary. There would be no Anstruther Aces taking the field in scorching Valetta anytime soon after all. The revised princely figure was thirty three pounds bus fares for the whole team and entourage. That was certainly a bit more palatable. The corrections online took twenty minutes to conclude but that included 12 minutes diverted by click bait which for most consumers was no more than their average time waste.      

 

14. Remembering History

Tiny was chomping on a particularly resistant lump of gristle of Peking Duck when the text message arrived. His latest assignment was non-league he was delighted to learn, a junket to northern England to referee the always refreshing encounter between Bradford City representing York and Preston North End representing Lancaster. This inter regional clash had pedigree dating all the way back to the War of the Roses. Sponsorship of the twenty first century version had been appropriated by an English winery which saw fit to traverse the wide Atlantic to hire a Madison Avenue ad agency to market the game. The result was that fans across Britain now awaited each year the War of the Rosés, with a one time white and red wine distilled annually in honour of the warring sides. Live streaming and pay-per-view brought in copious revenues which more than warranted the extra fixture on an already choc full football calendar. Tiny contentedly finished his piece (I know, I know, Scottish word for sandwich don’t you know?), selected a big chunk of his wife’s expensive mouldy Dutch cheese and washed it down with a Tennents. He followed many of the rules of etiquette in so doing. Disclaimer; The fact that all the beers named in these accounts are Tennents has nothing to do with the reprehensible practice of product placement and the reader should be aware that no untoward revenues accrue to the author.

 

A month later Tiny found himself trundling south down the M74 to Preston. As he left Glasgow and progressed up the Clyde Valley it warmed the cockles of his heart to see the floodlights at Fir Park illuminating mankind from on high. Another torrid match at Wellwishers was in progress. Let the harvest be bountiful he thought. Past Gretna, Tiny took note of the situation at the border. A large billboard proclaimed “Scotland remembers history, England tries hard to forget it” and this was particularly poignant given the pending independence referendum. For the moment the border with the Auld Enemy was still porous but there were workmanlike signs it was about to become a hard border. A frontier with customs no less. Was he one of the last travellers post-Brexit to cross hassle free? He made a mental note to dig out his passport next time home to check on its expiry date. He had last had it stamped at Malaga in Andalusia when he and Maureen had dipped their tootsies in the soothing, azure waters of the Mediterranean.

 

Preston is not quite as alluring to a visitor as the Costa del Sol. If one sneaks up on it from the east and then works one’s way to Deepdale in the North End then the visual shock is manageable. Deepdale itself has been home to the club since it was founded in 1880. The club’s crest features what appears to be a horse and the letters PP but the real meaning of these symbols has been lost in antiquity. Alan Ball Senior, yes father of the Alan Ball the high-scoring red-headed nemesis of Berti and Jinky and all the other Scots on the national team, was manager at Deepdale where he had been since the sixties. His charges at one time or another had participated in the FA Cup and that was the only honour to their credit. Their trophy case was a yawning empty space. But all of that could be rectified to-night if Preston could win the War of the Rosés. Tiny entered the plush official’s lounge a couple of hours before the clash. Seated amongst a cluster of jolly good fellows was Veronica whom Tiny recognized. They had officiated half a dozen matches to-gether over the years. Veronica had hit her head on the glass ceiling several times in her career and had never been more than a referee’s assistant. Ultimately she wished to become not just a referee but manager of an English Football Association big league outfit.  That all too real glass ceiling was going to have to be lowered for her cranium to smash through it were her ambitions to be realized.

 

Gregor too was in the lounge. He had come south from Dumfries to attend the game in his capacity as observer for the SFA. Like any Scot he was happy to watch a field full of Englishmen going at each other with full abandon, in much the same way an Englishman of the seventeenth century would have enjoyed Cromwell knocking Scottish castles and their occupants about a bit. Tiny meanwhile had taken a leaf (a maple leaf?) out of Canada’s former Prime Minister’s book and had gotten accustomed to gallantly pinning a well chosen boutonniere on his referee’s uniform. He went off to strip and get ready for the match. He had painstakingly chosen a floral arrangement that did not feature a rose nor a flower of a colour synonymous with one of the evening’s protagonists, nay antagonists. He had to be careful when jogging around the field not to get jabbed by the pin that held the boutonniere in place. In an awkward moment when refereeing the two Dundee sides the previous year he had indeed pricked himself and in pain inadvertently blown the whistle at an awkward time. To cover his embarrassment he had awarded a free kick to United when in fact they did not merit one. A resulting corner and score altered the result of the match, although like always he was the only person in the ground to have understood the reason for his decision.

 

Prior to the commencement of the game Skysports offered celebrations they had underwritten to please their tv audience and the numerous cut-outs who flocked in at the turnstiles. Many of the latter were so similar in appearance, decked out in identically designed team tops and scarves, they were deemed to be clones. A heraldic element of the entertainment was the presentation of a handful of Clydesdale horses in chain mail and mounted by knights in shining armour. These knights were expected to charge the length of the field with lances lowered in the event of a goal being scored somewhat akin to a charge at a medieval tournament. Little provision was made for the lumbering warhorses to stop at the far touchline which left the organizer whose brainchild it was a teenie weenie bit apprehensive. He presumably hoped for a goalless draw. The piano recital went over well, being a concerto of Rachmaninov’s in C minor, which Tiny thought to himself did not make the grade and indeed was below average. What is for sure, it was not the usual fare served up to football crowds more familiar with Black Sabbath and Marilyn Manson. Skysports were lauded in The Times the next day however for their obvious effort to bring high brow culture to plebs who care for football and little else. Tiny was surprised to find himself humming the melody to himself as he scooted up the motorway on his way home. Near Lockerbie he almost dozed off at the wheel but he inserted one of his Deacon Blue cd’s and that tided him over until he reached Bearsden.       

 

15. Jam Tarts

In an effort to aid the local constabulary weed out a cabal of undesirable visiting spectators from the capital, Aces had installed facial recognition technology at the causeway access to their ground. Arsenal was more than slightly bemused when he first tested the system a few hours before the visit of Heart of Midlothian. The system greeted him with an Irish accent saying “Top O’ The Morning Monsieur Wenger” in what was later explained to be a ‘Derry brogue. Although already of sunny disposition (he had got up out of the right side of the bed clambering over Lilliput to do so) this positive reaction to his arrival raised Arsenal’s spirits. He was certainly in seventh heaven given that the investment was working and faces were being recognized. Lachlan it could be said was on cloud nine. It was his chump change that had underwritten the innovation in the first place. Now it was hoped the instigator of the trouble, Hearts’ supplier of jam tarts, could be identified and extricated from the mob before entry to the terraces was gained. Jam tarts had struck players on a team opposing Hearts on three consecutive week-ends and the carnage had to stop. Happily, a handful of very public arrests were made and the gig workers operating the security system were feted by the Aces front office staff. They were awarded free passes to observe the next nautilus work out session of the team. These passes were hard to come by.

 

Robert Foster was all loosey goosey on the afternoon of his first team debut. He had been a late addition to the Aces’ squad since his arrival from Buffalo, New York. The NFL Bills had considered him surplus to their needs and so he had been cut. After bandaging his hurt ego, Robert opted to adopt a different professional sport so he sent in an application to Anstruther of whose existence he had been apprised by the Internet. Robert was a kicker and used to launching place kicks into the strong winds that blew in off Lake Erie. Anstruther needed such a talent to reverse their first half losing ways fighting the gales off the Firth of Forth. And so the match up was made. Robert had an adventurous ride in from the airport upon his arrival in Scotland. He was bamboozled by oncoming traffic when he left the rental agency, unwisely for all and sundry in the right hand lane. He smartly opted instead for a middle course. He struck only one traffic island and afterwards reasoned that his weekly wage would soon pay for the damage. Meanwhile back in Toronto, Crocodile Dundee, presumably from some Scottish bayou or other, finally admitted defeat over Twitter and tweeted out that after all Buffalo could not be seen from the heights of Toronto’s CN Tower. He had hoped to witness the departure from Buffalo aerodrome of his sporting hero Robert, for whom he had developed a grand admiration.

 

Scottish football was experiencing an influx of foreign investment and burgeoning general interest in the game. French and Italian broadcasting conglomerates now showed two Scottish games per week on their 24 hour sports channels. The 2 am slots had become must viewing in these Covid times when rising early to go to work had become a bit of an anachronism. Perhaps it was Arsenal’s French connection that enticed the French baked goods firm to seek an advertising deal with the Aces. Terms seemed more than reasonable and the Anstruther Board of Directors was on the point of giving its assent to a contract when the Ladies Auxiliary got a whiff of what was up. They had found out that the French firm, though highly successful in the hexagon, was going to market their products in Scotland under the name BIMBO. Well, that soon brought out the naysayers. Charges of sexism, misogyny and fuddyduddyism were leveled. Some of the language and terminology trotted out was enough to make a crow blush. Fancy, the Scottish enlightened male sanctioning demeaning terms such as that in this day and age. Of course bimbo did not have the same connotation in the French language and the company’s directors were flummoxed at the arguments presented to them pointedly rejecting a financial agreement. Meanwhile all across France the BIMBO delivery trucks went on their merry way oblivious to the discord they were generating in certain circles. Anstruther found it had one fewer way in which to make ends meet. Rotter dozed beside the hearth totally unaware of his master’s throbbing headache.

 

Jinky also took the field prior to the game glad that the machinations of operating a profitable club went completely over his head. Sure enough it was a good head he had on his shoulders but his job was to produce on the pitch, not off it. He had been a bit leggy towards the end of his last match but to-day he felt much more energetic. Roman he knew was in good form also but how about this Yank who was in the line-up?  Jinky had heard he was a foster child which must mean he was parentless, something like little Orphan Welles in Citizen Kane, a favourite classic movie of his. Enough of these ruminations about some unfortunate’s kith and kin he said to himself, Aces are poised to make noise to-day. I need not concern myself that this foster kid could take my place. He can’t be a real man since he doesn’t smoke the same cigarettes as me he consoled himself with some satisfaction; besides he has a mustard stain on his lily white shirt. Initial impressions during training had also left Jinky with the disparaging impression that Robert had the attention span of a number less than zero.

 

In the pre-game strategy session Arsenal had assigned Robert to take all of the goal kicks into the prevailing wind. As invariably happened, Aces lost the toss at kick-off and were struggling into the fresh breeze. To the Fifers’ delight however at the thirty second minute mark Robert put the boot into one of these and stood god-smacked as the ball bounced at the extremity of the opposition’s penalty box. The high looping arc it then followed carried the ball wide of the desperate grasp of the goalie who had underestimated the force of the kick. There was nothing for the goalie to do now but retrieve the ball from the deep recesses of the net. A goal like that had last been seen in Scotland when St Mirren’s Campbell Money had conceded at Easter Road, victim of his opposite number’s clearance which bounced on the notoriously tilted ground over his head. One nothing Aces. The police report submitted to the Anstruther station sergeant at game end made no mention of any jam tart strikes and Hearts only scored one goal before the termination. All in all a creditable one-one draw was the final tally. Nonetheless Heart’s supporters, whose team was by far the betting favourite, were subdued as they trooped on down to the ferry which transferred them across the water to Leith. Fortunately Hibs noon time game was long since over which allowed the Tynecastle faithful to disperse through this unfriendly tribal part of town to their hovels incident free. One wee fella with a burgundy and white tammy did have his kola cubes stolen but that hardly counts in the crime statistics for the day, does it?                        

1. Tiny Wharton

         Tiny Wharton negotiated his considerable six foot three frame out of his compact Mini Minor with difficulty. It had seemed like piloting a bumper car the challenge of getting his jalopy parked between a battered Hillman Minx behind and the “Parks of Hamilton” visitors’ team bus in front. Only three minutes remained until kick-off. He headed for the officials’ entrance with some dispatch but unluckily was accosted by an officious looking gate keeper who barred his route. “Referee here” Tiny piped up in dulcet tones, expecting quick passage. “Lets see yer pass, grey skies” (this was Scotland remember) was the rapid fire response. “Authorized personnel only”. Tiny patted his shirt and shorts’ pockets in growing desperation, failing to recall if he had collected his official’s pass when exiting his Bearsden home at the double an hour before. All he could feel through the fabric were the yellow and red cards he hoped to dispense with relish later in the day. Exasperated, he was about to plead with the gentleman to allow him to proceed through (despite the non-production of his permit) when inspiration struck. “Look, my referee’s uniform” he said, confident the striped outfit he pointed to would be proof enough of his status. Tiny was non-plussed at the retort. “No black and white minstrels in here the day. Efter what we yuns seen last Seterday at Love Street I’ll be a monkeys uncle afare I’ll let ony of ye zebras in tae this ground.” The reference, Tiny realized, was to the relegation battle that he had officiated in Paisley on St Patrick’s Day the week before. He felt a lump develop in his throat. That on field love affair had ended in a donnybrook worthy of the Battle of the Boyne. West Bromide Albion had put a drubbing on their visitors Motherwellwishers, but had only garnered the winning points in the dying moments. As full time loomed Tiny had saddled Wellwishers with two red cards on the trot. The sendings off were understandably controversial and to boot, in his infinite wisdom, he had sanctioned Bromide with only one yellow card. The Alka Seltzers certainly were no saints but they had not demonstrated the blatant animosity of their opponents. Wellwishers failed to weather the inevitable final barrage, ultimately allowing Bromide to burst the old onion bag on consecutive attacks which lifted them to victory.

Tiny, in his discomfiture at being prevented from entering, felt only two feet tall. He had become aware of the fanatics on the terraces inside the ground beginning to whistle in impatience. Fir Park was a national historic site owing to its storied history of histrionics, but a venue also renowned for its fractious home following. This support was composed in great part of Strathclyde’s infamous YOBS (youth obsessed with bothering somebody). Many had spent weeks on end learning their craft down south at Millwall. The natives, it now appeared, were restless yet again and hostility at this stage of the proceedings was the last thing Tiny needed. From his vantage point the ground at the Ravenscrag End appeared to be packed. Wellwishers had cut prices for this the penultimate game of the season. They needed to snatch just one point to avoid the drop. It did not augur well if even before kick-off the home crowd was this antsy. Presumably unforgiving too, just like the wee gate (house of fleet) keeper confronting him now. Tiny was all too well aware that any late start to the game caused by his no show might cost him his career. The tussle was being televised across the United Kingdom and Ireland by SkyBlue Sports and a delay in commencement risked knock-on network scheduling chaos. It would surely result in him losing his boondoggle stint to referee Andalusia vs Azerbaijan in the upcoming top of the alphabet Euros qualifier, set for the Costa del Sol two weeks hence. He could not risk that.

Like manna from heaven, inspiration struck for a second time. Tiny recalled when as a wee bairn his dad would regularly hoist him over the turnstile allowing free entrance to the fitba, no questions asked. Could such a manoeuvre still work this many years down the (Belshill) road? Cursing his tormentor, Tiny wished a heaping helping of vagaries and vicissitudes on him then approached a knot of junior supporters, aspiring YOBS. In his most guttural north west Glasgow accent possible (he had spent five of his teenage wasteland years at Mill Hill Public School in London, so he had to dig deep) Tiny singled out one of the gleekit creatures, the evident leader of the pack, and whispered a thirty second bribe in his right lug. It seemed to do the trick for no sooner could he have exclaimed “Bells Scotch Whisky – One for the Road” than half a dozen young toughs were lifting and squeezing and bundling his restored six foot three frame over the turnstile and into the pantheon of Scottish football. Tiny picked himself up, brushed off his tarnished ego and strode forward to take charge of the anticipated Saturday afternoon score draw (as predicted by the punters, to the chagrin of Littlewoods no doubt).

Tiny launched himself up the steps to a point where the claret and amber tinted grass field was laid out in all its splendour below. As he took in the scene it dawned on him that the game, to his surprise already under way, was being managed by a crew of yellow jacketed men brandishing tricolour flags, one periodically blowing a whistle. Tiny pushed his way past some truculent fellows to the retaining wall at field’s edge and found himself alongside a referee’s assistant. Above the ooing and awing of the crowd enraptured with the play of Wellwishers, he happened to overhear French being spoken between officials. Also he caught a whiff of garlic emanating from the linesman’s direction. Could it be that the officiating crew from Murrayfield’s “Calcutta Cup” the day before had been recruited for this round ball classic? Had the SFA failed to notify him that he had been reassigned another game, perhaps to Brechin which was paired up with Anstruther that day? “Ya balloon ye” he muttered to himself, now certain he had failed to interpret yesterday’s incoming e-mails correctly. It was evident he should be the man in the middle at Esk View Park, Brechin, not here in the Clyde Valley. What to do?

Certain that there was a provision in the “Entente Cordiale” to cover such eventualities, Tiny determined he had to clamber over the wall, high five the French officials (the Galls) as if they were a tag team then diplomatically banish them to the oubliettes (a Fransortie, French Brexit of sorts). It was too late to high tail it to responsibilities in Perthshire. His place this afternoon was Lanarkshire which he knew was miles better. However just as he was about to stomp onto the hallowed pitch with authority, a marching band emerged from the tunnel and proceeded to file past, their McLean tartan kilts all aswirl. This pipe band frae Aberdeen (known as the Dons) got so caught up in the excitement of the occasion that they refused to yield, even at half time when you would think they might have ceased their non-compliance and headed off for a Lucozade or a Bovril. Flummoxed by the spectacle, Tiny had little option but to ride out the game entrapped as a spectator (like many a Wellwisher fan had been over this, a season to forget). Finally, when the torrid match reached its conclusion after an amazing mazy run by Joe Wark, he retraced his steps to his Austin Mini, knowing he would have to fight his way out of his parking spot. He headed up the motorway in the direction of Bearsden, his ears ringing with the triumphalism of Wellwishers celebrating survival for another season. The goalie they had signed from Hibs, Levona Yashinova who Hibs in turn had acquired from Championship also rans Stranraer, was proclaimed hero(ine) of the day.

2. Arsenal in Pittsburgh

Arsenal Wenger and Tiny Wharton left the drug store on the corner in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, content. Unlike the constrained chemists chains back home across the pond, they had been able to stock up at the one store on all the pop, chips and candy needed for the party. For the uninitiated that meant they had purchased from the one shop all the lemonade, crisps and sweeties needed. Tiny’s buxom, brunette sibling Bonnie, a beautiful, big boned bodacious broad with a bountiful booty, was hosting the shindig in her hotel suite that night to celebrate Scotland’s well earned victory over USMNT earlier in the day. Scotland’s Jackdaws (so nick named for their knack of descending upon opponents to steal the points or the shiny silverware) were now 4 and 0 on their international summer road trip in the friendly confines of the US of A. Jinky Johnstone had iced the afternoon’s match with ten minutes remaining and plodding Peter McCloy between the sticks had the shut the door for the duration. At the final whistle the Tartan Army (who had arrived especially for the match from Prestwick on a chartered Sopwith Camel of WWI vintage) serenaded the men in blue in rousing fashion. The din this nugget of support generated could be equated in volume to the dis(con)cordant sonic boom which emanated from the Sopwith each time it took to the skies. Three Rivers Stadium at the junction of the Allegheny and Missouri (yes, I am geographically and mathematically challenged) had never before seen such enthusiastic visiting fans. Seats 1 thru 4, Row A, Section ZZ of the stands, go figure, had been reserved and cordoned off for the Pictish invasion. A company of the National Guard was assigned to contain the intrepid four. The company however was told to stand down when it came time to accommodate their union-negotiated vape break. This allowed the visitors to break out, disappointingly for this dramatic account however, into uproarious song only. Of course on a Fall Sunday afternoon the aging 75,000 seat stadium was usually filled with football fans fresh from pre-game tailgate parties. Spectators were accustomed to witnessing football played with a pigskin on a gridiron. However since Posh had gone viral in a Beckham dot.com video playing football with an inflated bladder (not against doctor’s orders silly, we’re talking about the ball), the round ball rather than squished ball version of football was all the rage in America. Like many trends, this one had been set in LaLa Land where the celebrated couple reigned over Hollywood as if they owned the Galaxy if not the Universe (they had no dibs on the parallel one fortunately). Rumor had it the regal pair was leaving the Lefty Coast to set up shop, not literally a store you understand, in the footy wilderness of the Florida panhandle. Supposedly they wished to operate a new soccer franchise there. Some pundits, wise beyond their years, were predicting this enterprise had such poor prospects that soon a vexed Victoria would herself be panhandling at the nearest interstate truck stop.

Tiny, decked out for the party in a white sports coat with a pink carnation, suggested to Arsenal that they hail an Uber to get a Lyft to the hotel. Arsenal, easily perplexed by non-traditional life patterns, could only respond that he needed to get a fortifying forty ouncer of Jack Daniels and a case of Samuel Adams at the liquor store on the way to the Howard Johnsons. Tiny got in the cab and shouted “Are ye comin or no? and followed it up with “Ach well, stick bubbly ” observing his companion slow to react. But Arsenal jumped aboard. Duly arrived at the store, Arsenal, surprisingly, was recognized by a female patron. She pegged him as the former manager of London’s west end wonders the Wimbledon Wimps. She coyly requested he join her in a selfie. Arsenal, with gaulic bonhomie, obliged. Then he exhibited a modicum of his increasingly hip persona by requesting a copy of the image to post to his Instagram account!  This indication of modern day relevance was out of character. Since birth Arsenal had been somewhat abashed, commencing from the occasion when unwittingly he had been the centre of attention at a Bordeaux gender reveal celebration. Needless to say he had not celebrated, rather bawled his eyes out in French. Now as a senior, however, he was beginning to embrace moments in the public eye and indeed he was actively cultivating a social media presence. However it must be said that both he and Tiny were somewhat non-plussed when the dubious retort “O.K. Boomer” floated back from the young lady. It was only later when attending to his account that Arsenal realized the image she forwarded had been photo bombed and had several Gen Xers and repugnant Millenials showing in the background. “What a snowflake” he muttered thinking along lines out of keeping with the mugginess of the sweltering Pennsylvania evening.

Once at the hotel the lugubrious pair headed to Room 666 on the 13^th floor. Not quite sure he had remembered properly his sister’s directions to the suite, Tiny inquired of the Rohingya elevator operator if indeed the said suite was on the said level. In broken English the obliging gentleman said “Solly Mista, answer is above my pay grade. But, I do know this heeya hotel no have a 13^th floor.” Marvelling at this engineering mystery and fully aware that his own room was on the advertised 17^th floor (which he now questioned if he would find later), Tiny and his buddy exited the elevator post haste and arrived at the party. The technicalities of how they did this are of no concern to the reader. The luminosity of the information the luminary in the elevator had imparted is nonetheless a point of departure for any inquiry. From the hallway leading to the appropriate suite it was evident the party was popping. You could liken it to a Xmas in July festivity. Bonnie, who was presiding at the door to the suite, ventured a wide welcome wagon wince on espying her bro. Tiny pecked Bonnie on the cheek in response. This effusive outpouring seemed justified since he had not seen his sis since the pre-game breakfast. Bonnie quickly introduced Arsenal to the party’s cannabis sommelier for the evening, Abby Roach, a grand dame notable for her seductive eyelashes and curvaceous caboose. (Editor’s Note: all women depicted in this account have big bottoms, a journalistic trick to boost readership; apologies from the Editorial Board, and Me Too).  Abby’s immediate preoccupation was to oversee the caterer, Polly, the latter tasked with circulating with trays of crackers, cheese and cranberry wine and the local culinary delight Hershey chocolate eclairs. Tiny gravitated towards the action inside. There gyrating in the centre of the floor, as if still immersed in the match, were the Jackdaws defensive backline of Daryl Dodds, his brother Daryl and his other brother Daryl, the elder of the three. In victory, the brothers had performed like Dumbarton Rock, stalwarts and solid when needed, though invariably moving at tectonic plate speed despite the manager’s exhortations to get a bend on.  

Arsenal, dismissing his introduction to the flamboyant Abby, was hoping to cross paths accidentally on purpose with Valerie at the party. From what he had unearthed in a deep document dive (akin to Googling a prospective partner) Valerie was part of the Scotland entourage in some medical capacity. She was practiced in the art of therapeutic recovery, something players required on an ongoing basis and what Arsenal required daily. He was a bit vague as to her appearance but he brightened considerably when at one point he overheard behind him her name being enunciated in a deep Scottish brogue. Arsenal wheeled around to find himself overshadowed by a massive man mountain a few paces away. Thinking on his feet, Arsenal collapsed onto a nearby chesterfield. Let’s just say he sat on the couch, I mean settee. Oh, whatever. He needed to ponder. Surely this was not the Valerie in question, the imagined Madonna of his dreams? Arsenal determined he need find out for sure. He posed a question to the apparent wee laddie next him on the sofa (33 year old Jinky as it turned out, all 5 foot 3 inches of him). Did the wee fella know who this behemoth was? Jinky replied “Auch aye, I do so. He’s nae socially woke that yin. He’s oor troglodyte trainer Valeri Sokholov frae Gorky. He’s bonkers I’m telling ye. A real Russian Cossack. Ye can lead him on his high horse to water but ye canny make him think. He runs our drills as if he were a vodka sotted sergeant in the Red Army. To boot he’s gender non-conforming” Arsenal realized that once more in his life a question of gender had struck him a blow below the belt. His mood became so dark he found himself wishing for early onset winter. Steeped in nefarious ruminations, his train of thought next invoked the specter of a Europe next year bereft of any British teams, a state of affairs brought on by Brexit. By Jove! Say what?

Tiny meanwhile was at the other end of the manic scale. A fortnight before arriving in the States for the tour he had heard from the Caledonian Referees Association that his Basic Income contract for the coming season had been extended. Now he would be able to afford a consultation with the optometrist that the thousands of Third Lanark fans had angrily advised from the terraces after his unfortunate missed call last cup final. Life for the men in the middle was invariably a muddle and unlike second hand cars, referees were rarely gently used by fans of losing teams. Nonetheless, buoyed by the prospect that his myopia might soon be mitigated, Tiny circulated further amongst the party goers and began for the first time to see them for who they really were. He consumed a few Islay Waters to facilitate the process. He found himself in the company of the Jackdaws’ assistant captain Angus McAngus. Angus, or Crumpet to his teammates, was the quintessential Glaswegian, affable and full of it, patter that is. Two years at Bologna in Serie A had taken none of the pasta out of this pasty face from The Barrows. Italy had been a school of hard knocks but he and his knobbly knees were undoubtedly much the better for it. He had learned from his anti-Fa friends on that Italian field all the tricks of the trade, things that a degree from Bologna’s university (the world’s primordial post-secondary institution) could not impart in a month of Sundays. Tiny slapped Crumpet on the back and to-gether the two pulled SFA administrators Jock and Gregor into a twisting contortion which passed for a Highland sword dance - all in celebration of the tour’s successful culmination. When FIFA next announced its world rankings Scotland was now assured a placement a rung or two above Bougainville. Bougainville, the newest sovereign nation on earth, was obliged to start in 207th spot commensurate with their new kid on the block status.

The party really ratcheted up when the youngest Daryl started in to his favourite Xmas in July tune “Snapchat Santa” which then transitioned into “Willie Waddle’s Wish for Wanda, Will Ye Nae Come Hame Again.” At this moment a plenipotentiary from the hotel’s management poked his head around the door to the suite and in a formal manner enunciated the following “Gauny shut up a wee minute? Whit is it wi you yuns anyhoo? Obviously an ex-pat from Scotland who had made good in the colonies, weaned perhaps on a bursary from the nearby Carnegie Foundation. Apparently a man of steel and good breeding, he now conducted himself as if vested in unquestioned authority. Bonnie, who had become acquainted with his nibs on a previous stay at the hotel, knew that his brazen attitude was not to be taken at face value. In fact Neil McOdrum, the offender, did have a redeeming feature – he had once donned a wig and skirt (truth be told his long discarded kilt from his bandy legged days in Overtown village pipe band), disguised himself as his mother and successfully passed a driving test in her name. Such filial ingenuity!

Whereas Arsenal’s travails perpetuated, Tiny was getting into the spirit of things. He was bemused by the witty repartee of Sepp Blatter who held court for a time. The expansive Swiss from Lausanne had dropped in on the party in his role as honoured emeritus of the FIFA fiefdom. Precipitously, Polly pushed past politely proffering pink ice cream, one colour but two delicious flavours to choose from, firstly the Dutch treat Knickerbocker Glory and secondly Ivanka’s Marvelous Peach Mint. Tiny was unsure which to select but for 'im peach mint was the politically correct choice (favoured by the majority survey said). A minute or two later Sepp came down with an episode of the collywobbles and withdrew prematurely from the celebrations, explaining he was to be interviewed for a podcast early next morning. It was widely acknowledged that to let Sepp freely express himself on ethics in the Beautiful Game risked international soccer’s once exemplary reputation falling further down the rabbit hole. But how to prevent him was a problem for another day. His handler from FIFA, Elizabeth Warren, led him away to a waiting limousine. A lull descended on the party. It was an expectant hush. It was as if the air had gone out of the bladder. Outside the moon had risen. A diffuse blue and white light bathed the scene. All was calm, no klaxons to be heard. City slickers were abed. On the other side of the world somewhere in a manger placid little lambs were munching vitamin B fortified hay, contentedly. After all it was Xmas in July there too.

Feliz Navidad, 2019.

 

3. Polly Serves Crackers

Polly sneaked a mother’s-little-helper before she got down to brass tacks. After the party had fizzled, Bonnie had volunteered her to wipe dishes in the suite’s kitchenette. At home Polly’s kitchen was a no-go area. This by contrast was the Taj Mahal. Reluctantly she selected a towel from the oven rail, hoping it was indeed a dish towel not a hand towel, wiped a few plates then stacked them in the cupboard. She fore went washing any of them. Hey, it was late, her shift was winding down, so she stowed them away regardless. In the parallel universe that accompanies this account things are the reverse. The greasy plates there would be clean as a referee’s whistle, so what was the problem? Preparatory to knocking off for the night, Polly removed the bunting, flags and numbered team shirts that were strung across the suite. Just as she pulled down shirt Number 6, the team’s equipment manager showed up. He announced he was there to collect the Scotland team jerseys. These he had laundered after the game and hung from the suite’s ceiling to dry, apparently not for reasons of decoration. Now they were to be collected then stashed, dampish, on the plane in anticipation of the flight home.

The team streamed across the tarmac and poured onto the plane, literally, as the Jack Daniels in their guts sloshed about a bit. Whoever said that Scotch was better than the potent Jack Daniels distillation from Dolly’s Tennessee mountain home? Angus McAngus and the three Daryls jostled down the non-existent aisle in the two-seater Sopwith. They all wished to be first to grab the back seat. Their soccer training in defensive tactics naturally inclined them to desire everything to unfold before them, not behind. It was quite a squash on board. Before take-off the pilot went through the safety rigamarole. With his staccato voice over the intercom (really a few muttered words over his shoulder) he required the team to attach its one and only seat belt. Then he requested that passengers batten down the hatches. This expression emanated from his days as a British Columbia Ferries captain and drew blank stares from the assembled players. They all likely put their failure to comprehend down to the haze in their noggins caused by too many imbibed wee drams. What the captain was requiring was that the luggage overhead bin be closed. His future with the charter company outfit was up in the air anyway so he really cared little for compliance.

Once airborne, Arsenal settled back in his recliner, taking care not to bash anyone’s knees in the imaginary seat behind. Abby, Valerie and whoever else were fast fading into mere memories. He rearranged the French lace doily on the back of his seat and selected “Winterror: The Movie” from his onboard entertainment console. Little did he realize that as the flight progressed towards Glasgow, along the Great Circle Route, they were about to witness from thousands of feet up just what havoc a weather bomb could visit upon an earthbound city. Here it was Boxing Day in July yet the evidence from the window suggested snow was still deep on the ground over Newfoundland. Labrador had not been heard from for a few weeks and the rest of the country was beginning to get a tad anxious. Hearts Content, Come-By-Chance and Dimwittie came then gradually fell behind. Next came the beacon emitting from a prominence on Joe Batt’s Butt. Everything aligned for smooth transit in the direction of paradise. And there it was, emerging from the fog, St John’s, looking like at any moment it would fall off the eastern extremity of North America. Straining his neck, Arsenal could see heavy equipment lumbering about like mastodons. To all intents and purposes they appeared to be still clearing the remnants of January’s blizzard.from the highways and byways.  Quidi Vidi Lake which normally at this time of year was choc a bloc full of toy sail boats and swimmers (several practicing for their attempt at the English Channel), now glistened in dazzling sunlight reflected off the transparent ice. Maybe summer would be by-passed this year, an eventuality which had come to pass on multiple occasions in these sub-Arctic climes. Tiny shoved in to glance at what lay below and figured through gaps in the cloud cover he could identify Water Street parallel to the harbour. He determined there was the flashing red neon light of Kay’s Mart and the bright marquee of the Roxy Theatre. He reported to his companion that “Come From Away,” the musical fresh from Broadway, was on the bill.           

Tiny in turn settled back. He ordered his favourite Mexican beer, Corona, from the air hostess, as it turned out the all-purpose pilot in an ill-fitting uniform. Tiny hoped he would not succumb to any strange virus by consuming the beverage. To crown it all too, he indulged in a little reverie concerning the Jackdaws. Closing his eyes, he savoured the brew’s flavour notes meanwhile replaying in his mind last game’s highlights. In slow motion he could see the floated cross spinning over from the wing, the ball skimming tantalizingly over the outstretched hands of the goalie to land on the forehead of Neil whose headed strike crashed into the net. The crescendo of silence as ball hit twine was heard around the world, well the postage-stamp stadium at least. The Yankees in attendance met this unforeseen and unwished for development with the consternation of Washington watching the White House burn. The Tartan Army, all three of them (Bertie having gone to The Gents at that inopportune moment) were of course ecstatic but the overpowering silence drowned out their deep throated roar.  

The flight path continued out over the forbidding North Atlantic. As the mist and ice floes bobbing on whitecaps receded, the pilot, having served in-flight refreshments, banked the airplane into the midriff of a looming cloud. He mused that this was where he had saved his personal photo collection and spent a minute or two admiring an image of his twin girls and another of Spike the family turtle. He subsequently aired on the side of caution by taking the plane to 35,000 feet, well above the worst of the inclement weather. Arsenal happened to glance down below just as they passed over an offshore oil rig. “Look, Tiny, Hibernia Field.” Tiny, not twigging, assumed he meant Easter Road and queried that they were indeed over Scotland (or did he mean rural Ireland) already? He simply said he had to officiate at Hibernian first week of the coming season. Arsenal meanwhile mused at the prospect of getting back home. He pondered his reunion with wife Lilliput. Knowing as always he would have to go through a battery of questions he prepared himself for a customary session of man-splaining.

Around 5 am a pale pink light infiltrated the cabin as the emerging day dawned. The plane was subject to tolerable turbulence as it traversed the soggy mountain range of the mid-Atlantic Trench. The stratosphere over Iceland was predictably chilly so the cabin crew passed out extra blankets. Soon the outer isles of the Hebridies were on the horizon. As the far flung reaches of the Old World approached a ping reverberated through the tin can, calling for everyone to return to their seat and prepare for landing. As it turned out that was unnecessary, the pilot overshot the runway at Glasgow. Unfazed, he counteracted his error by implementing Plan B. As taught in pilot exigency training he selected another airport and so punched in the GPS coordinates for Edinburgh Turnhouse. Landing then egress from the plane occurred without incident this time. Well that is not strictly the case. A baggage handler was seen to have accelerated his weighed down baggage buggy in a beeline for Big Angus McAngus, presumably having wanted to send a message to the Glasgow Jersey Boy that he was not welcome in Eastern Scotland. After all it was the happy hunting ground of Hearts and Hibs but certainly not any player associated with Govan. Tribal loyalties ran deep in these parts and national team members were not exempt from harassment if they belonged to a rival club. Jersey Boys, the Jers to their fans, had recently been reinstated in the league after scandalous seasons of management’s fraudulent transfers and deficit financing. Bovver Boys in fan bases around the country considered the Jers as canon fodder, witness the heavy foot on the gas. Angus was a tad shaken by the proceedings, accustomed as he was to stand tall, erect as the Houses of Parliament (made famous by their inclusion on bottles of HP sauce). It was a close call, nearly having his bell rung à la Big Ben but he pulled through to play another day.

Once disembarked, Arsenal took the moving sidewalk (moving pavement). He approached Customs and Immigration with some anxiety. In medical terms he had para syndrome rebound. In layman’s terms that simply meant he was fearful. Since Brexit Ejexit French nationals and most continentals no longer had any special standing in the U.K. The “Welcome Back Scotland” banner draped across the air terminal entrance had at first seemed reassuring given his inclusion with the Scottish official party, that is until a passenger in line ahead of him happened to say the banner was in place to honour the Scottish Girls 14 and Under National Ringette team which had just returned from Wales. There they had placed fourth in the home countries championships. Not to worry, my status as manager (foreign though it be) of Anstruther FC will stand me in good stead he thought. I think the garlic in my luggage is cleared by the Department of Agriculture to be imported. Surely the bling is not banned? When it was his turn to approach the booth Arsenal was taken aback when the lady officer’s first question was “Who are you wearing?” Flummoxed, Arsenal by instinct reverted to French and mumbled something resembling “Dior” and that seemed to be fully acceptable. It transpired to be the sole question posed so his passport was duly stamped and Arsenal free to proceed. There had been no questions asked concerning visits to PARS affected territory. Tagged by many as the “golfers disease,” Pennsylvania Acute Respiratory Disease was impacting a grander and grander portion of North America and had almost led to the cancellation of Scotland’s game in the steel city. A wee birdie, well smaller than an eagle at any rate, told Arsenal that evidently the team had snuck back home just in time to beat an inevitable WHO travel embargo. They had avoided quarantine by the skin of their teeth.

 

4. Anstruther FC

It was only upon leaving the terminal that Arsenal realized his car was docked at a berth (damn it, that influencer of a seafaring pilot) “sitting in a park n’fly space” at Glasgow Airport. Not here at Edinburgh! A great deal of physical, psychological and cultural space intervened between the two locales. This represented a honking big problem, bigger than that of preventing trumpeter swans and Canada Geese from fowling his lawn in Anstruther. He was aware that the Confucius Institute of Edinburgh University had recently introduced a commuter transportation service to Glasgow to meet the needs and budgets of international students. This start-up utilized Peking three wheel carts as their mode of conveyance and it was as yet an unproven business venture, many thought ill suited to the times. The team bus concept would work but no coach had been reserved, logically, since the possibility of overflying Glasgow (perish the sacrilegious thought) had not been imagined. Arsenal knew from his 1973 Fodor’s Guide to Scotland that the Forth and Clyde Canal linked the two cities but he had an inkling that the canal was somewhat disused. Anstruther was forty miles one way, Glasgow Airport fifty the other. He was closer to home here than at Glasgow. The only light at the end of this tunnel seemed to be an oncoming train. There was no sign of Tiny whom Arsenal had last seen diving into the frequent flyer hospitality lounge at Departures. Well yes they were all departing for somewhere were they not? Question was would they arrive at their desired destinations?

Club related football matters had been put on the back burner for a fortnight, a luxury few managers of teams the likes of Anstruther could afford. Despite the shambolic transportation situation, Arsenal made it home to Fife by a combination forced march from Turnhouse to Queensferry, a ferry ride with the madman across the water and finally by thumbing the last couple of miles from Pittenweem. On principal he carried no cell phone and he had forgotten wife Lilliput’s number anyway. Notwithstanding the victorious overseas tour no great representation of the local citizenry marked his return to the community. Jitterbug, the neighbour’s cat, was indifferent to his reappearance. As far as she was concerned he could have gone to the local grocer’s for dog food, taken 16 days while the rotten Rottweiler died of starvation and that would have suited her down to the ground. Her cat napping schedule was not perturbed in the least. Arsenal determined he would collect his wheels next time Anstruther FC was on the west coast, a week come Saturday. The boys had not been at the top of their form last season, shipping on average 3.2 goals a game before halftime. They lost a heaping helping of these games he was reminded by the analytics guru at the club, Stefano, the Spanish intern. Arsenal could see the correlation but the causation of the defeats escaped him. Would a new signing at right half in the reserves stop the hemorrhaging? Well maybe but the club had no reserves, neither of personnel nor finances. The player pool was only 14 unless you counted the days when Lachlan from Crail attended as a spectator. Lachlan had been retired for 25 years but always volunteered to play if selected. He neither practiced nor had a left boot. He was unlikely to be selected unless he pulled up his socks, of which indeed he had three, all different. Arsenal made his return to the domestic scene with a muffled “Honey, I’m home!” before he snuck upstairs for some shut eye and respite from his international escapade.

Next morning proved to be sparkling by Fife standards. Liquid sunshine accompanied by an   impenetrable mist off the North Sea, known as the Haar (thick enough to cut with a highlander’s dirk) blanketed the estuary. Lilliput twirled a plate of black pudding and fried tomatoes into place at the breakfast table with a practiced flick of the wrist. Since migrating north from Wimbledon, Arsenal had grown to love this blood sausage delicacy and he relied on it to fortify him on chilly Scottish morns. The finer points of refined Scottish cuisine never failed to remind him of his Five Star Michelin regime back in Bordeaux. As he prepared for the first training session of the upcoming season, set for later in the morning, he planned his route to the stadium to take him past the newsagent’s. There he would buy a Toffee Crisp or two, or three (he was a true proponent of quantitative pleasing). Some Munchies would do the trick also he thought. He considered them all as little nutritional supplements to his wife’s well intentioned culinary efforts. As he washed everything down with a pint of Tennent’s, Arsenal rehearsed in his mind the techniques he hoped to introduce to the club later in the day. The summer before in Chengdu while at a referee’s symposium, Tiny had videotaped beguiling warm up exercises Chinese restaurant staff would do on the public sidewalks mid mornings prior to their lunchtime preparations. Tiny shared the video with Arsenal and now the proof would be in the pudding. Would Chinese calisthenics improve the fitness levels of Anstruther’s footballing prodigies? Chopping, slicing and dicing moves could well pay off in the cut and thrust action of Scottish pro football. Time would tell.

Arsenal took the causeway and arrived at the ground around 11. The state-of-the-art complex had been built on an artificial island offshore from the town centre. The structure reflected the status of football as the new dominant religion in the area, replacing the musical, iconic Palais Theatre on Church Street where the Bay City Rollers had gotten their start. From the top of the main stand one had a bird’s eye view of the guano-coated cliffs of the Bass Rock on the far side of the estuary. The facility, though a paragon of footballing excellence, was badly exposed to the elements. This went part way to explaining the goals-shipped deficit each game at half-time. Anstruther never failed to lose the toss and always seemed to play into the wind at the start. However it was not too late to turn the ship around.  The players assembled on the lush turf were bright eyed and bushy tailed. Only two prospects were holdovers from last season so pessimism from the previous campaign had had little opportunity to yet permeate the group. Fourteen of fifteen players present would make the squad. Lachlan was a no show. Arsenal, decked out in the jazzy paraphernalia befitting a veteran trainer cum manager, put the squad through its paces. He hoped to have the entire outfit ship shape (grrr) before the owner showed up for the ritualistic pre-season pep talk she relished to impart. She lived down the coast in Berwick, across the Sassenach border, and she was expected to drop in by whirlybird before the week was out. As usual a portion of the parking lot had been set aside as a heliport in anticipation. Although no reinforcements could be counted on from the second team (owing, if you were not paying attention, to the technical difficulty of its non-existence) things were moving swimmingly and the planets were aligning for the trip west. Renfrew Crew were to be the genial week-end hosts.

The work-out concluded, everyone headed for the showers. The converted China Shipping container salvaged from the flotsam and jetsam of the Firth of Forth earlier that Spring (finders keepers, losers weepers) had not yet been outfitted with hot water, so unheated, bracing, seawater greeted those brave enough to duck under. Arsenal dropped in on Frothy’s Tea and Biscuits on the way home. Frederick Roth was the German owner of the establishment who was recognized in the town for his generous dispensation of free Lubeck marzipan to all Anstruther supporters after each home victory. Owing to a dearth of such victories the disbursement was more theory than reality but it was the thought that counted in the social context. Arsenal and Fred nattered away about the club’s latest Bosman Ruling transfer and sketched out for each other a hypothetical yellow brick road they both could see the team taking over the next campaign. Arsenal had some appointment viewing to catch up on on the old boob tube so he took off after an hour or so, Fred’s favourite 19^th century pop tune “Ode to Joy” ringing in his ears, creepy little ear worm that it was. He nipped in to the grocer’s to get a pack of Kimberley Clark’s softest three ply toilet paper as requested by his hun bun, only to be informed they were wiped out. The shelves were empty and PARS panic buying had come to town in a big way.                                    

The morning of the trip through to the West, Arsenal arose early to take the hound out for walkies. Of course it was really the quadraped taking the biped for the exercise. Jitterbug next door happened to be alerted to the goings on. She hurriedly took up position in a hedgerow a block away from Rotter the Rottweiler’s abode. There she lay in wait. Sure enough as the intrepid duo approached, with Rotter straining and sniffing in the lead, Jitterbug bided her time then swatted at the squidgy sniffer as it snoked under the thorn bush in which she hid. An almighty yelp louder than the Hampden Roar filled the air waves, indicating a direct hit worthy of the Battle of the Atlantic. Instantly a profuse stream of red corpuscles stained the municipal sidewalk. Her claws had gouged two parallel furrows in the yielding epidermis. Rotter had been handed his comeuppance. The world was unfolding as it should along the feline canine intersect. Arsenal put this mundane problem behind him and headed to the field for the team rendezvous. To-day the team would win the toss he felt assured and the rest of the season would fall into place from there. Norman Vincent Peal was to be emulated in his positive outlook, much as he had inspired Don John of New York to persevere stepping on toes and to go on to become Leader of the Free World. Probably Boris the Spider at 10 Downing Street had been so inspired. Possession of blinkered sunny dispositions were such assets in revered head honchos. Anstruther FC was “bringing it” this year!         

Stefano the intern had been recruited from the reliable well spring of Tooting Common in London where over the winter Anstruther’s scouting department had spotted him juggling soccer balls on his head with consummate skill. He was in fact English born although his Iberian ancestor first came aground in England at the time of the fateful Spanish Armada. Stefano had an impulsive Spanish flair for high drama and was reputed to be capable of threading the eye of the proverbial needle with his laser like shots. But to-day he pretty near blotted his copy book. The impatient coach (times 2, one vehicular the other a homo sapiens) was on the point of departure, having awaited his arrival for ten minutes, when Stefano appeared at the far end of the stadium furiously peddling a tricycle. He had underestimated the top speed of his conveyance and set out from his condo way too late. Arsenal immediately imposed a sanction, banishing the offender to the seat beside the onboard washroom. “That will be a lesson to you, sunshine” Arsenal muttered leaving a chastened Stefano, who was prone to little introspection most days, thinking to himself his salad days were over before they had in fact begun. Likely later to-day he would be demoted to the substitutes’ bench. Meanwhile an unexpected visitor had dropped out of the sky with a whrr. The helicopter’s windstorm had almost knocked Stephano for six. Winnifred Helen Hammersmith, the club owner, had popped up from Berwick to wish all and sundry all the best in their inaugural match as a unit. Accompanying her was her petulant teenage son Nobby, a wannabe player whom Arsenal had rejected the year before much to the chagrin of mother and progeny. Nobby was Winnifred’s #1 son whom she treated (scatologically speaking) like #2. On this occasion the owner’s impromptu appearance also represented a pragmatic soccer mum just dropping off her kid in time to catch the team bus. Fortunately, she no longer coddled unrealistic expectations he would be selected to play. No matter, with a cloud of toxic exhaust, the bus got underway. Wuhan! Woo Hoo Stefano whooped, correcting himself!