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.