5. PARS

As the team bus swung onto the by-pass in distinguished East End Dunfermline on the way to Glasgow, the driver simultaneously turned on the overhead radio. A PSA was making the airwaves. Apparently PARS, yet again characterized as the golfers’ disease, was hitting Scotland in a big way. The wide trough of the Atlantic had not been profound enough to confine the new virus to North America. Now Scotland was in its grip. Arsenal reflected on his personal circumstances and felt chastened. The last time he had brushed up against PARS was when he played majestic Carnoustie just prior to the Jackdaws tour departure. Multiple bogeys and worse had been indelibly etched on his scorecard on that occasion and a case of the YIPS had been the story of his round. Now it appeared the nation was confronted with another type of four letter scourge. Mythsinformation was painting this pandemic in an exaggeratedly bad light and he felt it incumbent upon himself to rally the spirits of his club. Summoning up his third year biology acumen garnered in the one room school house of his childhood, Arsenal addressed the team over the PA system. He prognosticated on how he saw the pandemic affecting club results in the coming weeks. There were no presumptive cases of the virus amongst the squad. They had all washed their hands in the last week and Trevor’s dry hack, fever and achy joints did not in Arsenal’s opinion seem contagious. Things would be fine. The driver stopped the bus at the southern extremity of the by-pass underneath the motorway flyover on a prearranged pick-up of Roddy Thistle, the goalkeeper. Roddy lived in the annex to the Andrew Carnegie Museum in town. Part-time he was a guide to visitors wishing to visit the steel magnate’s boyhood home. On this occasion he was unlucky enough to have been spotted by some PARS fans on the road above who had spontaneously launched a barrage of eggs in his direction. What a great feeling to be recognized by the general public he thought, meanwhile nipping smartly on board muttering “reprobates” and shaking his oversize goalkeeper mitts at his attackers as he sat down. Dunfermline residents were well inclined to PARS (check it out on Google) but bitter rivals of Anstruther and prepared to confront anyone and everyone associated with the latter. As the trip progressed, Arsenal sat back and contemplated in his mind an image of the winning goal he foresaw for later that afternoon. He pinpointed the sphere hurtling goalwards as if he were making a placement on a Spot the Ball photo in the Evening Standard.

 

Spirits were high as the coach topped the rise at Harthill and slipped anonymously down the M8 into Western Scotland. Easterners usually felt a tinge of trepidation at this juncture as they crossed the watershed, geophysical, meteorological and footballistic. Often sorties into this neck of the woods proved embarrassing. To-day seemed westerly soft and reassuring however, there was no sign of restless natives. Could that state of affairs hold? The answer would come soon enough. Anticipation rippled through the team as the bus dipped into the Clyde Tunnel and at its destination edged its way to the Visitors Emporium at Renfrew’s ground. An unexpectedly large crowd milled about a full hour before kick-off. Unbeknownst to hundreds of them the Scottish Parliament in Holyrood had effective immediately just banned gatherings of two or more at sports stadiums. This had been done on the respected medical advice of the renowned planetary guru Dr WHO from the World Health Organization. Now this astonished throng was faced with the reality that owing to PARS the fixture was to be held behind closed doors. No spectators were to be admitted. The team mood altered. Uncertainty replaced confidence as the players disembarked and made their way into the changing rooms where the motto “Failure Is No Success At All” was writ large on the wall. This laconic message was thought to have been penned by Dylan, but nobody was sure if it was Dylan Thomas or Bob, that great purveyor of the English language. Some degree of self assurance was pumped into the side however as they donned their remarkable fuchsia and forest green strips which projected an as yet untested pride in their capabilities.

The game itself was a tire fire, akin to Armageddon and not at all the pre-season friendly it was advertised to be. The usual provocations from opposing fans were absent but unwarranted embellishments and home team melodrama collectively combined to get the goat of Arsenal’s babes. The Bru Crew, so named for Renfrew’s sponsors (Irn-Bru, Scotland’s unofficial national fizzy drink, whisky of course having top honours) put on quite the show. Stubbornly the referee made multiple decisions that undermined Anstruther and ultimately led to their demise. The sport’s reporter who wrote up the contest recorded no less than 13 face palms by Arsenal in the first half. Roddy meanwhile made good use of his oversize gloves to palm away a myriad of shots labeled for the net but he also let in 3.2 goals. Just an average day down on the farm one might say but things got worse as full time approached. Unlike the trip over which had had the ambience of a Sunday School picnic outing, there were no streamers or scarves fluttering out of the coach windows on the return journey. Arsenal, luckily for him, was not present going back, having excused himself to take off for Glasgow Airport to collect his rust bucket car. To his consternation his GPS went on the fritz on the way home and he had to use dead reckoning to guide him home to Lilliput. The familiar “Honey I’m home” was met with a non response as he entered the opulent kitchen from the carport. Man’s best friend whined and demanded raw meat, knowing full well he would have to settle for dry dog biscuit yet again. On the counter beside the cookie jar was a note from his dearest. Lilliput knew full well Arsenal would discover the note off the top if she placed it strategically. A cryptic “Gone Fishing, Lil” let Arsenal know his better half was off on her favourite ploy. In the guise of going fishing, at short notice Lilliput often snuck up to Loch Leven where at Auchtermuchty she took out the family shell and rowed herself over to Mary Queen of Scots favourite island keep, a reenactment exercise taken to an extreme. Historians! Stand up and explain the play on words here.

 

6. Bearsden

 Meanwhile back at the ranch, well the suburb of north Glasgow in which Tiny resided at any rate, summer was advancing. He had departed Departures hospitality at Edinburgh Airport at ten bells, closing time, the day of the return from North America. Now he was back home among the denizens of Bearsden. Here, male and female alike tended to be partial to rugby, not football, a phenomenon subject to much concerned inquiry by pathologists. What was wrong with these people? Footballers were known for their palaver and common touch whereas the language of rugby was esoteric, indecipherable even. Tiny, not part of the herd mentality, therefore stood out from the crowd on his pleasant street. Saturday afternoons usually found him assigned to adjudicate vulgar footballing infractions across the length and breadth of Scotland, yet relaxing in his garden on Sunday mornings when the majority of his neighbours walked their pooches to the local municipal park to watch genteel rugby encounters. Were they all Welsh immigrants or something? On this day Tiny was to be found checking out his floppy disk to see which fixture he would officiate at the upcoming season opener. He hoped central office had not relegated him to Division Two since the affirmative meant endless visits to Coatbridge, Airdrie and Cumbernauld when by far his preference was to referee at Gretna, Motherwell or Biggar, venues where he inevitably got a middle finger welcome, not the dreaded shaken fist acknowledgement. He liked the friendly communities where “she pours a real fine beer” was a valid claim for any pub in the vicinity of the game day ground. And the allure of Biggar was a fact. After all London is big but Biggar is Biggar. Before he got into the grind of the protracted league schedule Tiny hoped to make it up to a butt and ben on Loch Lomondside for some rays. He consulted Maureen his wife to get her input. Her opinion was as good as any linesman’s he knew (or should we say referee’s assistant to accommodate political correctness) although just as in important games, the only judgment to which he would defer was his own! They skedaddled for a couple of days.

 

Thursday morning prior to his first week-end assignment of the season was grey and overcast with the threat of hail. No solar radiation seemed in the cards and so the sunscreen tube remained shelved in the bathroom cabinet for the 79th day in a row since the commencement of summer. Tiny ensconced himself in the bay window of his Interwar Arts and Crafts bungalow and browsed FIFA’s new rule book which had been issued just weeks before, relying on his quick eye to pick out any new stipulations. There was the Golden Rule of course by whose tenets he conducted himself, but what was this, the Bronze Rule? In bold type was printed “Do Unto Others Then Scarper” which had a real Anglo-Saxon ring to it. Tiny conjured up a hypothetical and saw Big Daryl cynically scything down a Jersey Boy centre forward then running off innocently, furtively checking over his shoulder and hoping to avoid the referee’s wrath. Tiny chuckled as the lyrics of a favourite country and western song came to him;

 

There I was, looking back to see

If you were looking back to see

If I was looking back to see

If you were looking back at me

 

It didn’t pay to take one’s eye of the ball, whether player or official, he was reminded. Snap decisions went hand in hand with visual vigilance. He sauntered over to his closet and rummaged around. He retrieved his Puma boots (Adidas were out of fashion amongst officials this season) and as with each start to the season decided he need sharpen his studs. Refereeing was not for the faint of heart and sharp studs gave him traction and an edge. To be sure he did not get stuck in during a game the way a player would but nevertheless there was much to be said for well prepared kit. He gave a blast on his whistle and was satisfied it was not gummed up with desiccated saliva. He was assured it could be heard from one end of Kelvin Hall to the other.

 

Tiny was aware he was not in tip top form and so he pledged to himself to pull up his socks by his boot straps (alright, I hear you, the metaphor needs some massaging). Back in the day he had been in good shape, the nostalgic halcyon years when he would referee the young louts of the Boy Scouts league. Participants basically belted the ball up the field at every opportunity, so Tiny had to be prepared to run significant distances. He quickly became quite svelte. Now that he refereed the top echelons of Scottish football he had to play the part. So he decided to put a fine point on his physical fitness by kicking the can down the road, around the corner, around the next and back home by means of the back lane. He did that twice. Now he was raring to go, just like the Ferraris in the nearby motor trade showroom window. First engagement, he was off to Peterhead. This would be no fishing expedition but a genuine First Division encounter! Aberdeenshire was an acknowledged viper’s nest of scammers, hackers and many others in the gig economy taking economic advantage of the masses. The mainstay of the locals’ sustenance these days was proceeds from physhing the net, not the bounty formerly hauled up from the deep. The eminence of educational institutions in the shire’s Granite City had been the catalyst of this happenstance. The physhers of men, corrupt though they might be, did love their football however. Saturday their beloved Trawlermen were playing Haddington Pinks. The Pinks had evolved from a pity pile to a contender over the last few seasons and were not to be trifled with. Tiny expected to enjoy the joust and as always to remain invisible in his official’s role, always an indication of a job well done. Be heard but not seen. Don’t decide the game for them. 

 

Twenty minutes into the game a distinct hubbub emanating from the crowd made Tiny look over to the terraces. Sure enough the cause of the commotion was self evident. A child in the children’s enclosure behind the visitor’s goal had lost control of a balloon. It was fluttering about in the breeze inducing pandemonium. Tiny whistled a halt to proceedings. Meanwhile two or three Pinks flitted about clumsily doing all they could to stamp on the deleterious object. Little did they realize how debasing the hunt would be, and tiring too. The balloon ran amok for a considerable time. One fullback had to be substituted off, puckered out from his exertions. Things went from the sublime to the ridiculous when stewards intervened only to bat the balloon about as if it were surfing the crowd at a rock concert. Spectators were enthralled and disappointed when play amongst the adults resumed. The one enduring highlight of the half was when a shot from ten yards out stopped freakishly one yard short of the Trawlermens’ net. When button holed by a journalist at halftime “how come,” the shooter said the manager had encouraged them all to go the whole nine yards in the pre-game pep talk and he had unleashed the shot doing his best to comply. Pulling off a zinger like that shot was a marvelous feat under any circumstances, but in this game just three or four of them too short.

7. Frothy's

 Frothy’s Tea and Biscuits hadn’t witnessed such a rambunctious clientele since the Boat Race in the spring. On that occasion the annex with the 50 inch screen, measured corner to corner diagonally, had been jammed to the rafters with supporters of the Thick as a Brick Skullers (the light blues) and the Fulham Right Bank Boneheads (the black and blues). Right Bank if one took an upstream trajectory on the Thames that is. One did not want to be accused of being a wacky Lefty. Tunnock’s Tea Biscuits had sold like hot cakes although there were no hot cakes on the menu with which to make a comparison. This day in August was the first weekly meeting of the new campaign for Anstruther Football Club’s Board of Directors. They too were decidedly boisterous. The agenda bulged with pressing issues. Would Jimmy Baxter get insurance coverage for his ACL operation, just completed? How about Alistair’s left toe hang nail? The problem persisted and could lead to complications if the Board did not pony up for surgery. Jolly Roger in communications was subject to too many hanging participles in his press releases, but that issue was less of a priority. Apparently Jenny Carstairs of the Ladies Auxiliary was no longer feeling her former love for the club and wished to hand in her notice. In her letter of resignation she cited lack of an official nickname for the lads whom she referred to as her “bosom buddies.” “Anstruther FC” as team moniker seemed cold and unimaginative and Jenny had presented several suggestions to spice up the name, but scarcely a few had endorsed her suggestions (translation, nobody). This cool reception to her creative flair was, she claimed, the straw that broke the camel’s back. There were a ton of irksome snags surrounding the arrival of Italian Roman Macaroni. Arsenal when confronted with this litany of contentious issues knew he had a thinking problem. He ordered another, stronger this time, which Frothy recognized from experience meant a dramatic switch of teas from the mundane Oolong to the stridently aromatic Darjeeling. 

 

Arsenal’s immediate preoccupation in the coming days was to prepare his charges to qualify for the Ochil Hills Challenge Cup. If they lifted the trophy they would be entered in the draw for the Scottish Cup, a money spinner. First things first, beat Tillicoultry and then maybe get a shot at Alloa Athletic, the reigning cup holders. All hands on deck were required. Anstruther expected every man to do his duty to God and the Chairman of the Board. Lands sakes, should Anstruther advance that far then even a rematch with Rosyth Shipyard Navvies was feasible. A second shot at them had been a long time coming but it would be a daunting prospect. Arsenal made a call to Hamish (the hurdy gurdy musician in the local pub’s house band) an acquaintance who had been instrumental in crowd funding for the team in the past. Could Hamish put on a gig to raise funds for the double-decker bus needed to get the whole kit and caboodle to the next league match? Arsenal was smart and planned out a route avoiding back roads with intersecting low slung bridges, obstructions which had caused the top decks of the team bus to come a cropper before. It can be said though that at that time open sky tourism was certainly well established in temperate central Scotland. Arsenal resorted to the house. He summoned the hound by clanking his chain at the back door, getting an impish satisfaction to see Rotter slip and slide on the kitchenette tiled floor in his haste to escape confinement. As they approached the wharf, meanwhile Arsenal ruminating on a bijillion small matters, they came across Audrey out walking Dogmatix. Crossing paths with her nibs and canine companion was a common occurrence but to-night Arsenal was in no mood for conversation. However it was too late to plot an avoidance strategy. Seconds later Audrey’s pucka voice was vibrating in his inner ear with words to the effect “I say, jolly rum thing that, old fruit, the price of spam going up 3p to-morrow.” Arsenal offered some platitudes, chucked the poodle Dogmatix under the chin and with Rotter’s bandaged snout leading the way, moved off. Regrettably dogs rarely get to choose their owners!

 

On the morrow Arsenal made a beeline for the stadium. He was to rendezvous with a pair of graduate students from St Andrew’s University. They had been engaged by the National Health Service research institute at the university to conduct ground breaking PARS related testing on local athletes. The best guinea pigs the NHS could find in Fife were those physical specimens at the football club. Arsenal was chuffed to be approached by the learned establishment and duly prompted five of the team to offer up their bodies to science. Students William Windsor and K.T. Middleton (who was hesitant to reveal her full identity) arrived on time and set up their medical apparatus. William had a monarchical air about him. K.T. was a wee stoater and she on the other hand flitted about like some genus of social butterfly. Arsenal took to them right away and spent the better part of the morning doing their bidding. By noon testing was satisfactorily completed and the students said their adieus. Results would be forthcoming they said in parting, all Arsenal had to do was to scan the articles in Nature for the next 12 months, a princely mental task to which he committed! The PARS research was all about flattening the curve and counteracting footballers’ natural instinct to Bend it Like Beckham.                

 

Roman had not arrived in Scotland in time for the friendly at Renfrew. Now there was haste to get Signor Macaroni in the line-up for the Ochils Hills Challenge Cup qualifier. Tillicoultry was sure to adopt a retrograde attitude inbred in their players for generations. Most of them were descendants of Picts and Scots who had held the Highland Line since the ancient Roman invasions of the second century AD. Roman, from Tuscany, was ironically just the ticket to breech the Clackmananshire defences. On the negative side of the ledger were his problems with on field discipline which inquiries to the Azurri Office of Player Misconduct in Torino confirmed, were legion. Arsenal implemented a crash course on how to conduct oneself on the pitch aiming particularly at curbing the young turk’s penchant for lashing out. Arsenal had an eye to giving him the start come hell or high water. He nonetheless had qualms about throwing Roman to the lions on his debut and he spent the rest of the evening second guessing his decision.

 

Smoke emanating from consumers of Benson and Hedges, Embassy and Player’s Sailors Cut permeated the stadium. Spectators in the stands practiced physical distancing (jostling, pushing, headlong tripping, things of that nature), the kind of anti-social behaviour the fans misguidedly interpreted was being called for by medical authorities. Against all odds the sea breeze had strangely abated. Wouldn’t you know it, Anstruther, the bosom buddies, won the toss and had no in-your-face wind with which to contend in the first half. They conceded nary a goal by the time the slices of orange were distributed. Could they gain the ascendance in the second half? Roman had been effective in the first half but not incisive at the key moments. Arsenal in the dugout was distracted by his cell phone when the pharmacist called to say Lilliput’s bunion cream was ready for pick-up. He had hardly acknowledged the good news when the bench in unison erupted with a GOAAAA….L exclamation. It was akin to a Mexican commentator witnessing his national team notching one at Azteca Stadium. By 4:50 pm Tillicoultry, no matter how much they toiled, were toast!

8. Jinky

It came about like this and it is a convoluted thread, don’t change the channel. Jinky was living in a beautifully landscaped property in Tannochside in industrial Central Scotland overlooking the verdant Clyde Valley. Yogi (nee John Hughes) lived just up the street in an equally prepossessing domain in the same exclusive public housing project. Yogi’s team mate and fellow Lisbon Lion Berti Auld happened to mention to Yogi that he, Berti, was sick of the driveway vacation in his car, some metres away from the family, during the stay at home self-isolation of the PARS pandemic. Now Yogi, who was a cultured gentleman prepared to go to any lengths to help a colleague, recommended to his pal “buy a Boler and plunk it down at Puffin Point Caravan Park in Anstruther.” Berti was initially all at sea knowing next to nothing about top hats and the finer points of men’s dress attire, so Yogi obligingly fleshed out his proposal. Berti got the point and followed through. Yogi explained that he had passed a substantial number of summers on the quicksands of Anstruther beach in the days of a misspent youth and he was more than happy to offer up this camping solution for the cabin fever Berti was experiencing. Berti duly invested in the Boler caravan and was fortunate to get a prime lot for it alongside the tinkers’ encampment at the far edge of Puffin Point. On a long week-end in late September when PARS self-isolation rules had relaxed he invited Jinky and Yogi to come through to the bracing air of the East Coast for a few conditioning runs along Anstruther’s sea wall. The crumbling sea wall was a hazard for less than the fleet of foot but a definite preference to running on all-engulfing quicksand. It was on one of these runs that the trio bumped into Arsenal out for a stroll (minus the encumbrance of the hound on this occasion). Awkwardly running on the spot, their heads bobbing and words coming out in breathless spurts, the three players naturally brought the conversation around to football and prospects for the season. A seed was planted in Arsenal’s mind which germinated in the following manner. He was determined to improve the quality of his squad.

 

Arsenal had been impressed with Jinky’s form on the American tour. Yogi was perpetually one of the better performers in the First Division. Would it be possible to assemble assets to acquire the pair? Acquiring Berti would be a bridge too far he was afraid but perhaps Winnie the Pooh, his irreverent nickname for the team’s owner, would cough up for two of the three. Arsenal got on the blower the minute he got home. “Winnifred, Arsenal here. Delighted to hear your honey coated voice. Could you come up to the club Tuesday, ducky? A spot of business to conduct my dear. Afiirmative? Splendid. Toodleoo.” Arsenal was becoming far too anglicized it was felt by many, not least <chez les Wengers à Bordeaux>. Audrey was rubbing off on him.             

         

Winnifred’s arrival from Berwick was announced by the throbbing whr of her whirlybird. Out she stepped dressed to the nines in a deep red Bolero jacket and dark leather pants. She had an inkling Arsenal had news respecting the rumored proposal from Alphabet Enterprises, parent to the fledgling Google Corporation, to develop some acreage adjacent to the club. Scuttlebutt for the past few days indicated Alphabet wished to establish a smart village campus (in keeping with the scale of Anstruther’s 1200 population) on the lee side of the stadium, but not a soup factory as a letter to the editor speculated. As the attentive reader (Giuseppe) has no doubt induced, this was not at all what Arsenal had in mind. Arsenal spilled the beans, wishing on a star that Winnifred would loosen the purse strings. With little effort he imagined Jinky on a wild dribble walking through the opponents’ defences to deposit the ball behind the oncoming opposition goalkeeper. Winnifred was taken aback, her imagination obviously not nearly as elastic. Arsenal was not playing small ball here, he was swinging for the fences. His outsize scheme to bring Jinky and Yogi out of the limelight of Glasgow top rank football into the shade and relative obscurity of Anstruther football was brazen. It was sure to cost a shekel or two. Her immediate reaction was to put the kibosh to the whole idea. After a poignant discussion of ten minutes, no more, they went their separate ways. Jinky, Yogi and Berti would remain with unchanged status at their home clubs. However, Arsenal would not go quietly into the night. He high tailed it home.

         

Arsenal had inherited a stamp collection from his grandfather, a philatelist who lived off the proceeds of his vocation in the famous walled city of Carcassonne, France. In his childhood Arsenal paid scant attention to exuberant family tales of what all the collection contained or how its contents had been amassed. He did vaguely recall his mum speaking guardedly on one occasion of a particular stamp which was the French equivalent of the British Penny Black, the first postage stamp issued anywhere. This French stamp, referred to as Le Sou Bleu, had not been recently evaluated. It certainly did have cachet. Arsenal was not sure where in the house or garage the stamp album in which it was mounted might be. But just like being seated in front of a spinning one armed bandit in a casino, Arsenal conjured up multiple euros parading before his eyes when he contemplated cashing in on the sale of this stamp. An exhaustive search in the dwelling turned up zilch. Lilliput had been over to Edinburgh and was to be collected at the railway station at 5:45. He would have to postpone rummaging through the garage until after tea. As he was moving towards the car, Arsenal stupidly dropped the car keys alongside the rose bushes. Rotter, who was along for the ride, made a quick snatch at the falling object and scampered off to the gate and out into the street. Fortunately there was no passing traffic. Arsenal trooped after the dog and yanked at the slobbery keys. Too late. Rotter, in tantalizing, playful jest gulped down the FOB before Arsenal could secure it too. Bloody hell, how to start the car? After ten minutes of total panic it occurred to Arsenal to get in the car, insert the key but have Rotter ensconced on his knees at the steering wheel. Whew, the engine kicked in when the key was turned in combination with the FOB (now in the dog’s intestines) being located within a couple of feet of the ignition. Rotter had just become a lapdog fixture for any sortie in the car in the near future.

 

Lilliput’s train arrived on time, she blissfully unaware of the drama which had revolved around the FOB. When queried by hubby, she felt confident she could lay her hands on the stamp collection. True to her word, there it was in a box in behind hoola hoops, pogo sticks, the push powered scooter and other recreational anachronisms. Le Sou Bleu almost jumped out at him as Arsenal eagerly flipped through the aging album. Surely the stamp must have appreciated over the years but would the proceeds of its sale equate to the cost of acquiring two modern day footballers? Stranger things had happened. Arsenal knew of a philatelist outfit in the upscale commercial district of The Bridges in Edinburgh and he arranged a business session. Could this seemingly insignificant small square of aged paper contribute to the fortunes of the club? It was altruistic of him to proffer up an asset such as this but then again in French musketeer fashion it was one for all and all for one in the organization. This potential transaction seemed like a good investment in the collective future. On the afternoon of the appointment Fife was socked in. Arsenal was forced to venture onto the heady heights of the Forth Road Bridge with his car sending up rooster tails of water in his wake. Fortunately the stamp album remained tinder dry in his far from hermetically sealed vehicle. After 45 minutes of negotiation Arsenal emerged with sufficient thousands of pounds from the sale of Le Sou Bleu and two ancillary stamps to buy Jinky and Yogi, both a little long in the tooth if truth be told, to Anstruther. Next item on the perpetually expanding business agenda, a nickname for the club. They would be representing who from now on, the Anstruther Fireflies, the Cantilevers, the Trailer Park Boys, the Force? The supporters club had a bottomless pit of submitted suggestions. Roger in Communications would have to bring his marketing savoir-faire to bear.

 

The draw for the Ochil Hills Challenge Cup proper (now that they had qualified) was to be televised live from the Scotsport Studios on Wednesday week. Three teams i.e. Anstruther plus two other teams, were in the competition. Arsenal was hoping for Alloa but was dejected to watch as Rosyth Shipyard Navvies were chalked up as opposition for Anstruther on the low tech blackboard. Alloa got a bye to the final! “Struth! In the name of the wee man” exclaimed Archie the groundskeeper when he found out. Rosyth in their last two matches had beaten back Dollar and then given Dunfermeline a pounding. They had the reputation of putting their money where their mouths were. They were not to be taken lightly. Upon reflection Arsenal warmed to the idea of the encounter. He would have to ensure that his boys were all singing from the same song book come the day. He was confident though that his newly acquired Swiss army knife (Roman) was just the utility man for the job, Jinky would make headlines and Yogi would be like a Teutonic battering ram. Roddy in nets now had the makings of a winner in front of him.

 

9. The Aces

It came to Lilliput while she was in the chiropodist’s clinic. Arsenal at tea the previous evening had expressed his disappointment caused by the paucity of candidate team nicknames going before the Board of Directors. From the shortlist only one humdinger would be lucky enough to receive official sanction. The team’s app and website were to be promoted based upon the final selection. Fans had come up with most of the potential epithets, but a question of relevance was at play for the majority of submissions. Merchandizing contracts were in the offing and lots of dinero was at stake. Would Anstruther’s populace really take to a club called the Wombats? The Cantilevers, maybe, given the proximity of the iconic engineering triumph, the Forth Railway Bridge. Speaking of the Forth, howze about Venture Forth, too commercial perhaps? Fireflies, the local entomologist suggested, were out of season in Britain twelve months of the year. There were too many Saints in Scotland already, witness the Love Street shower, those from Perth and the unrepentant Bhoys’ Supporters’ Club. Well then The Sinners? Non-solicited input from the Commissioner of Police for Fife and Tayside underlined she did not have the resources to provide beefed up security details on match days when Saints would confront Sinners. That was potentially several times a year and did the club want to have the inevitable debacles on its conscience? She also weighed in on the potential to tag the team as The Force, thinking that term was sacrosanct and should apply only to her constables on patrol, COPS, the one true and trusted force in the region. Compliance with the Commissioner’s wishes of course would mean that play on words such as “May The Fourth Be With You” or better still “May The Forth Be With You” would have to go a begging. It was too bad since the Isle of May lay only a few miles offshore from Anstruther in the Forth estuary although only an occasional wind blown cormorant from there would show up for matches. Lilliput ruminated on all this as she had her cuticles attended to.

 

Her train of thought passed through many stations. Finally, she alighted at this one. Why not the Aces? Leuchars RAF Aerodrome was just up the road and Lilliput was a sucker for high flying men in uniform. Why Arsenal himself reverting to his native language had often referred to the players as ‘les as” meaning he thought of them in positive terms. “Les as,” aces in French, top notch, number one. Lilliput shared her brain wave with Arsenal who resolved to bring the name before the Board. Arsenal’s original French term had been subject to some titters and smothered laughter for quite a time. Generous allowance for his English language limitations was made nonetheless, few people catching on to the fact Arsenal was complimenting his team, not denigrating them by thinking of them as asses. The  Anstruther Aces, AA, at your service, whether you were a drinker searching for sobriety or an automobilist in roadside difficulty on a Saturday afternoon! And so it came about. The Aces!

 

Arsenal dearly wished to field a team whereby he was not gambling with the club’s future by being forced into selections whose quality was dubious. He had always done the best he could with the hand he was dealt. Now at least he would have a few aces up his sleeve with which to test fate. And the long anticipated “Wednesday week’ was now upon them. Rosyth Shipyard Navvies arrived from up river by water. There they were all decked out on the superstructure of the Royal Navy dreadnaught HMS Knotty MacNaughton. Before docking they limbered up using exercises they had revealed to the world at the previous year’s Edinburgh Tattoo. On the Castle’s esplanade their displays had won them more crowd applause than even the ever popular Burmese Burhkas had attained. But to-day it was a question of football, not military exhibitionism. Arsenal had found himself engrossed in “Softly, Softly” reruns at home on the settee the night before and he turned up at the ground slightly woozy after this bout of binge viewing. In front of the assembled team he did a gut check and then started into what unintentionally became a diatribe. He wound it up by saying “Listen, lads, we need to show truculence out there. Don’t be intimidated by what you see transpiring on that ship. Like Britannia they rule the waves, but make no mistake here at our ground we rule terra firma. To quote our inspirational revolutionary Emiliano Zapata <Better to die on one’s feet than to live on your knees.> Now let’s get out there and send them packing.”

 

The Navvies poured down the gangway to the wharf in Anstruther harbour to the accompaniment of the bosun’s whistle. The nuts and bolts of their approach to winning games was to put the screws to the opposition early on and not let up. They had developed a keen sense of when to put the hammer down. Indeed they had downed tools in a work place dispute some three weeks ago. Unlike when they were on strike, however, for this game they were all business. A flotilla of yachts carrying their supporters docked at the marina. The local constabulary was out in force checking for illicit whatevers. A stringer from the Kirkcaldy Fife and Drum newspaper button holed Callum Chisolm, the Navvies central defender, for an impromptu interview on the dock. “Spitting crickets. We’re going to knock their blocks off” was the gist of Callum’s considered opinion. Sometimes the comments of the Navvies’ rear admiral were unfathomable but that made him all the more endearing to the football aficionados. Everything seemed set for a real knock ‘em sock ‘em encounter. Word had gotten out to the sharpshooters on both the Aces and the Navvies that accredited photo journalists from Fleet Street were in attendance and ensconced behind the two goals. Apparently they were competing in the British Sportwriters’ Shot of the Year competition and they had high hopes for candidate images to be generated that very afternoon. Shots to be heard around the world if you want the long and short of it. Talk about pressure! Roman Macaroni felt this could be his coming out party and Jinky was all jiggy with it. From the Aces’ perspective the narrative from the game entailed a deflected header from a corner kick and a second soft goal with twenty minutes remaining, together constituting the nails in the coffin Rosyth had predicted. The Aces made an undignified exit from the Ochil Hills Challenge Cup falling in this the semi-final at the penultimate hurdle. Woe is me. Punters at the betting shop next to the Royal Hotel made a killing wagering against the home team and their exuberance was in stark contrast to the deadpan silence that overcame the loyal spectators as they filed out at the final whistle. Arsenal knew now that the regular season would have no extended cup run and that the balance sheet had just taken a direct hit midships thanks to the navy navvies top guns. Edinburgh’s Pink News which hit the newsstands only 90 minutes after the game terminated dedicated a mere paragraph to the game which was indicative of a general malaise in terms of interest in club fortunes.

 

10. Visit to Hampden

The approaches to Hampden Park, the national stadium, had been landscaped in recent months. They now sported beautiful aligned poplars arched like the ceiling of a cathedral akin to a setting one might encounter along Napoleon era rural highways in picturesque France. Tiny scarcely had time to notice the environmental upgrades. He had just had a fortunate escape when his car had brushed a young lassie pushing a pram at a nearby zebra crossing. The presumed teenage single mother had pressed the beg button unexpectedly and ventured forth catching Tiny unawares. Fortunately she pulled back in the nick of time as Tiny helplessly sailed through the crossing. Now as he arrived at the offices of the Scottish Football Association (SFA) Tiny did a mental reset and focused on the matter at hand. He was attending an SFA disciplinary hearing at Hampden to provide the referee’s justification in two cases, one a sending off and the other a dubious penalty award. The former case had become an international incident bringing the Scottish game into ill repute by association. The latter was a more hum drum occurrence the likes of which could show up at virtually any one of these fortnightly tribunals. In this second case Tiny gave his testimony along with video evidence and the player from Haddington Pinks was rightfully sanctioned with no right of appeal. The first case was another kettle of fish.

 

The sending off had occurred in Andalusia when the Scottish officiating crew at the European Championship group qualifier had boldly sent the Azerbaijani goalkeeper for an early shower. The Azeris were now appealing to FIFA to review the game result (a loss, surprise, surprise) and had also sent a high powered lawyer from Baku to Glasgow to plead their cause. Fat chance they could extradite Tiny and his supporting cast back to Azerbaijan but they had excess oil money aplenty so why not spend some of it? The quick exit of Azerbaijan from the competition might readily lead to the downfall of the Central Asian government and the Azeri public by golly was baying for the blood of an Englishman. English, Scottish, whatever. Tiny was on the hot seat. The goalkeeper had held onto the ball for twice the allowable six seconds in the penalty area and had then argued vehemently when an infraction was called leading to a goal against. Hence his banishment. The flabby, stooped Baku lawyer had a face to stop a clock. His English was let’s say porous, full of grammatical errors and leaky as to meaning and implication. The hearing went back and forth and could only be described as a real kerfuffle, although any Scottish legal concession was always a long shot. Ultimately the lawyer returned home empty handed to an ominous fate, having failed to “save face,” unprepossessing as it might be, for his country. He had had no get out of jail free card to play.              

 

Being at Hampden had always been a captivating experience for Tiny since his boyhood. He recalled being taken there by his dad to see Scotland play both Brazil and Portugal in pre-tournament warm up matches immediately prior to the 1966 World Cup. At fifteen years of age he had nonetheless stood head and shoulders on the terraces above most of his fellow Glaswegians who had made the pilgrimage. Boy, had it been a spectacle. Pele had been black gold and Eusebio a revelation, only a couple of weeks away from being a sensation and the talk of the world wide footballing community. So when Tiny exited the hearing rooms he took a passage which led to the empty stands overlooking the field where so much sporting history had unfolded. His footsteps echoed around the silent grounds, the only other audibles were the flap of pigeons’ wings high above the floodlights and the swish of the rotating sprinklers keeping the turf lush. What a contrast from the roiling crowds of game day. Tiny had actually played here twice, both occasions leading to the communal bath tub contaminated by grass and mud and bereft of congratulatory yelps. Then of course he had become one of Scotland’s top referees and he had taken the field in an altogether different role. To-day he took in the tranquil scene for a few minutes then packed away his nostalgia ready to summon it up at some future date. He thought he heard some guffaws and shouts of derision in Portuguese wafting through the air but he pinched himself and decided it was all just the proceeds of an overactive imagination. Onwards and upwards.  

 

Tiny was not through with soccer for the day. After tea he was expected at Bearsden’s El Macombo Event Venue, a onetime snooker hall which on this day was hosting the kick-off to the West of Scotland Subbuteo Tournament. Subbuteo miniature football, where competitors managed their ceramic football figurines by flicking their rounded bases onto the ball, took well to the felt of the converted snooker tables. Table football was as popular as ever despite challenges for the attention of the youth from more technically advanced indoor pastimes such as video games and the wider range of e-sports. Tiny was invited to say a few words at the opening ceremonies. “Yoicks” he exclaimed on the way, “I haven’t rehearsed anything.” He was accustomed to expressing himself with some shrill blasts of his whistle. To actually say a few cogent sentences to an expectant audience was therefore going to be a challenge. He would not likely be able to get away with something limited to 140 characters like the tweets he habitually compiled. What to say? When he arrived at the venue he prayed for some last minute inspiration. Some wag had put up a banner at the self-service snack counter stating “The Lord Helps Those That Help Themselves” so with a rather self-conscious glance around the room Tiny approached the layout amply catered by Save the Dishes. First of all he stuffed his mouth with savouries then he filled his left jacket pocket (lined with a hermetic seal for just such occasions) with some tasty looking cream puffs (which reminded him of Govan’s Jersey Boys by the way). The sight of the puffs somehow put Tiny in mind of poofs and the topical controversy about players coming out of the closet in the Scottish game. Could he expound upon that? No, he felt he would in all probability say something politically incorrect and he did not want to be quoted online the next day. So to avoid putting his foot in it Tiny put the idea on ice. He racked his brains and thought he could make use of an illustration from a book he was reading. Given how keenly the tournament participants competed, Tiny thought he could encourage those who were to find themselves inevitably up against it in the upcoming 48 hours by telling them “if you find yourself going through hell, keep going!” And so with this advice in mind he relaxed and surreptitiously helped himself some more before being called to the podium. He was surprised how easily his thoughts came together when actually he got to speak and after four or five minutes of effluvia, met by polite applause, he regained his seat well satisfied with the novel ideas he had imparted.

 

At the conclusion of the evening, once the first elimination round was in the books, Tiny unveiled the Pickles Trophy to be awarded on the upcoming Sunday afternoon to the new tournament champion. Sponsors had ponyed up to provide the handsome statuette which featured a Billy Elliott type figure pirouetting to slam a golden ball into the net. Pickles, he reminded the audience, was the late basset hound who in 1966 had on his own unearthed under a London bush the stolen Jules Rimet World Cup valued at over a million pounds. Neither a day late nor a dollar short, this acclaimed discovery was made saving the frantic British World Cup organizers and Scotland Yard detectives a major world wide embarrassment.   

 

11. You'll Never Walk Alone

It is an axiom of football politics that any individual striving to reach the pinnacle of management is a manifestation of not just their own ambition but also an expression of the will of many backers who see in their candidate something of their own unrealized aspirations. So it was with the career of Arsenal. Wife Lilliput’s father had established a vineyard in Beaujolais whose Grand Cru wines had won medals at several highly reputable European viticulture expositions. These wines, some of which were endorsed by Michelin Guide sommeliers, had brought in revenues and influence throughout France that made the gentleman highly respected, even in fields that contained no grapes. Luc Boucher, whose only sporting exploit was to wing a woodcock when shooting at his estate, had financed the grooming of his son-in-law to the hilt, expediting Arsenal’s football rise. Boucher subsequently had a serendipitous encounter with Lachlan at a theatrical presentation of the Dijon Compagnie de Molière on the outer edges of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. This chance discussion had been the necessary ingredient that precipitated Arsenal’s departure from Wimbledon, London. Lachlan had contrived to put Monsieur in touch with Aces’ owner Winnifred, at one point the Frenchman dining at her redoubt in Berwick, and the deed was done. Arsenal was lured north to Anstruther, thereby fulfilling the cockamany project to bring new life to Fife football. Arsenal had never looked back and had no regrets about leaving the Wimps, in the lurch a neutral observer might say. Despite the view of the placid Firth of Forth from his sitting room bay window, as Arsenal contemplated it, his journey in Scotland was no walk in the park. No scivers were tolerated in this footy business, especially in Fife where supporters became dyspeptic at every loss.

 

Liverpool had just secured the Premiership title in England. The Kop was engulfed in a sea of red scarves, one of which was a tattered Man U scarf, but the ecstatic fans totally missed that major miscue, akin to waving a red flag at a bull in Pamplona. Liverpool city centre, well clear of Goodison that is, became the stage for umpteen renditions of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” borrowed from but never rendered to, Parkhead. Inspired by the jubilant scenes from Merseyside, Arsenal resolved to impart more of the one for all and all for one musketeer philosophy to his squad that had evidently worked so resoundingly well at Anfield. His smartphone ringing at this juncture, Arsenal curtailed his musings. It was Stephano, could he come over, he had some interesting information to share? Stepano arrived ten minutes later hitching his trike to the horse chestnut tree which shaded the rhubarb patch. He was all enthused about some new scientific process he had read about online. CRISPER it seemed was paying dividends for Aberdeenshire farmers using genetic sequencing to produce prize cattle. Could the Aces not breed champion soccer players by selective application too? Arsenal was skeptical but committed to analyzing the online info and to forwarding the concept to the club’s Ladies Auxiliary. Could the club afford to wait the incubation period of a normal pregnancy, 11 months he recalled writing on his physiology exams, plus the 18 to 20 years for the maturation of little prodigies? In an enterprise where what you did yesterday was never enough and must be subservient to what you would do to-morrow, literally to-morrow, Arsenal felt little enthusiasm to pursue the fruits of CRISPER. Financial prerogatives dictated thus.

 

A damp chill enveloped the ground on the day Shettleston Shufflers made their league appearance at the Aces. They brought with them their living mascot, 90 years young Thomas More. As a charity stunt Thomas was committed to shuffling once around the field prior to kick-off, supported by his walker. Fans loved the novelty of the exploit about to unfold which was receiving considerable press coverage, but they were less taken with the advice to show up 45 minutes prior to game time to see him off. Could he complete the lap under such tight time constraints? Thomas set off into the grey drizzle and sure enough emerged from the soupy mist at a snail’s pace but traversed the finish line with ten minutes grace. And what was this? He was not walking alone but had a retinue of celebrities accompanying him. Fans had by now shown up in numbers and they egged him on as he completed his outsized task. Later it was learnt that charities had been so impressed with the funds they had received that they were petitioning St James’s Court to have Thomas named in the New Years Honours List. Knighted no less. Henry VIII and Tom’s namesake Sir Thomas More would be sitting up in rapt attention in their graves!

 

The other news of the day was that Seamus Murdoch, the Anstruther Chairman, had received a summons from the SFA that morning for allegedly tampering with a Wishaw Washerman player in an under-the-table attempt to acquire the player’s rights. Murdoch had purportedly shared a few confidences with colleagues whose disdain for him and his shady dealings had given rise to shameful rumor which was then determined to be fact. His future at the club was now in doubt which only goes to show that loose lips do indeed sink chairmanships. Arsenal when he heard of the situation dismissed it as scuttlebutt although with his knowledge of the business he should not have been so perfunctory in his assessments. By five pm when it was official that the points had been shared with the Shufflers, Arsenal was already in a tête-à-tête in the makeshift board room in the container dressing room. Players as usual had opted to avoid the bracing sea water showers so the premises were semi-deserted within a matter of minutes of the final whistle. Arsenal dictated a club statement expressing regret at the Chairman’s predicament. Jolly Roger in Communications was recruited to go into damage control mode. “Nip this in the bud, Roger” he was exhorted.

 

After the game Jinky slunk off home to his caravan next to Berti’s near the tinkers’ encampment. He had always been prone to injury; seems like in the dying minutes of the match he had tweaked his hamstring. However this did not deter him from meeting the challenge from a trailer park trio of tikes who button holed him as he approached his abode. How many bounces could he achieve in an exhibition of keepie uppie? After one final uppie on the tip of his nose, a trick he had seen done by a seal at the outdoor aquarium, Jinky good naturedly dropped the ball and claimed 29. In reality it was closer to 15. None of the kiddies had the wherewithal to compute beyond three so they were all taken in. Heck not one of them had a parent over 23.  And so it was, Jinky remained their idol and he amused himself with pulling pure Cheviot wool over their eyes. To compensate, he joined the bairns in a session of three-and-in between improvised goalposts that he could not help noticing comprised a Pierre Cardin jumper for one post and an Yves St-Laurent for the other. Kiddies these days had such a sense of fashion. Jinky slumped on his couch and plugged in his MP3. In need of a pick-me-up he chose the good old stand-by from his Celtic days “You’ll Never Walk Alone” which always pulled at his heart strings. Ironically it was former team mate Kenny Dalgleish who had potted the winner to win the championship for the Scousers.

 

12. Emojis

Management at Boghead had two pressing problems. Dumbarton’s ground had no public washrooms yet their following were notorious imbibers of copious amounts of the amber liquid. Problem number two was strangely enough a partial solution to problem one. The PARS epidemic had forced the hand of health officials and they insisted no spectators were to be given entry to the upcoming Boghead fixtures until further notice. These same officials however proposed that a scheme to install composite board cutouts as stand-ins in the enclosures was viable from an epidemiological point of view. Dumbarton was given the green light to sell life like effigies to any of the public who wished to attend a game in this vicarious manner. It was to prove a profitable revenue stream. Digital photos of people whose appearance ran the gamut from dumpy to Twiggy-like poured in to the club’s homepage. The club had to place a super expensive order for more high quality board (which regrettably necessitated the deforestation of an extra half acre of Borneo rainforest) to be sent Air Express from Indonesia. On game day static likenesses of George Best, Lulu, the Two Ronnies, Rod Stewart and (the late) Edith Sharples peered over the shoulders of those in front seats in an attempt to draw a bead on the action. None in this crowd needed to spend a penny. Two birds for the price of one in the problem solving department! Some of the Dumbarton squad coughed up self images to watch themselves play, although most of the first stringers thought the whole idea narcissistic if not creepy.

 

One section of the stand-in cut-outs was given over to emojis. Most were moody, introspective or plain dejected in character which did little to encourage positive on field performances. Nonetheless, several were of the smiley variety; grin, leer and guffaw. Several emojis wore medical masks which muffled their ejaculations. Another row was comprised of a real treasure trove of figures. One had to rack one’s brains to unearth a finer collection of chesty girls stacked one behind the other who would break out into robust cheering of encouragement at crucial moments. Or it looked as if they did if one observed from the distance with binoculars. In fact their chants were all piped in over loudspeakers installed to pump up the volume and create artificial atmosphere. Aces took the field for the away game to a chorus of jeers and catcalls from the home side’s dugout. Nada was to phase Anstruther on this particular outing, however. Arsenal had lifted team spirits with platitudes about there being nothing to fear but fear itself. Roman Macaroni had shown real flair in the training sessions leading to the game and Arsenal noted with satisfaction that he processed sorties against defenses like a bird negotiating with speed the branches of trees in a dense wood. Nobby had failed to make the starting eleven again which was however to his satisfaction on this occasion. The reason was simple. Francesca, Roman’s sister, had arrived from Tuscany specially to watch her sibling. Nobby got to sit in the stands beside her, sporting his newly acquired custom-tailored Sloane Street suit. Though he was stylish to a fault he had not a word of Italian with which to impress her. Needless to say he was in seventh heaven nonetheless.

 

After the game an emissary from Dumbarton’s equipment department came over to the Aces dressing room inquiring if anyone had seen the game ball? It had last been seen under the arm of an emoji cut-out heading outward bound. Arsenal, not easily taken in, pondered this observation with skepticism, knowing full well cut out emojis were inanimate objects with no motor power at their command. Perhaps a masked spectator illegally hiding in that section had awaited his (or her) chance and absconded with the ball when it bounced into the stands? Earlier an errant ball had beheaded a cut-out as if it were a duck in a shooting gallery and somebody had retrieved the sphere and thrown it back to the playing surface. What were they doing up in the stadium’s no-man’s-land in the first place where no people were supposed to have been admitted? “Bollocks,” was Arsenal’s reply as he abdicated any responsibility for recuperation of the ball. A wee keelie pal by the corner locker offered his guttural opinion “the baw’s on the slates noo” meaning he thought it had walked and was not to be clapped eyes on ever again. 

 

Lilliput had made full use of her Saturday afternoon back home on the banks of the Forth by attending an intriguing naturalists’ society lecture on “The Impact of Brackish Water in the Ponds of Central Fife upon the Lives of Three Week Old Tadpoles.” The vice-president of the society had regrettably almost croaked when presenting the honorarium to the distinguished guest speaker. She had collapsed on stage but had then been rushed to hospital in Dundee and reports as to her immediate health prospects leapfrogged previous ominous predictions. Lilliput remarked that it was unprecedented for a member of the society to take ill while at a public lecture, to which political science professor Daphne Broon joked it was unpresidented what was happening in the contested election taking place in the United States. There were hanging chads and fraudulent mailed in ballots galore. Such was the age of tweets, twits and trolls which filled cyberspace with their indubitable wisdom. Meanwhile, the following day, an online webpage took umbrage at the fact a small, conservative, Scottish community would even tolerate a naturalist society promoting what it presumed was “unabashed nudity on our communal sandy shores.” Someone going off half cocked in the press again which was by no means unprecedented.          

 

After the lecture Lilliput returned home to stoke the fire and prepare for a cozy night in with hubby in front of the hearth. She awaited Arsenal’s return from Dumbarton with anticipation. It totally escaped her thoughts that Saturday evening was his usual knight with neighbour Arthur seated at a round table of the Kirkcaldy Chess Club. No manner of intervention of a romantic nature could get between Arsenal and his weekly date with the “knaves” as she pegged them. Arsenal’s level of play was rudimentary, in fact he could not buy a win, nor were any of his opponents willing to pawn one off for a price. Arsenal persisted in a concerted exertion to improve his rating and his standing in the eyes of his contemporaries. Having lost another game, falling victim to a fork between bishop and queen, and concluding he did not have the horses for the battle, he resolved to study the opening Nimzovitch had perfected. The Ruy Lopez opening meanwhile he banished to the dust bin of history. What is more he went as far as to dispense with his book “How to Go Undefeated in the Game of King’s” authored by Sunday Times chess columnist Harry Golombek.  This he dropped off with a parting flourish at Wilma’s Wee Lending Library down by the harbour which he had until recently perceived to be an oversize birdhouse. He never had been able to comprehend the physical dimensions of the occupants of this supposed bird house, suffice to say what a neck, what a chicken! Applying some of the principles implemented at the football earlier in the day, Arsenal brought to the chess board a plan to become indomitable in the centre at the expense of the flanks. Always the tactician our Arsenal. The ping of his phone reminded him he had better text the wife. She would be anxious to know whom he had lost to to-night.