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!