Friend-Shoring

English remains the lingua franca of the world for a number of reasons, not least its willingness to dynamically keep on adding contrived words to its lexicon to describe topical situations. “Friend-Shoring” is a compound word which has caught my attention lately. For a while I was trying to capture the concept to describe the Western World’s adaptation to the political realignments obviously occurring in global geopolitics. Perhaps led by China acting repressively towards Hong Kong, its long time antipathy to Taiwan, its brazen implantation of overseas police stations and dubious Confucius Institutes in foreign countries, the Sino relationship has been under threat for some time. Commercial rivalry is a major factor of course. Then we see the official visit of Putin to Beijing for the 2022 Olympics just days before the invasion of Ukraine on 24th February. As if the topic of this evil intention didn’t come up during that connivance! China has since refused to condemn the outrage of the aggression. India, South Africa and Saudi Arabia lead the way in failing to align with the majority of democracies against authoritarian governments. Which brings me back to this new catch word “Friend-Shoring.” At one and the same time it implies a complete reorientation of western commercial relations between the at-risk democracies and the China-Russia block. Rethink off-shore manufacturing policies and supply chain issues with China, minimize reliance on Russian energy. A major decoupling process is underway as Jens Stoltenberg leads NATO to shore up commercial and political interaction internally between allies at the expense of relations with what must now be deemed pariah states.

Col. John McCrae's Tomb, Wimereux, France

Remembrance Day Commemoration in Niagara on the Lake, 2022

Bethune Parallels With Ukraine

Europe has seen no conflict like that in Ukraine in 80 years, harkening back to World War II. Sure enough in the interim there have been the likes of the Hungarian Revolution, civil strife in Northern Ireland and the disintegration of the former Yugoslavia. However from a global perspective the political stakes now are considerably higher. One can even draw a Gravenhurst connection to this crisis.

The current invasion of Ukraine has severely compromised the sovereignty of that nation. The war brings a threat of nuclear conflagration (whether with the use of tactical or strategic weapons) to the very threshold of the West and the NATO Block. Whereas the scenario of nuclear mutual destruction post-dates World War II, the existential threat to the survival of Western democracies does not. In 1936 at the outset of the Spanish Civil War (prelude to the world war) Dr Norman Bethune perceptively stated “It is in Spain that the real issues of our time are going to be fought out. It is there that democracy will either die or survive.” People globally question just how far Putin will go to upset the international rules based order. Are further western democracies at risk?

It is ironic that during the Spanish Civil War the Soviet Union supported a clearly democratically elected Republican government against fascist insurrectionists. True, modern day Russia is a far cry from the communist Soviet Union. No matter, the realities of war and the propensity for bare faced atrocities endure. In the fog of war we hear reports from Ukraine of refugees fleeing their homeland being subject to indiscriminate shelling. During the Spanish Civil War Guernica became the test city victimized by the  dreadful blitzkrieg. Bethune famously penned an article entitled “The Crime on the Road; Málaga to Almería.“ This article and photos taken by Hazen Size first notified the international community of the brutal assault on 130,000 refugees fleeing the fascists along the Andalusian coast. Plus ça change ………..     

For a map featuring Bethune in Spain visit;

Norman Bethune Sites In Spain

 

Spike Proteins

 Traditional vaccines are produced from actual viruses grown most often in chicken eggs. Viruses are then weakened or killed and injected directly into our bodies inducing an immune response. Now, a new class of mRNA vaccines delivers to human cells a set of genetic instructions, blueprints, to produce viral spike proteins that trigger our body’s immune response. These generated viral spike proteins preview what any real viruses’ spike proteins will look like. Antibodies, once programmed, then recognize the proteins on the surface of invading pathogenic cells. They bind to the invader’s spike proteins, blocking the virus from using them to penetrate our healthy respiratory cells.  

 

Messenger RNA

 Messenger RNA

 Developments in science which came to fruition in 2020 have brought a revolution to medicine. 2020 will be looked upon as a significant watershed. Top of mind is the dramatically enhanced method of producing vaccines which for decades have taken years to create, receive approval from governing authorities and bring to market. Now messenger Ribo Nucleic Acid is changing all that. In Canada in January 2021 two mRNA derived vaccines are being administered, namely those manufactured by Pfizer-BioNTech pharmaceuticals and Moderna biotech. The mRNA process is being harnessed to produce vaccines in record time, a year or less.

When an infectious, pathogenic virus such as Novel Covid-19 becomes generalized in a population the scientific response is to develop vaccines in laboratories. Their purpose is to induce our immune systems to recognize the virus as a harmful foreign invader and generate specific proteins called antibodies to fight it. The foreign protein of the virus is known as the antigen. Proteins within cells make up the enzymes e.g. the RNA amino acid, which control cell processes. Our bodies’ cells genetic material is contained within the DNA in the chromosomes of the genes. When cell growth occurs (good growth in a healthy body, bad in the case of an infected body) cells divide and the DNA double helix strands split, one strand being mRNA.

The Pfizer BioNTech and Moderna vaccines employ mRNA in a process that creates a genetic blueprint to build what is known as outer “spike protein” which shows the immune system the invader. Neither weakened living virus nor whole dead virus is used as in traditional vaccines. Novavax (yet to be approved in Canada) is using another method. It uses genetic sequencing technology to snip a unique shortened segment of the mRNA protein chain of the virus (its calling card you might say). This vaccine prompts our immune system to stunt virus cell replication whenever it encounters the snipped sequence in body fluids. Even if variants of the virus e.g. the British, South African or Brazilian types, appear, the original snippet of tagged genetic material seems enough to induce the immune response. Likewise research so far shows the Pfizer BioNTech and Moderna vaccines are capable of handling variants.

The core principles of these bioengineering technologies allow advances to combat much more than viruses. Cancer and multiple sclerosis treatments are amongst the conditions where parallel application is on the horizon, also methods to combat auto-immune deficiency. 

 

 

Anna Karenina

Here is a literary book review of the Leo Tolstoy classic Anna Karenina. This review is short and sweet but hopefully to the point. To see what the reader must contend with, here are a few excerpts;

 

1. “I envy him for being better than I am,” said Levin with a smile. “He does not live for himself. His whole life is subordinated to duty. And that is perhaps why he is so calm and contented.”

“And you?” asked Kitty with a mocking and affectionate smile.

She would never have been able to put into words the train of thought that made her smile; but the conclusion she drew was that her husband, who so admired his brother and thought so little of himself compared with him, was not sincere. Kitty knew that that insincerity of his arose from his love for his brother, from his sense of shame of being so inordinately happy himself – and especially from his ever present desire to perfect himself – she loved this in him and that was why she smiled.

“And you?” she asked with the same smile, “What are you so discontented about?’

 

To the moon with this smiling thing. My edition of the novel goes for 800 pages. I never felt so grim when confronted with non-stop grins. Maybe it came down to the translator?

 

2. “I’m so glad to see you,” said Vronsky, showing his strong white teeth in a friendly smile.

 

Grr! If any more of these characters show their teeth they are going to get a knuckle sandwich to bite on.

 

3.  Flushing and blushing.

 

Old fashioned words that seem so overused and anachronistic. There, Leo, who would have thunk it that I could critique a literary giant?   A minus grade for me on my book review.

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.