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.