The ITK Always Rings Twice
It was hot. Damn hot. Hot enough to cook eggs on the hood of your Buick. The weather forecasters hadn't seen the heatwave coming, now the rush for air conditioning systems, icecube trays and Rocket Lollies was incessant and a necessity.
It was also quiet. Off-season had left Gunnersaurus and me with time to kill and cigarettes to smoke but not much else. It would seem there wasn't much demand for football gumshoes when football wasn't being played. I should've seen this coming. My time in Brazil working under the guise of a pundit had gotten me a good suntan but in terms of evidence, I had more chance of signing Bouldy and Ivan up to be stunt doubles for the Mitchell Bros than lining up Blatter for the Judge's gavel. I don't enjoy injustice so leaving the home of Samba with nothing was like a slap to the face.
Feet up at my desk, cigarette smouldering in my hand, I considered the merits of closing the office and taking that canal boat trip in Norfolk Gunnersaurus and I had always batted around but never took the leap. Surely it would be better than just sitting and waiti.....
Printed on the door to the office had my name and my esteemed reptilian friends', in that order (it was always a case for heated exchanges but I always reminded him that if he was the leading name in the company then he would be the one who got to deal with the regular sales calls from the plethora of double glazing companies. That always diffused his riposte to such a degree he just let out a resigned mewl). At that moment whilst I contemplated a summer break boating in the Norfolk canals with an inebriated dinosaur, the door with our names on the frosted glass swept open with a gust of fresh air and a fright for Gunnersaurus, who was clipping his generously grown claws. He dropped the secateurs with shock and his tail, in one movement, swept the numerous empty coffee receptacles onto the floor with a smash. This only added to the rising sense of drama. The real curtain raiser was the person responsible for such a break in the tranquility.
This broad was made of pure dreams. Her hair was as chestnut as my nicotine-stained lungs. Her lips were made for luring. She was dressed in a pencil skirt that told you her curves were weapons that were holstered. Her crisp white blouse hinted at perfection. The cheeks of her alabaster complexion were flushed, either from using the stairs or a story yet to be told. I guessed at the latter.
"Please, you have to help, this has to stop you see I can't deal with this anymore I really can't stand the constant rumours they are leaving me with..."
Gunnersaurus, ever the social expert, had moved close to the mystery dame whilst I sat entranced, my cigarette now just a burning nub housed by my frozen digits. Noticing that she hadn't taken a pause nor a breath during her flustered outburst, Gunnersaurus slapped her briskly across that flushed red cheek. The silence, in stark contrast to the whirlwind of noise that had accompanied her harried entrance, was deafening.
She cradled her cheek with one immaculately manicured hand. Her eyes looked up at the dealer of the blow, each iris wide and inviting. Her voice wavered but was now at a regular pace. "Thank you, I needed that". Gunnersaurus didn't flinch, he just lifted an empty coffee cup. "Oh, OK". With that she started making the coffee. With this mind-numbing task, the therapeutic nature enabled her to tell her story. It was more enticing than this lady's looks. You gotta hand it to my green friend. He really is a good reader of situations.
As she prepared our coffee, she recounted her tale. It would seem that her levels of tension and drama were to do with the constant stream of transfer stories that involved our wonderful Club. As a Gooner, she couldn't visit social network sites, she couldn't talk to fellow fans, she couldn't even read a newspaper without being affronted by another story linking us with another player. It was all too much for a lady. Hell, it was too much for me. She came to the only people who could help. She came to us.
Just as she had armed herself with a duster and a canister of Mr Sheen, Gunnersaurus and I exchanged a look. We knew where to start. You start with a guy who knows things, whose nose is regularly rooting in amongst the bottom feeders of sports journalism, but always came up with truffles. I cried " To the ArsenalMobile!!! "
The Sky Sports News Office. Broads and fellas dressed in powersuits rushed around pretending that the memo or file in their hand mattered a jot. GS and I sauntered to the lift, letting the security know we didn't need an ID card round our necks with a single grimace. If they attempted to stop us smoking as well? GS without tobacco isn't a pretty sight.
