Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin

by J. C. Williams

  “What?”

  “We’ve had the chap around from the asbestos company, a surveyor. It would appear that our collective arch-enemy had an asbestos survey completed. A rather extensive one, actually. And then didn’t bother to tell anyone about it.”

  Henk produced a silver hip flask from his pocket, removed the lid, and dispatched several generous slugs, before offering it over to the other two.

  “No, I’ve just had an ice cream,” replied Stan, for no discernible reason, as that had never prevented him from combining the two in the past.

  Henk didn’t say anything, and Frank took Henk’s silence as an invitation to provide additional details. “Henk, the place is lousy with asbestos. I saw the inspector’s estimate, and it’ll cost between seventy and a hundred thousand pounds to remedy this asbestos situation. I can only imagine that Rodney would subtract that amount off of any offer he’d make you for the farm. As I see it, you could either let us fix the place up and continue with the farm for a couple of years and hope you get planning permission, or you sell it back to the man you despise at a loss. Neither option ideal, granted.”

  Henk drained the rest of his compact container, making short work of it. Only then did he speak. Choosing his words carefully, he said: “I am going to rip a leg off from Rodney Franks’ body, and then I am going to beat him with it. If that does not kill him, I will then take an arm off and use that to beat him also.”

  Henk said this calmly, but there was an intensity to his voice that was immediately evident. Henk pondered these thoughts of dismemberment and grievous bodily harm for an unnerving length of time. Then, he announced: “There is a third option.”

  “Another limb?” Stan threw out.

  “No,” Henk said. “Although that is always a good option.”

  “Go on,” Frank returned, assuming Henk wasn’t referring here to further mayhem.

  “The two of you buy the property from me for the charity,” Henk told them. “I will give you a very good deal,” he went on. “You pay me what I have paid out to lawyers, architects, and everyone else that has had their hands fishing into my pockets for the last several weeks. If you return to me what I have paid out, I will be satisfied. In this way, you may take the farm outright. Even if you need to spend money for removal of the asbestos, you will still be getting a very large bargain on what the property is worth. Most importantly, it will make Rodney Franks a very, very angry fellow. And this will be very good.”

  “You’re serious??” asked Frank.

  “I am very serious,” Henk answered him. “But I have only one very important condition,” he added.

  “Name it?” replied Frank, both agreeably and immediately.

  “You must take the storage area for all the horse and cow excrements, yes? And you must commemorate it, I believe is the English word, by naming it after Rodney Franks. You see?”

  “I do indeed,” Frank told Henk. Frank glanced over to Stan, hoping to see in Stan’s eyes the gleam of approval, but Stan held a vacant expression. Stan did this, it must be said, when working out numbers as he and numbers had a somewhat strained relationship.

  Stan looked off to the distance, raising a finger as if to speak, then lowering said finger, and then raising it again, the hamster on its wheel housed in his cranium running furious overtime. “Frank…” commenced Stan with his summary findings once sufficient brainworks were produced.

  “Yes?” said Frank, anxious for Stan to bloody get on with it.

  “Frank. By my reckoning, we need to pay Henk two hundred thousand. The asbestos business is going to be another hundred thousand. Plus, we’ll need to probably rebuild what we’ve already built so that the removal men can actually get that asbestos out. So, we’re looking at about four — maybe five — hundred thousand pounds total. Frank, you know I’m ever the optimist. But, on this particular occasion, I think we may just have to say…”

  “That, yes, we’ll do it,” Frank quickly agreed, extending to Henk a firm handshake to seal the deal.

  This was, of course, not the response Stan was expecting of Frank. “We will…?” he said, thoroughly nonplussed.

  Frank patted his longtime friend on the back. “Definitely! This is too important to give up on, me old pal. And we’ll get the money from somewhere, Stan, no worries.”

  Stan’s raised eyebrows found themselves both in agreement, however, and unconvinced. “Remember, we don’t know how much the gynaecologists will cost, though, Frank,” Stan advised him.

  “Yes, but—” Frank began. “Hang on. The what? What are you on about here, exactly?”

  Stan expelled an exasperated sigh. “To find the Viking treasure, Frank,” Stan reminded him.

  “There will not be any to find,” Henk assured them. “Rodney Franks most certainly would have gotten one of his paid henchmen to place that in the mind of the planning department merely so that the property would cost me more money.”

  “Can we just step back for a moment, please?” requested Frank. “I’d like to address…” he said, turning to Stan… “a gynaecologist? A gynaecologist doesn’t go digging around a field for treasure, Stan. A gynaecologist sifts through entirely different crevices altogether. Archaeologist, Stanley. Archaeologist.”

  “Of course, of course,” replied Stan dismissively, with a wave of his hand, anxious to deflect attention away from his faux pas. “No need to get hung up here on unnecessary details,” he chided Frank.

  “Unnecessary—?” Frank began animatedly, but Stan quickly cut over him.

  “Anyway, we could actually use that to our advantage, if need be, an archaeological dig,” said Stan. “That’s archaeological dig, Frank, by the way, not gynaecological dig,” Stan instructed him. “Obviously.”

  “What?? I’m not the one who—!” Frank began, but to no avail.

  “Imagine how cool it would be,” Stan steamrollered over him, “to have farm residents or local kids learning history on a live archaeological site!”

  Frank’s consternation gave way to appreciation, as this was a wonderful idea. “You’re right, Stanley,” he conceded. “That’s some fine thinking on your part,” he had to admit.

  “So. Henk,” said Stan, now taking the lead, with an exasperated yet amused Frank watching on. “We’ll get you the money as soon as we can, and the charity gets to keep the farm. It might take us a little while to pull that sort of cash together, however.”

  “Fellows, I dislike doing this,” Henk said, pulling on his tie to straighten it. He pulled on it so hard that the knot tightened itself up and reduced to the size of a small walnut.

  “Then don’t do that…?” suggested Frank.

  “No. Fellows,” Henk went on. “I dislike having to do this, especially where a charity is to be concerned. But I must tell you that time is of the importance here. I will not bore you with such details, but I will have a mountain of tax liabilities and other expenses if that farm remains to be in my name past a particular date. And we Dutch are not fond of mountains.”

  Stan and Frank listened on.

  “If I don’t give it back to that plague-ridden Rodney Franks,” Henk continued, “or sell promptly, then I will end up having to pay a considerable, watery-secretions-inducing amount of money extra. I hate to be pushy, fellows, but if you want the farm, then we need to complete the transaction in five weeks by the latest date. If you are not confident of that deadline, then I will unfortunately need to hand it back.”

  “You could give us the farm and we’ll pay you later? If we don’t manage to raise the money by then?” asked Stan, in hope rather than determination.

  Frank shook his head. “We can’t, Stan. We’re a registered charity,” he explained. “We have to do everything by the book, and by the letter of the law. If we don’t think we can get the money and do it properly, it’ll have to go back to Rodney.” Frank’s posture dropped like a wet sack of Irish spuds. “Stan, it’s too much of a financial liability for the charity in that amount of time,” he confessed. “I think
, at this time, regrettably, we should perhaps…”

  “Definitely do it!” agreed Stan in a familiar fashion, adopting Frank’s earlier method. “You’ll help us?” he asked, turning to Dave and Monty, who’d just ambled up from the beach and were now joining them.

  “What’s that?” asked Dave, pulling up his trousers to conceal his builder’s bum from Monty — who was still a pace or two behind — though Monty was not complaining of this.

  “Raise some money to buy the farm,” Frank explained.

  “Of course we will!” Monty came back enthusiastically, not hesitating even the least little bit. “Dave and I can do a sponsored wet t-shirt competition!” Monty brainstormed on the spot, joining his elbows together in an effort to illustrate his voluptuous bosom for the benefit of the others.

  Dave joined him in the pose. “I don’t think sponsored wet t-shirt competitions are a thing, Monty. I will, however, in the interests of science, spend an inordinate amount of time researching the topic. This very evening, in fact. How much do we need to raise?”

  Frank took a deep, audible intake of breath. “Five hundred thousand — give-or-take — in about five weeks,” he rattled off.

  “Oh,” replied Dave, rubbing his palm over his mouth. “That’s a lot of tits needed, then. Our breasts have always kept us in good stead, mate, but I’m not sure they’ll be quite enough to get us through this particular campaign, Monty.”

  Monty, for his part, seemed entirely unconvinced regarding Dave’s unfavourable appraisal to his plan.

  “But, if we should buy the farm…” Dave mused. “Hang on, let me rephrase. If we should purchase the farm… collectively, I’m saying… does that mean we get to keep our current groundsmen jobs, full-time, forever?”

  “Forever and ever,” confirmed Stan with an assured nod.

  “Yerrrrsss!” shouted Dave, offering an ill-timed high-five at Monty — ill-timed because Monty’s good eye was not prepared for it and so not properly directed. Nevertheless, Monty shared Dave’s keen enthusiasm.

  Frank clenched his fist and thrust it up into the air, accompanying it with a spirited roar. “It’s on, chaps! We can do this! What are we waiting for, then? I’d say we’ve got a bloody farm to buy!”

  Chapter

  Eight

  I s it, eh, the BBC you work for, Jenny?” enquired Stan. “I’m not sure if I mentioned the last time we met, but I did a bit of acting work when I was younger.” He raised one finger as he said this, as if to see which way the wind might be blowing. “I was in a Western,” he declared, whipping his hand back towards his belt to reach for an imaginary pistol, to show off his skills, but the only thing discharged was his mobile phone from his pocket which bounced on the ground. “Oh, bother,” he said, scooping it up and inspecting it for damage. “It worked better when I was on set, that bit. I promise, Jenny,” he told her. Moving closer, he asked her, conspiratorially, “You must have an eye for acting talent, Jenny, yes? I’m sure you get asked all the time for recommendations?” Not waiting for an answer, he added, “All mine,” tapping on his front teeth to show her that they were, in fact, the genuine article. “I know they look like falsies but, honestly, I can assure you they’re not. The camera falls in love with my teeth, let me tell you!”

  Jenny stared, and continued to stare, even after Stan had finally shut the hell up. She was either in awe of Stan’s gunmanship, or she was unsure of what she’d just witnessed. Most likely the latter, judging by the narrowed eyes and the slightly curled-back top lip. “I work with ITV Sport,” she told him. “So, em, yeah, don’t really have the ear of the top movie producers, I’m afraid. Sorry?”

  “Well if you ever did…” Stan encouraged her, now tugging at his hair to demonstrate that it was not a wig or toupée, in a further effort to show off his remarkable pedigree.

  Frank arrived on scene, struggling with a petrol can in either hand, and had a spanner held in his mouth for lack of a third hand. “Thanks for the help, Stan,” he mumbled, then spat the spanner onto the grass for later. “I saw you doing your dodgy John Wayne impression yet again, by the way. Were you boring Jenny with the time you were in that commercial?”

  “I thought it was film?” asked Jenny, feeling unfairly misled.

  Stan looked uncomfortable, but only for tick, and rose to the challenge valiantly. “It was on film,” he advised her, smiling with an exaggerated smile to offer up his teeth once again for consideration. “So it wasn’t a feature film, per se. But it was still filmed!”

  “It was a local advert. For eggs. When he was a boy,” Frank clarified for Jenny’s sake.

  “Four thousand people, Frank!” Stan protested, pouting, his ego somewhat deflated.

  “How’s that? What was four thousand people, Stan?” enquired Jenny, even though immediately regretting stoking that fire by encouraging him.

  “The number of people that would have seen that advert,” replied Stan, proudly reinflating his chest. “In fact, I was just that good in that advert that I was asked to turn on the Christmas lights, back home!” he said, pointing to home, which was about seventy miles away, in Liverpool. “At Christmastime, I mean,” he added, for purposes of elucidation as well as illumination. “It was quite the honour.”

  Frank placed the petrol cans he was carrying on the ground, flapping his hands about in an effort to restore bloodflow into his fingers. “That was at Sunday school,” he said, determined, for some manner of intent which eluded him but yet he was nevertheless a slave to, to piss in Stan’s cornflakes. “That was at Sunday school, Stan, and the only reason the teacher asked you to do it was because of the cracked casing on the electrical cord for the string of lights. She was worried about getting electrocuted and so dragged up the closest available kid to do it for her instead. And that, Stanley, just happened to be you.”

  “Anyway, enough about my storied acting career,” Stan said, glossing over Frank’s unkind words. “Dave did well to get this place all to ourselves,” he observed, glancing around Jurby Road & Race Track admiringly.

  “It wasn’t cheap,” remarked Jenny, in between helping to position her crew’s equipment. “The station manager is going to go mental when he sees the invoice for procuring this place. I thought we were paying for a couple of laps to get some action shots on film. I didn’t realise we were hiring the entire track, plus paying for an ambulance to be on standby,” she said. “Plus, apparently, paying for extras to be on hand,” she added, nodding in the direction of a racing club regular stood firmly in place some distance away, smoking a cigarette and observing the goings-on. “Neil?” she said now, turning to her cameraman. “How’s it looking?”

  Neil’s thumb, held in the vertical position, rose up from behind the camera. “All good, Jenny. Light is perfect, and I should be ready to go in ten minutes or so,” said Neil.

  With a well-practised precision, Jenny ran a brush through her hair whilst fluidly applying a smattering of makeup. “Can you guys tell Dave and Monty to get ready?” she asked, directing the question to Stan and Frank.

  But the sound of an engine bursting into life in the distance answered her question. Frank peered over the fence separating the safe area of the track from the racing part, holding his hand up for Dave, fingers spread, to indicate five minutes. Dave sat deathly still at first, apparently thinking he was being commanded to stop. But he quickly realised what Frank was signalling, and saluted in acknowledgement and then gave an ‘A-OK’ sign.

  “Dave’s all aboard,” confirmed Frank. “And I can see Monty heading over. I do hope his injuries have sorted themselves out by now. He does seem to be walking somewhat… gingerly?”

  Stan joined Frank peering over the fence, like two inquisitive horses looking for a bucket of oats. “Gingerly?” echoed Stan. “He’s walking like the Tin Woodsman from that Judy Garland film before Dorothy pulled the WD-40 out. There’s no way he’s going to get his carcass into that sidecar.”

  The pair were then joined by Neil the cameraman as well, and they
all watched as Monty traversed the tarmac straight-legged, without bending his knees, and swinging his arms like pendulums to develop the required motion to propel himself forward. Dave looked back, waving his co-pilot on encouragingly.

  “What are we looking at? Should I be recording this?” remarked Neil, but didn’t want to look away, keen to see what was holding the pair’s rapt attention. The sidecar was somewhat in the distance as compared to the readying camera crew, likely sufficient for Monty to believe he was safe from prying eyes, but close enough for the three gawkers to nevertheless continue observing.

  Neil closed one eye, wincing, as he saw Monty finally collapse in a heap, across Dave’s back. “These two won the TT?” he asked of the others, incredulously. “The actual TT Races?”

  Frank nodded, filled with profound satisfaction all over again just thinking about it. “They did indeed,” he told the cameraman. “Well, not both, technically. Just Dave. And that was the very sidecar he was racing when he won it.”

  “Hrm,” said Neil. “I can’t make out who’s who from this distance. But I’m going to hazard a guess here that Dave is the one already in the sidecar, rather than the one that’s just rolled off of it and now lying prostrate on the ground like a tranquilised hippo…?”

  Try as he might, Monty couldn’t appear to right himself. An animated Dave turned off the engine, dismounted his machine, and could be seen frantically attending to his fallen comrade.

  “This is Monty’s comeback,” Stan told the cameraman. “He didn’t finish the TT, so the leathers he’s wearing didn’t really get much in the way of a proper run-in,” he offered as explanation. “I think he may also be carrying a few extra pounds than the last time he wore them, if I’m not very much mistaken. Which might be a slight complicating factor as well,” he proposed.

  A few extra pounds may have been a mild underestimation, judging by the general futility of Dave’s efforts. Still, Dave did eventually manage to pull Monty back to an upright position, and the pair could now be observed attempting a series of lunges, presumably to loosen and work in the leathers upon Monty’s person. Which, to be fair, appeared to be working, as evidenced by the gradually-increasing mobility in Monty’s knee joints.