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

by J. C. Williams

  “Can I stand up now?” asked Stella. “Only my arse is—”

  “Are your piles playing you up, luv?” asked Lee. “I’ve brought your ring over with me, and I even gave it a bit of a proper wipe-down for you.”

  “Now that’s real love,” replied Stella. “A ring for my finger and a ring for my arse. I say again, that is true love right there.”

  “It is indeed, at that,” Lee agreed happily in his lilting Irish drawl. “So it is.”

  “Now come here and give your future wife a kiss, YOU GREAT TOSSPOT!” Stella instructed, in a strange, tumultuous mixture of happiness, aggravation, and relief.

  After a passionate embrace, which included a little too much tongue action for the comfort of those stood near, Stella pulled back, appearing as if she might perhaps have something to say but wasn’t quite sure how to say it.

  “What is it, Stella?” Lee encouraged her.

  “You and Susie…” she began… “I thought… fucksake, I owe you both an apology. I thought you were cheating on me, maybe even the two of you together, and now I say those words out loud, I can’t believe I was so stupid as to—”

  “You don’t have to worry a bit about that,” Lee assured her. “Not one least little bit. Alright? Me and Susie, we’ve been sneaking around your back for so long planning this thing and setting it up, it’s a wonder you didn’t murder the both of us by now.”

  “I thought about it,” Stella offered, only half joking.

  “Ha-ha! I’m sure you did!” Lee told her.

  “There’s one thing I’m left wondering about,” said Stella.

  “Yes?” said Lee.

  “The whole Hugh Jackman movie theme. What made you…?”

  “It’s your favourite film, yes?”

  In response to Stella’s expression of surprise, Lee went on, “What? You think I didn’t know that? You think I don’t know what makes my woman happy? You think I don’t know how to please her, then?”

  “No. You know how to do that just fine,” Stella admitted.

  At which point more excessively sloppy, tongue-heavy kissing ensued, much to onlookers’ discomfort.

  Off in the field, some distance away, the two lion-costumed performers were indeed going at, with the one atop the other thrusting enthusiastically, and the one on the bottom springing its haunches up and down most accommodatingly. How they were accomplishing this remains a mystery, since the costumes did not possess the proper placement of holes allowing such a thing to occur. And yet, somehow, against all odds, they had found a way. Love always finds a way.

  It was, in fact, a very good day.

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  … Chris Kinley here and I’m preparing myself for a very long day at the inaugural Isle Le Mans TT. We’re just coming up to the two-hour mark and the racing has been gripping. You really should get yourself along here as it’s been a terrific day so far. There are teams that are pushing hard, and others that are here for more a gentle, leisurely drive, just enjoying themselves without worry of winning the race…

  I’ve been keeping an eye on the leaderboard, but at this early stage there’s not much worth relating. However, I can see that the guys from the BBC, their Top Gear team, are setting the early pace. The teams we expect to be at or near the top of the leaderboard as we get further along are those who’ve opted to enter a sidecar, and that’s reflective of the current standings. I won’t read them all out at this time, not every one, because they'll all have changed position by the time I’ve got to the bottom of the board. But what I will tell you is that Peter Hickman’s team are flying at the moment and sitting, after the BBC team’s lead, in second place, with the Napier and Thomas outfit in third, the McMullan brothers in fourth, and Guy Martin’s team taking up fifth…

  Remember, as I said, this can all change in an instant. This really is an endurance test, not only for the drivers, but for the machinery, also. Adding to the excitement, presently, the vans are coming in for the changeover in drivers, and we’ve seen a few slick substitutions, while others, not so much…

  Ha! I see one driver managed to get himself into the wrong van before correcting himself! Oh, I’ll spare his blushes by having a quick word with Guy Martin instead, who’s poised and ready for action. Maybe I can just get to him before he’s off…

  Bear with me folks…

  And, yes, I’m here with Guy! Guy, you look focussed. I can see that you’re really looking forward to this?

  GM:Now then, boss. I’m buzzing and can’t wait to get out there. My mate Dave has been putting the hammer down, as you’ve no doubt seen. He’s flying, and that’s going to make my job a little bit easier, no doubt.

  CK:Any strategy or tactics from your side?

  GM:Do you like cats or dogs, Chris?

  CK:What?

  GM:I’m not sure myself, and I was just wondering what your thoughts were?

  CK:Ha-ha! This is like interviewing you on the TT grid, Guy. You always love throwing me a curveball. Well, then. I’ll go for cats, Guy.

  GM:Champion. Right, I think this is Dave coming in, so we’ll pick up on this later. Can I just say, Chris, there’s collection buckets about today and all money raised is going to a fantastic initiative, the TT Farm, so please dig deep!

  CK:You heard him, folks! I’ll just take a few steps back and see how this changeover goes. They’ll be adding fuel and giving the van a once-over. Dave Quirk is just bringing the van to a stop, and his pit crew are straight in and, yes, giving the tyres a check and getting fuel into the tank. His teammate, Monty Montgomery, is doing a superb job getting the windscreen squeaky clean, I see. It does look like Dave’s perhaps had a bit of a tussle out there judging by the dints on the rear quarter!

  D ave staggered out of the van, with this legs giving way beneath him. He’d unfastened the front of his racing overalls, and let the outfit hang down at the waist, with sweat glistening off his chest in the cool November sunshine. He reached for a bottle of water, whipping his helmet off to take several deep quaffs. Monty appeared in Dave’s corner, so to speak, like a boxer’s trainer, wiping down his charge. Chris Kinley went in to have a word, but judging by the furious expression, as well as the salvo of expletives issuing between gulps of water, Chis thought better of it, moving to the neighbouring garage instead to continue his coverage.

  Dave drained the contents of the bottle. “That bellend!” he shouted, between gulps of air instead of water, now, to catch his breath.

  “Who? Chris Kinley?” asked a surprised Monty. “What did he do? I think he just wanted to—?”

  “No, Napier and Thomas!” Dave clarified, taking deep breaths, now, out of anger. “Or whichever shitstick of the two was driving Rodney Franks’ van this last go-round. They tried to take me out half a dozen times out there. It was like the bloody stock cars at times! Unfuckingbelievable! If this race wasn’t as important as it is, I’d have rammed into their own van, pulled the driver out bodily, and used his windpipe as a bloody boot scraper!”

  “Other than that, how’s the van…?” asked Monty.

  “Perfect, she’s running like a dream, but seriously, it’s proper hard work out there for two hours Monty. Where are we on the leaderboard?”

  “Fifth. But you’ve got the second-quickest lap behind the BBC’s team.”

  Being a competitive sportsman, Dave’s anger fell away at this consideration. “Hmm, second quickest. Say, that’s not too bad, Monty, is it?” he said, looking over to the nearest scoreboard, just quick enough to see Guy Martin’s first lap time beat his own. “Jaysus, Guy’s absolutely flying!” he said. “Oh, god, can we not get security to rid us of this useless idiot?” Dave remarked, in reference to the approaching Rodney Franks, who he tried his best to ignore.

  Rodney slow-clapped his arrival. It was unclear whether he was giving Dave applause, or if the applause was directed at himself, self-important twat that he was. “Looking good out there, Quirk,” he said, not-at-all sincerely. “But, here, maybe not s
o much?” he added, pointing to Dave’s partially-exposed body. “Despite that, it really is turning out to be a fantastic event, isn’t it? And you don’t even have to thank me for letting you host the event here! It’s my distinct pleasure.”

  “Your boys are either going to get suspended, or they’re going to be subjected to a quick-onset fist-related tooth disorder, Franks,” Dave answered him, disregarding Franks’ not-so-pleasant pleasantries. “They smashed into me a number of times, you bastard, and If I was being cynical, I’d have to think it was because they didn’t want us to finish.”

  “Perish the thought, Dave!” replied Franks, using Dave’s Christian name as if they were fast friends. “I’ll be sure to have a word with the lads and remind them that this is a charity event, after all.”

  “I’m sure you will,” said Dave, and if looks could kill then Rodney Franks would currently have found himself drawn & quartered.

  “And speaking of this being a charity event,” Franks went on in his inimitable, insufferably annoying tone. “Have you managed to raise all the money you require? It would be such an awful, terrible shame if your team were to finish above mine and you still didn’t have the requisite funds to buy the farm.”

  “You’ll have bought the farm in just a minute, if you don’t shut the hell up,” Dave muttered under his breath.

  Monty held his arm across Dave’s chest, as having a driver arrested for murder at this stage of the race wouldn’t have been the most productive idea, strategically speaking.

  “The charity will have more than enough money to cover the cost of the farm, Rodney,” Monty told Franks, in a remarkably calm voice considering present circumstances.

  “Oh that is indeed great news, Mr Montgomery. I was rather concerned, you see, as I did hear talk you’d had a rash of bad luck regarding one of your sponsors.”

  “And what knowledge would you have about that, Rodney?” Dave said, spitting out Franks’ name as a curse, and pressing against Monty’s fortunately still-outstretched restraining arm.

  Franks, in response to Dave’s obvious insinuation, did his very best impression of Edvard Munch’s The Scream, with his hands held to either side of his head in horror. “Why, I’m not entirely certain what you’re suggesting, David. How dreadful! Are you accusing me of something?”

  “Leave it, Dave,” said Monty, now stood as a barrier in front of an increasingly agitated Dave, lest his friend should find himself at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

  All Dave could do was to clench and unclench his fists in succession, before finally prodding a finger in the air in Franks’ general direction. “You’re lucky Monty’s holding me back, Rodney! Otherwise, I’d take your head clean off your shoulders!”

  Rodney Franks really was a master at being a pain in the arse. He was like a hyena nipping away at a lion. But, he did know when the time had come to retreat. “Oh, Dave!” shouted Rodney, only when he was a safe distance away. He held his pinkie finger to his mouth, to simulate a phone. “You should have called the TV company to make sure they’d still be coming, dear boy! Such a horrible shame they cancelled!”

  Dave kicked at a traffic cone in frustration as Franks took his leave. It helped a little. But only a little. “Why was I so stupid?” he shouted to the heavens. “I know how devious that bastard is, and I only had to call the TV crew yesterday to confirm! Shiiit!” Then he turned to Monty. “So. Did the guys at the gate give us a tally?”

  “Yeah. We’ve had a little over two thousand come through in attendance,” Monty told him.

  “That’s good,” said Dave, nodding, forefinger curled over his lips like a question mark. “Good, good. That’s actually a lot more than we’ve expected. So that’s good.”

  “It is,” Monty agreed. “But that still makes us short, unfortunately.”

  Dave held his finger to his lips, eyes shifting up and to the left as he ran the figures around his head. “Shit, shit, shit. We’re still about forty grand short, aren’t we? That’s a lot. Rodney Franks has shafted us right over on this one. I mean, if we were to win the race outright, we would keep the prize money. But I can’t say it’s entirely likely we’d win. Plus I’m not sure how it’d look anyway, collecting prize money for a race we’ve ourselves organised.”

  Monty threw an angry glare to Rodney’s camp, shooting daggers from his eyes, but to no avail. Of course, it may not have helped that half of the daggers missed.

  “We need to ask Frank and Stan to come up with more money on their end, Dave. It’s the only way,” Monty proposed.

  Dave removed his finger from his lips and used his hand to knead his forehead. “Monty, they’ve sunk a fortune into this already,” he said. “This may sound stupid, but I’ve really enjoyed what we’ve done getting this whole thing off the ground. Frank and Stan wanted to get professional help… wait, let me rephrase… they wanted to bring in professionals, that is. They wanted to bring in professionals to run the day. But I assured them that we could do it, didn’t I?”

  “You and me,” Monty said. “Yeah.”

  “Right. I told them to trust us with it, and that’s just what they’ve done, haven’t they? Monty, this means a lot to me. To us. Yeah? And I think I’d rather do this without being bailed out by the two of them. They don’t need that. They don’t bloody need that. And I want to repay them for what they’ve done for us. Do you know what I mean?” Dave went on. “I just want to do what I promised,” he said. “I just want to do what I promised, yeah?”

  Monty smiled. “I know exactly what you mean, Dave,” he told his friend, clapping him on the shoulder. “Something will come up, Dave, don’t you worry,” he said. “Something is sure to come up, just you see.”

  Dave forced a half-smile out of his face before giving a sudden start, eyes going wide.

  “What is it?” Monty asked, concerned.

  “It’s Lee,” Dave answered him. “Why is Lee walking around like he’s on his way to join a fox hunt?”

  “You could say he did find his fox, Dave,” Monty explained. “He’s just proposed to Stella. Impressive it was, too, from what I could see. Music, a troupe of acrobats, and even a pair of lions. The lions were my favourite part.”

  “Bloody hell, that must’ve cost a fortune. That’s money that could’ve gone to… No, I shouldn’t think that,” Dave said, correcting himself. He thought for a moment. “Real lions?” he asked. But he didn’t wait for an answer to that. Because lions, real or no, paled in comparison to… “Lee and Stella. Fucking hell,” he observed. “That boy has certainly got his work cut out,” he offered, at which point both he and Monty fell silent, pondering this.

  “Deserves a medal,” suggested Monty after a bit. “Or sainthood,” he added, shivering briefly at the thought.

  “Or a sainthood,” Dave agreed, shuddering as well, and doing back up his coveralls.

  The garage of Team Frank & Stan had become the focal point for the local press who’d turned up — the regular, non-paying variety — and an increasing number of autograph hunters, both groups eager to greet Guy Martin on the conclusion of his initial two-hour stint. His racing prowess, as it turned out, extended to four-wheeled machines, evidenced by the fact he’d smashed the lap record several times, leaving the team nestled in overall second place as a result.

  Whereas Dave had collapsed from the van like a seasick landsman unaccustomed to a pitching deck, Guy, on the other hand, sprang out from his seat like a Lincolnshire cat, offering Monty, there to greet him, an energetic high-five. “That was seriously good fun! I absolutely loved that! Bloody, bloody brilliant!” he shouted, even though Monty was standing right in front of him. Helmet now in hand, he moved on to his clutch of admirers as fresh as if he’d just woken up from a lovely nap. At which point he began signing autographs with a practised fluidity, pausing only for the occasional fan-requested selfie, with himself of course included in the shot. And speaking of photos…

  “Smile!” shouted Molly, who was doing a sterling job as the unofficial team phot
ographer.

  “Lindum!” Guy called out, turning with a camera-ready grin.

  “Perfect!” Molly returned. Though it was of course impossible to take a bad photograph of Guy Martin, as the camera adored him.

  “Dave?” Molly called over, raising her camera up.

  “Uh… Double Gloucester?” he said. But the joke wasn’t so funny the second time around. Plus, everything just naturally sounded better when Guy Martin said it anyway.

  “Perfect,” Molly said, somewhat less enthusiastically, but giving Dave a jovial wave.

  “Don’t forget the camera adds ten pounds!” Dave reminded her, helpfully. “Hey, if you see your father, will you tell he and Stan that Monty’s just headed out, and that Guy’s got us up to second place?”

  Molly moved in for a close-up shot of Dave, seeing as how Guy Martin was currently surrounded and so presently unavailable, and Dave obliged her with his most sincere catalogue pose. She glanced over to Guy, but he was still busy. She lowered her camera.

  “They should be over soon, actually,” she said to Dave, pointing over to the fairground. “Honestly, they’re like two big children. They were playing on that thing where you sit on a big tube and beat each other up with inflatable sticks. I did remind my father that this was perhaps not the most dignified of ideas, nor the safest, for two grown men, but he told me to bugger off! Not in those words of course, but… No, actually, now I think on it, I believe he did use those exact words!” she said, laughing. “I do have some good photos of Stan being sent face-first into the ball pit, though.”

  “That sounds like something Stan would enjoy,” Dave grinned. “Anyway, I’m going to jump in the shower right now because I’m in a bit of a desperate state, as Lee might say. I want to be fresh for my next trip out on the track.”

  “Or because a certain young lady will be here soon?” Molly teased him.