Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #2: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and sublimely funny - one to put a huge smile on your face!

by J C Williams

  “Let’s sit in Dave’s van, yeah?” suggested a weary Frank. “My legs are bloody killing me being stood up for so long.”

  Stan opened the door and they both jumped in. “So worth it, though, eh, Frank? That noise. That smell. It’s unbelievable. It makes me feel like a man!”

  “But you’re already a man?” Frank answered with a cheeky grin.

  “It makes me feel like a man would feel if he weren’t already a man!” Stan exclaimed. “You know,” he said, changing subject, “I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea just now, or something. I’ve not had anything since breakfast.”

  “Here, what’s this?” said Frank, taking up a lunchbox that looked more like a suitcase. “We’re bloody paying for those two chubby bastards to lose weight and they’re eating like pigs,” he remarked, examining the contents of the portable tuckshop now on his knee.

  “It’s a tragedy,” Stan chimed in.

  “They’ve even let their van go, by the looks of it. I remember it being in better shape than this,” Frank remarked.

  “So true,” Stan concurred. “Such a shame,” he said, wiggling his fingers in anticipation. “Now give me that sandwich, I’m famished!”

  “Dig in, Stanley,” Frank replied obligingly, handing over a sandwich and two biscuits. “We’ll help them get fighting fit!” he insisted, availing himself as well. “I’d say it’s our duty!”

  “They’ll thank us for it later,” Stan agreed.

  It took an age for Dave and Monty to appear. Well, several sandwiches, countless biscuits, three cans of Coke, and one bottle of Irn-Bru’s worth of time, to be precise. Stan was just tucking into a jam doughnut as Dave sauntered towards them.

  It was strangely compelling to watch Dave and Monty – in unison – unfasten their leather suits, seductively easing the zip, revealing the sweating torsos beneath. Frank and Stan instinctively began humming the theme tune to Baywatch, both visually assaulted by the jiggling of male breasts on full view.

  “I’m not overly convinced that fitness trainer we hired is having the desired effect,” suggested Frank.

  Stan nodded, wiping sugar from his chin. “I would say not, judging by their man boobs. All this rubbish cannot be helping, surely,” he added with a glance into the tuck shop.

  They sat in the van, fully ready to admonish, but also looking forward to seeing their friends. However, Dave and Monty reached the van and simply carried on. Stan wound down the window. “Oi!” he shouted. “Are you two ignoring us?”

  Monty’s face lit up when he turned around. He wiped the sweat from his forehead before offering the same hand through the window to a now rather reluctant Stan.

  “Here they are,” said Dave, also grinning. “The Isle of Man homeowners. Great to see you both,” he said. “We’ve really been looking forward to you two coming over. We’ve missed you sincerely, no bollocks.”

  Dave took his head back out of the window and looked up the length of the van. “So this is your van? I mean, what’s with the dodgy wheels?” he asked. “I thought two classy guys like you would be driving a better vehicle than this rolling dung heap.”

  Frank released an awkward laugh. “Our van? Dave, I thought…?” But Frank’s voice fell away as, over Dave’s shoulder, he spied a trail of bright-eyed Scouts walking across the car park, their work apparently over for the day. Like ducklings, they followed their pack leader, and that leader was guiding them directly towards the van in which Frank and Stan were sat.

  “Oh, bugger,” said Frank.

  “This doughnut is quite good,” said Stan, unaware of what was very shortly to come.

  The pack leader, a considerable unit with excessive facial hair, opened the driver’s side door of the van and peered in. “Right! You lot! What are you doing in my van?” he demanded. But then seeing what was in Frank and Stan’s hands, along with the remnants around their mouths, his initial fury only intensified. “Are you two bell-ends eating the children’s lunch??”

  There was some giggling amongst the Scouts. “Mr Harding said bellend,” one of them said, which set off another round of giggling.

  Frank went to speak but the half-eaten sandwich in his mouth prevented communication, which, for him, was fortunate considering he had bugger-all redeeming to say for himself.

  A small tow-headed boy with sky-blue eyes pushed his way to the front. His flawless, angelic face was contorted into a mask of grief and despair. Staring up like a waif from a Charles Dickens novel, he looked as if he might burst into tears at any moment. “Mr Harding,” his tiny voice begged, and it was a voice that perfectly straddled the line between adorable and cloying.

  “Yes, Timothy,” answered Mr Harding.

  “Mr Harding…” repeated Timothy, this time choking out the words between sobs.

  “Remember what I’ve told you, lad,” Mr Harding encouraged him, trying his best under the circumstances to be patient. “Stiff upper lip, boy. Stiff upper lip, eh?”

  Timothy pointed into the cab of the van. “B–b–but Mr Harding. That orange man,” the young urchin cried, pointing in Stan’s direction. “He’s eating my g–g–gluten-free d–d–doughnut.”

  “Right. I’ve seen enough. You two. OUT,” Mr Harding ordered. “Before I drag you out. And don’t think for a minute the children being present will stop me from giving you two moochers a damned good thrashing!”

  “Look, no,” replied Frank desperately, and holding up his open palms in an I-give-up gesture. “Look, apologies, we thought it was their van, honestly,” he protested, referring to Dave and Monty. “Tell them, Dave. Dave?” Frank pleaded, but there was no answer. “Monty…? Anyone…?”

  In fact, Dave and Monty, apparently feeling discretion the better part of valour, had already legged it, fleeing the scene.

  “How about pizza? For everyone?” shouted Frank with a clap of the hands – attempting to diffuse the situation and avoid the aforementioned thrashing – prompting an immediate, enthusiastic response.

  The collective cheers prompted Mr Harding to accept on behalf of the children, but there remained one bit of unfinished business. “GET. OUT. OF. MY. VAN.”

  “Very good,” said Stan, who didn’t need asking twice, and both he and Frank vacated the vehicle fairly lively.

  Standing in slumped submission before Mr Harding, Frank reached for his wallet, pulling out a pile of notes. His finger bobbed around the collective congregated heads and he groaned when he counted thirteen of them. Still, it was better than a beating, or, even worse, a criminal record for breaking and entering, along with the stigma of stealing children’s lunches.

  Frank looked at Stan for financial assistance, but was met with the shrug of shoulders. “I’ve not had a chance to get any cash out,” Stan insisted.

  “Great,” said Frank, turning back to the Scout leader. “Thirteen boys,” he said, taking a pile of notes. “This should cover pizza for them all?”

  “Very hungry boys,” came the reply, accompanied by impatient toe-tapping.

  Frank handed over a few more notes.

  “And me?” replied Mr Harding, arms folded. “You think I don’t have a mouth on me?”

  “Right, sorry,” said Frank through gritted teeth. “Pizza for fourteen it is,” he added, handing over still another few notes, draining the contents of his wallet. “It’s been an expensive snack we had,” said Frank. “Very expensive,” he emphasised for Stan’s benefit.

  Frank and Stan retreated, leaving behind them a group of very happy Scouts. Except, of course, for Timothy, who had a gluten intolerance.

  Speaking of which…

  “You’ve still got that bloody doughnut?” asked Frank, gripping Stan’s arm.

  “Yes,” said Stan, taking a final bite. “It was actually pretty good. You’d never have guessed it was gluten-free. And, besides, I didn’t want to waste it,” he continued. “After all, it was expensive!”

  And a few minutes later…

  “Ah, you two!” said Frank, giving a warm embrace to Dave and Mont
y once reunited with the pair. “We’ve missed you two. Thanks for your help in that whole mistaken-van situation, by the way. Nice to know you gents had our backs back there.”

  “Come on, Frank. They were Boy Scouts, we weren’t exactly going to wade in there,” said Dave with a laugh. “Anyway, you looked like you had it all in hand. And, look!” he continued, pointing at the van approaching.

  Chants of “Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” emanated from the van as it passed by, presumably on its way to procure said pizza.

  “You’ve made a load of little friends happy,” Dave declared, in reference to the waving hands coming out of the vehicle – all apart from young Timothy, who extended his middle finger.

  “So you’re homeowners on the Isle of Man?” asked Monty of Frank. Frank didn’t respond, believing the question was directed to Stan due to the lazy aspect of Monty’s eye.

  Once you were used to it, the eye, it was fine, but after an absence of several months, it was a challenge to recalibrate your own vision to account for it again. Frank eventually reacted with a glorious grin. “Oh! Yes, indeed! We are! All signed, sealed, and delivered. We’ve got a house up by the grandstand with a spectacular view of the course. We’ve also got that crazy Dutchman, Henk, as a neighbour, so that’ll be a bit of fun.”

  “Tell them about the farm,” said Stan. “And how we were nearly landed gentry!”

  “Yeah, that was an experience,” said Frank. “Shame, though. It was in a fantastic spot, Stan, wasn’t it?”

  Frank paused for a moment, recalling the view from the back windows over the broad expanse of land. “It was spectacular. I’m a bit gutted, to be honest. It was on that leap where you come out of Cosby–”

  “Cosby is an actor-slash-comedian you probably wouldn’t want giving your sister a lift home. Do you mean Crosby?” asked Dave.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s the one. What a tremendous spot. It had a farm attached and we had loads of plans,” said Frank, fondly reminiscing.

  “Frank had loads of plans,” Stan interjected.

  “Hang on,” said Dave, scratching his nose. “The house on Crosby Leap? The big bugger on the left?”

  Monty was also scratching his nose, though from the inside. He got hold of a large nugget, extricating it from his left nostril. “Big booger on the left? What…?” he asked, absently, before realising they were talking about something else – at which point he carried on with his successful mining operation.

  “Yeah, that’s the one,” confirmed Frank. “I looked at a video on the internet and, by god, the bikes are virtually taking off when they go past. It would have been amazing.”

  Dave looked confused, closing one eye to emphasise the point. “How did you nearly buy that?”

  “Auction, yesterday!” said Stan.

  Dave was rubbing his cheek now with the palm of his hand. He was in danger of setting fire to it, he was rubbing his unshaven stubble so hard. “There was talk they were going to turn that place into a TT-themed hotel a few months ago, due to that very location,” he said. He went on: “I thought it’d all fallen through, but obviously not…? There were quite a number of people interested in it.”

  Frank shook his head. “Not judging by the amount of people at the auction. There must have been, what, Stan, a dozen at most?”

  “Ten people, including us, I counted,” Stan answered. “Well, eleven, if you add Rodney Franks,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Frank, joining in. “I wonder if he managed to get a taxi, by the way?”

  “Hang on. Rodney Franks?” asked Dave.

  “Yeah, this tosser we met at the airport. Generous chap, mind you,” said Stan. “He paid for a chauffeur-driven limousine for us, though he doesn’t know it yet!”

  “Rodney Franks was one of the people trying to buy that farmhouse,” said Dave, giving Monty a quick glance.

  Monty held up the tip of his finger, loaded with nose candy, nodded to Dave, smiled, then plunged the finger into his mouth.

  “Monty sez yeah,” Dave confirmed.

  “I know,” replied Frank. “That’s what we’re saying, he was at the auction. Though he didn’t make it in time to bid due to… complications.”

  Dave’s eye remained quizzically half-closed. “No, I don’t mean yesterday. He was one of the ones trying to buy it the last time, but it fell through. There was interest from all over the world, so I’m surprised to see it at auction with hardly anybody there.”

  “That’s right,” said Monty, thrusting his finger – now shiny and clean – into the air for emphasis. “Two brothers inherited the place when their old man died. One of them wanted to cash in and turn the place into the Isle of Man Las Vegas, but the other wanted to sell it as a farm, didn’t want the countryside turned into a theme park.”

  “I don’t know why, Stan,” said Frank. “But knowing Rodney Franks is so keen to buy that place just makes me want it even more.”

  “You’ll struggle there, boys,” Dave offered, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together in a rapid motion for illustrative purposes. “I know you two aren’t exactly skint, but Rodney Franks is loaded. Proper minted. He throws his cash into the top racers like his money is going out of fashion.”

  “What’s this?” asked Stan. “He throws his money into the TT?”

  “No, not the TT as such,” replied Dave. “I thought you two read the motorcycling press?”

  Dave’s question was met with only vacant stares.

  Dave continued: “Rodney Franks is a multi-millionaire and throws a load of cash into the top motorcycle riders and the sidecar world champions. You do remember how I said the sidecar races would be very interesting because the world champions were going to be racing? You do remember that, Frank, because we spent about thirty minutes talking about how it may bring extra coverage for the charity?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Frank, who if he was Pinocchio would currently have a nose the size of a baby’s arm. “I thought the ones you were racing last year, the McMullan brothers, were world champions?”

  Dave shook his head. “They were, but Rodney Frank’s team took it off them. His boys, Jack Napier and Andy Thomas, are unbelievable. I’ve only met them a couple of times, but they are absolute tools. I thought Harry McMullan was a twat, but these boys are on a different level altogether. Rodney Franks isn’t much better, though. I mean, to give you an idea, even Dutch Henk cannot stand him, and Dutch Henk loves everyone and everything. But you can’t knock Napier and Thomas’ ability as racers. Which is why the sidecar race this year is going to be special.”

  Dave waited for a reaction, but once again he was met with slack jaws and vacant eyes. So he reiterated, slowly, in terms they could understand:

  “The current world champions are coming to the TT for the first time. They will be racing the former world champions, so the sidecar races are very eagerly anticipated by the world’s sporting press. You guys sponsor us, and we’re in those races, so there will be a lot of publicity for the charity. Understood?”

  “Oooh,” said Stan, like an apprentice ghost. “That’ll be good.”

  Dave wasn’t often serious, but he took a step forward, placing a hand on both Frank and Stan’s shoulders. “Guys. I’ve said it over the phone, but I need to say it once more. When we totalled the sidecar at last year’s TT, I thought that was it. Not just the injuries to us, but the money to get a new bike. We could have never afforded to replace it, so thank you. I mean that. We now have an outfit we can challenge the top boys in.”

  Frank smiled. “Dave. Monty. The money we’ve paid is nothing. Well, okay, it was a lot. But what you’ve brought into our lives is immeasurable. Before I met you, the Isle of Man, and the TT last year, I was focused on dying. Thanks to you I’m now focussed on living.”

  “Jaysus, this is all too maudlin to bear,” Monty interjected, rolling his eyes. “Throw me the bloody sick bucket here!”

  “So the bike is quick?” asked Stan.

  “As lightning,” nodded Monty. “
That engine is capable of a one-hundred-and-ten average lap. We could get a top-ten finish on that thing. It’s rapid.”

  “We just need to make sure we’re fighting fit,” added Dave.

  “Yeah, how’s that going?” asked Frank, unable to remove his eyes – with a sort of morbid fascination – from Dave’s heaving bosom, which was framed perfectly by the unfastened leathers.

  Dave sighed. “I’m not going to lie, Frank. So I won’t,” he said, drawing that line of questioning to a close. “But I promise you this, Frank and Stan, we’ll not let you down. We’re serious about that fitness trainer chap and we’ll be lean athletes come race day. As Monty said, that bike can do one hundred and ten miles per hour and I’m guessing that our extra weight could cost us three or four of those. We’ll lose some weight even if it means amputation.”

  Frank inadvertently looked over at Monty’s leg, presumably factoring in lap time if it were surgically removed. “That reminds me. Are you still on for a BBQ tonight at Casa Frank and…?” He looked over at Stan. “What are we going to call the house, Stan?”

  “We need to call it Frankenstein’s Castle,” suggested Stan. “We can get a big bust of Frankenstein’s creature carved out of wood and place it by the door. Use it to scare the children.”

  “I think your fake tan will do that well enough, Stanley,” said Frank. “But Frankenstein’s Castle it is, and it’s having its debut BBQ tonight. You’ll have to forgive the lack of essentials, guys, such as furniture, but the new stuff we ordered doesn’t arrive till the weekend.”

  “We’ll make do,” Dave assured him. “As long as there’s plenty of–”

  “David Quirk!” travelled a firm voice on the breeze. It was the sort of shrill tone that all men knew. As a child, it meant that it was time to pack up your football and head home, and as an adult it usually meant that you’d been in the pub for too long.

  “David Quirk,” came the voice again, getting closer. “You’re bloody useless.”

  “Sounds like my old teachers,” chuckled Dave. “Same tone.”