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

  “Or your girlfriend, about you in bed,” replied Monty, eager to get in on the act.

  “That’s just wrong, Monty,” said Dave, shaking his head. “That’s no way to talk in front of my mother. Have some respect, man.”

  Monty lowered his head. “Hi, Jessie,” he offered, apologetically, as Dave’s mother appeared.

  “Hello, Shaun,” she answered Monty, and then marched up to Dave, poking a firm finger into his chest. “I’ve been trying to speak to you all week, you never return my calls. I was worried about you!”

  “You don’t need to worry about him eating,” said Monty, eager to retrieve some kudos, but it was not forthcoming.

  It was Dave’s turn to lower his head in submission. “Sorry, Mum, I’ve been busy,” he offered.

  “Nonsense,” insisted Dave’s mum. “A loving mother shouldn’t have to travel to the other side of the Island to see her son because the lazy bugger won’t return her calls.”

  It was amusing for Frank and Stan to see this woman, a little over five foot, tearing strips out of someone twice her size.

  Dave leant down and left a kiss on his mum’s face. “Sorry, Mum,” he said. “I’ll try harder.”

  Dave’s mum removed her finger from her son’s chest. “You better had! I worry about you, David. That’s a mother’s job!”

  Duly chastised, Dave regained his composure and offered an introduction. “Jessie Clague, or Mum, as I call her. This is Frank and Stan who I’ve told you about. And that cross-eyed womble is Monty, as you know.”

  “Lovely to meet you boys,” said Mrs Clague, with deep sincerity. “Dave and Monty have told me all about you. The work you both do for charity is truly humbling.”

  Frank was first to react, offering a warm handshake. “Lovely to meet you as well,” he said, lowering his head to kiss her cheek. But there was some confusion as to which cheek would be on offer, and Frank spent the next few moments vacillating between the two, finally ending up rubbing noses together with her, like amorous Eskimos. “Ehem, excuse me,” mumbled Frank apologetically, taking a step back, and wondering how he’d managed to violate a woman he’d just met.

  “Clague?” asked Stan, breaking the awkward silence, and in reference to Dave being a Quirk rather than a Clague.

  “She’s been married a fair few times,” explained Dave with a mischievous grin. “Elizabeth Taylor, they call her around these parts. Father’s Day was always a bit confusing when I was a kid, and we may as well have had a revolving door for all the men she brought home.”

  Mrs Clague’s face was a picture. “You cheeky sod!” she scolded him, the finger in danger of being released once more. “I’ve been married twice,” she assured Frank and Stan, and, then, “I’ve only just met these two lovely gentlemen,” she said, admonishing Dave once more. “And now they think I’m a–”

  “Nice bike,” interrupted Dave, recovering it at the last moment by pointing to the new Ducati being eased out of the car park.

  “We’re having a BBQ tonight, Jessie,” proposed Frank.

  Stan had to suppress giving Frank a look – not at the invite offered, but by the voice Frank had currently adopted. It was as if the local vicar had popped by for afternoon tea and Frank was trying his best to impress, over-enunciating every word.

  “That’s very kind, Frank. Thank you, but I already have plans tonight. Another time, perhaps?”

  Frank took the opportunity to follow the route of the TT course, heading towards the northern town of Ramsey and then heading up the staggeringly beautiful climb to the mountain section of the course. On a clear day, the view up top was mesmerising.

  “I nearly shat myself in this very position last year,” recalled Stan, contributing what he could to their moment of culture. “Remember, on that trike tour we went on? Honestly, I was seconds away from following through. It wouldn’t have been pretty, not wearing those leather trousers.”

  “I don’t think it’d be pretty whatever type of trousers you had on!” Frank told him.

  Stan went quiet, looking across to the drivers’ seat with a simple grin on his face.

  “What?” said Frank. “It wouldn’t.”

  For the next several minutes, the grin remained on Stan’s face and did not falter.

  “What??” Frank asked.

  “You do,” said Stan.

  “I do, what?”

  “You know.”

  “Are you still on about that?” laughed Frank. “I’ve told you, I do not.”

  “You do,” Stan repeated, nodding. “You most certainly do. You like Dave’s mum. I saw you blush, and you did this really goofy, weird voice thing. And what the hell was that nose kiss thing? I don’t even know what that was. But, yes. You do.” He was trying to get a rise out of Frank. It was working.

  “Okay, she seemed nice!” conceded Frank, eventually, before clarifying, “I mean, a nice person. She’s nice, that’s all, alright?”

  Stan smiled; he was quite happy with himself. “She’s not your usual type,” he teased.

  “Maybe I’m fed up with the Barbie-doll look,” snapped Frank. “I’d like to meet a woman who is happy with the skin she’s in, not filled with more plastic than an Easter egg box.”

  “I just meant brunette rather than blonde,” said Stan. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with a bit of assistance to prevent ageing,” he insisted, stroking his head – which had more plugs than an electrical shop.

  “I know,” replied Frank. “But I don’t mean to have a go. I think the experience with my ex-wife has made me appreciate natural beauty rather than collagen and Polyfilla. No offence, Stan!”

  “None taken,” said Stan, who was busying himself styling his eyebrows.

  “Stan,” said Frank after several minutes of comfortable silence, with the both of them enjoying the picturesque scenery.

  “Whaaat?” asked Stan.

  “There’s something I can’t stop thinking about.”

  “Dave’s mum?”

  “No!”

  “You mean besides Dave’s mum?”

  “Yes!”

  “Frank, there’s no need to shout,” Stan said in a soothing, tranquil voice – though with a cheeky grin.

  “That house with the farm.”

  “Ah. So we’re back to this.”

  “With that low turnout at the auction, I can’t help but think we could maybe get that place cheap,” mused Frank.

  “You already tried,” Stan reminded him. “Remember? And you bid quite a lot, and it still wasn’t enough. And now that Rodney Franks is in the game…”

  Frank strummed the steering wheel. “I know, but there is so much potential. Imagine the opportunity for people to learn new skills, regain confidence, or even to provide a safe haven to help people escape violence,” Frank went on, filled with enthusiastic exuberance. “I can just see the working farm with a craft centre, selling products and produce – a real community.”

  “Sounds a bit like a cult?” said Stan.

  “I don’t mean like a bloody cult!” Frank protested. “Seriously, Stan. These last twelve months have really opened my eyes. I’m really enjoying putting something back, and this is something we can make a great success!”

  “You’re using the word ‘we’ quite a bit, I notice,” remarked Stan.

  Frank’s eyebrows drooped. “You wouldn’t want to get involved?”

  “Of course I would,” Stan assured him. “We’re joined at the hip. And it would be quite nice to annoy Rodney Franks. If Henk hates the guy, it might be worth speaking to him next time he’s over!”

  “You know what, Stan. That’s a bloody good idea. I’ve got a good feeling about this. I can see me and you in our hunting jackets surveying the land.”

  Stan gave a lingering gaze out through the window.

  “God I love this place,” he said, after some time.

  “I know,” said Frank. “It’s special. We’re going to be very happy here.”

  Chapter Nine

  Summer 1
974

  N omadic life, wandering from town to town, wasn’t for everyone. There was time enough to make new friends, but permanent roots were never planted. Those who encountered Frank and Stan were often envious as to their ability to up sticks, and, as they called it, ‘go for an amble’ whenever the mood dictated. It wasn’t that they were unhappy where they were, but more that they were eager to see what their next destination had to offer.

  Sadly, there’d been one casualty on their travels; Daisy the campervan had served them admirably, but the strain had been showing for a number of months and the outcome was inevitable. Accommodation, however, was never a problem owing to the amount of money they were pulling in. They were a double act with an ability to bounce off each other, gifted with natural personalities that people warmed to; whatever they were selling, people were willing to buy.

  Whatever they sold – hoovers, washing machines, TVs, and, for a time, encyclopaedias – they were hugely successful. Frank’s Northern humour was especially popular with some of the housewives, eager to sample things he wasn’t technically selling. On several occasions, in fact, their decision to move to pastures new was driven by irate spouses not overly impressed by Frank’s extended warranty! Still, they had fun. Money was coming in quicker than they could spend. They were young, free, and single, with an insatiable appetite to experience the nightlife on offer.

  Whilst Frank had a personality that was adept at snapping knicker elastic, Stan was arguably the better-looking of the pair. Stan was immaculate – a proud man who clearly gave a lot of time and money to his appearance. In a time where homosexuality was legal, it was nevertheless a taboo subject and the subject of much derision. Stan wasn’t particularly camp, so it was easy enough to explain his single life as being the result of a difficult break-up. Besides, if anyone did have an inkling, it wouldn’t be long before they’d moved on.

  One such time was instigated by Frank. Sat around the table with several work colleagues, the familiar topic of conversation, queer-bashing, reared its ugly head. Stan was used to it – water off a duck’s back, you might say – but Frank was fed up of hearing it. It made him sick to the stomach how ignorant people were, offering an opinion on something they knew nothing about, and he snapped. Frank wasn’t ordinarily one for violence, but the right hook he landed on that obnoxious cretin’s chin was one he wouldn’t forget about – mainly due to him having two nights in the police cells to think about it. And they were soon on their travels, once again.

  London was the centre of the cultural universe. It wasn’t deliberate that Frank and Stan had never previously visited; they’d just never ventured that far down south. Now, though young, they were seasoned travellers. Still, when they did finally make their way to London, even they couldn’t have prepared themselves for what met them in the capital. The scale of the place was overwhelming and at times daunting. They didn’t know anybody, had nowhere to stay, and their cheeky wit was matched by hundreds of other young wannabes who were equally as hungry to succeed. Also, they soon realised that their budget for accommodation would need to be revisited. For what they’d once been able to secure a spacious house, they were now lucky to get a one-bedroom flat.

  There was an undercurrent of discontent in London they weren’t expecting to find. The economy, so buoyant at the start of the decade, had turned flat. Industrial action was an everyday occurrence and the three-day working week was, until recently, a reality.

  While there may not have been much spare cash around, those who had it – and a large number who didn’t – were eager to forget about their money worries, ironically, by spending their money. The musical landscape, as an example, was thriving and diverse, with glam rock artists, for instance, on the same bill as reggae bands.

  With a decent amount of dosh tucked away – in relative terms, at least – Frank and Stan were eager to absorb everything that this strange new world had to throw at them.

  Frank turned his nose up at the tatty interior as they entered the building. Patches of plaster render were missing from the brick walls, with additional fragments looking as if they might break away at a moment’s notice, thick oak support beams, that would once have been resplendent in some distant past, were now largely rotten – adding to the overall sense of despair.

  “This is it?” asked Frank, arching his neck. “This is the place you insisted I absolutely couldn’t miss?”

  Stan slapped his old friend on the back. “Yes, granted, it’s not the nicest pub in London. But, we’re not here for either the ambience or a pint.”

  “Well why the hell are you dragging me here?” Frank replied.

  “Frank, have faith,” Stan told him. “All will be revealed. If I told you in advance, you wouldn’t have come. When have I ever let you down? Come on. First round on me.”

  The place was surprisingly spacious, considering its modest exterior frontage (much like a Tardis, in that respect) and busier than one would expect for such a murky dump. As far as pubs went, this one was tired, grim, and considerably past its sell-by date – rather like the plump, partially-dressed stripper, in fact, plying her wares to anyone in the crowd happy to drop a few coins into the velvet red hat in her hand.

  “Here you go,” said Stan, once at the bar, handing over a pint of lager that was less than lively. Sensing Frank’s enthusiasm was flatter than the pint in his hand, he sought to deliver a modicum of enthusiasm. “You’ll like this, Frank,” he began, taking a sip from his own glass. “We’re here to see the entertainment,” he went on, “… because we’re going into the talent representation business.”

  Frank’s face scrunched up like curdled milk. “Please, please tell me you don’t mean her?” he said, in reference to the stripper they’d just seen, and who was now on all fours trying to retrieve a misplaced coin (and which would have been a more successful endeavour, perhaps, if only she’d put her cigarette down).

  Stan shuddered at the thought. “Don’t be bloody daft,” he said, crouching down to pick up the coin that’d rolled by his feet. Ever the gentleman, Stan held the coin out to return it to its rightful owner. The exotic dancer, unfortunately, took that as an invitation and began to gyrate, fag-in-mouth. To Stan’s horror, she moved ever closer, with a gentle, rhythmic stagger. It was unclear if this was part of her dance, and meant to be enticing, or was merely the result of a midday drinking session.

  Frank pushed his own seat back a few inches, leaving his friend directly in the firing line.

  “I’m Shelly,” said Shelly, presenting herself to Stan, and jiggling her udders. Her pale breasts hung low, with blue veins running generously throughout them. Stilton cheese would now be ruined forever for Stan.

  “Thank you, Shelly, but I’m fine. I was just returning your…”

  But Shelly was now in full flow, her arse now centimetres from Stan’s face. Stan tried desperately to shift his chair back, but Frank had extended his foot against Stan’s chair leg, preventing his friend’s timely escape. Stan reached into his pocket and held out his hand, this time offering up notes.

  Shelly’s eyes lit up when she spotted the notes. “I get off work in ten minutes,” she told Stan excitedly. “That’ll be more than enough,” she added, with a casual wink.

  Stan shuddered once more as the smell of tobacco on her breath hit him. “You don’t understand,” he said, trying to retain his composure. He was acutely aware that the focus of the pub was currently directly on him. “Listen,” Stan stuttered. He motioned her closer and leaned into her ear. “Take the money and bugger off, luv,” he said casually. “I don’t want anything in return. I’m gay, you see.” And if I weren’t already, I would be right now, he thought to himself.

  Shelly didn’t judge. She took the notes, and, as requested, happily buggered off – notes in hand.

  Stan gave a wry smile of liberation; Shelly was only the second person he’d told about his sexual persuasion, and it felt good. Strange. But good.

  “I think I’ve seen enough of this place,” re
marked Frank.

  “Wait,” said Stan, grabbing his arm. “They’re up next.”

  “Who are?”

  Stan held out a pointed finger to the stage, as three bedraggled-looking youths in long green trench coats trudged towards microphones being hastily erected.

  “They are!” Stan announced excitedly.

  “I think I was more impressed by the stripper,” Frank replied dryly.

  “Just watch,” insisted Stan.

  “Who are they?” asked Frank once again.

  “They, young Frank, are The Garden Tools.”

  “You’re having me on, yeah?” Frank protested, but then the young musician on the left took hold of his guitar and burst into life.

  Frank stood down, easing back into his chair. The sound system was laughable, and it was clear they were playing at a venue where the regulars were, perhaps, not their target audience, but the band were captivating.

  Stan kept one eye on Frank as the act moved through their setlist, watching and waiting for a reaction.

  It took three full songs before Frank was able to break his full attention away from the stage, turning only briefly to throw Stan a look of awe. “Wow,” he mouthed over the din.

  Stan didn’t try to respond, only giving a knowing nod in return. Today was a gamble – calculated, yes, but still a gamble. The contented expression on Frank’s face was all Stan needed to see to know, satisfied, that they were about to start a new chapter in their lives.

  “Come on,” said Stan, draining his tepid lager. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Once outside, Frank winced in pain as the natural daylight once again made contact with his retinas. The two of them walked for a time, in quiet thought, before Stan could no longer contain himself, fearing he might burst.

  “Well?” he asked, stood in front of Frank, his hand up on Frank’s chest, temporarily preventing further advance.

  “Well what?” asked Frank.

  Stan tilted his head, with eyebrows heading north. “Well what do you think?”

  Frank shook his head. “I think,” he offered in return. “That I’ll not be returning to that pub again.”