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

  “Me neither, but what about–?”

  “They were very good,” said Frank. “I’m not a massive music fan, but they were good. Who were they again? The Garden Fools?”

  “Tools,” corrected Stan.

  “Ah,” nodded Frank. “Then that makes at least a little more sense.”

  “Frank, I’ve got a good feeling about this – you know, me and you, in the entertainment business.”

  “What, you were serious about that bit?” Frank gave a half-smile. “What do we know about the entertainment business? We’d last five minutes.”

  “No, listen,” said Stan, putting his arm around Frank’s shoulder now, and pressing down slightly for effect. “Entertainment is just another commodity to sell. You’ve said it yourself, Frank. We’re the best salesmen in the game. It doesn’t matter what we’re selling, the underlying principle is the same. It doesn’t matter if it’s a hoover, washing machines, or whatever. You’re trying to sell a product to an end user, and in this case that product is entertainment, or, to be more precise, music!”

  Stan guided Frank into a shop doorway, pulling him in, where they stood like moonstruck lovers.

  “Come on, Frank, me and you. Imagine it. Me and you, best friends, working together as music agents! Frank,” Stan went on, moving closer like he was preparing a tender kiss. “Frank,” he repeated. “We can do this. I can feel it in my water, we’re going to make our fortune!”

  An elderly couple passing leisurely by eyed Frank and Stan with suspicion. “Disgusting,” the man commented.

  “The times are changing, Bertrand,” his wife told him, kindly. “It’s not like it used to be.”

  “It’s rubbish. I don’t like it one bit,” the man answered her. “Not one single bit!”

  “Mind your blood pressure, dear,” she told him. “Remember your condition.”

  “Things ought to stay exactly as they’ve always been,” he said.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t like that at all, things always staying the same,” the woman remarked. “Not at all.”

  Their voices faded away as they continued on their way, until they could no longer be heard.

  “Well, Frank? Are you in??” asked Stan.

  Frank rolled his eyes skyward. He knew he was going to lose this battle. Still, he soldiered on:

  “So. These Garden Tools. What if they don’t want us to manage them after all? Especially when you tell them we’ve got bugger-all knowledge of the music industry. What then?”

  “Ah,” offered Stan, finger in the air. “But I do have musical knowledge. I was a former assistant stagehand!”

  Frank laughed. “You’re talking about the school production of The Wizard of Oz, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe,” admitted Stan. “But it’s all about the details, isn’t it? And in this case, I didn’t go into details. It was a minor point that wouldn’t have helped my negotiations.”

  “This is all going to go tits-up, Stanley, I can guarantee it. But, what the hell, maybe we should give it a go. What’s the worst that could…?” Frank paused. “Hang on. What negotiations? You’ve already spoken to them??”

  Stan’s finger was in the air once again, like a flagpole. “Ah!” he said, pausing for thinking time. “Ah! Well, see, I knew you’d see things my way, so–”

  “Stanley?” Frank demanded.

  “I knew you’d say yes in the end, so I’ve already taken the liberty of paying them a small retainer to, you know, secure our position as their exclusive management and such.”

  Frank’s eyes narrowed. “What! And exactly how small is this small retainer?” he asked, not at all amused, and slapping the floating finger to one side.

  “Only two hundred pounds,” Stan replied. “Not that much,” he quickly added.

  “Bloody hell, Stan! Two hundred pounds!”

  “Right. Not that much,” Stan said again.

  Frank, for his part, appeared unconvinced that £200 was not all that much.

  Stan, however, was full of bravado. “It’ll be fine, I promise you. This time next year we’ll be millionaires! You’ve seen how good they are, and they’re just the beginning of our empire. Just picture it!” said Stan, thrusting his arm aloft and sweeping it majestically across an imaginary horizon. “Besides, you said I was the money man!”

  “I meant you were good at spending it, not good with it, as is now very evident,” Frank sighed with despair. “Two hundred pounds. Bloody hell, Stan.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Stan assured him once more.

  “Stan,” said Frank, with eyes fixed. “That was our money, Stan. I appreciate why you’ve done it. I do. But, in future, promise me you’ll talk to me before you spend what is our collective money? Yes?”

  Stan bowed his head like a naughty schoolboy. “I promise, Frank. I just got caught up in the moment, that’s all. It was too good an opportunity for us. We’re going to be rich and famous by the time we’re twenty-five,” he said, brightening up again and slapping Frank across the shoulder as if that should be all the assurance Frank required.

  “I’m going to hold you to that, Stan. Now come on, let’s get out of this doorway. It smells of piss.”

  Stan didn’t move. His head was down again, and he was examining his shoes by the look of it.

  “Stan? I said let’s go,” Frank reiterated.

  “Ah,” replied Stan. “Well here’s the thing,” he said. “It’s just that…”

  “It’s just that what? What is it now?” asked Frank, but there was no immediate response.

  “What’ve you done, Stan?” Frank asked again, casting him a hard look. “Or, should I say, what else have you done?”

  Stan took a deep breath. “Well, you know the saying about getting hung for a sheep than a lamb?”

  “Yes,” replied Frank. “But I never really understood it. I have a feeling, though, that in this particular instance, it’s not good news.”

  “Just the opposite!” Stan answered, feigning more confidence than he actually possessed. “Come on,” he said, placing his arm around his friend’s shoulder again, and gently ushering him out of the doorway and over in front of the shop window.

  Stan gave Frank’s shoulder a playful squeeze for good measure.

  “Okay… I don’t get it,” said Frank. “Are we waiting for performing monkeys to appear or something?”

  Stan pointed to a piece of frayed rope which ran down the left-hand side of the window. “Grab that, Frank,” he instructed. “And give it a tug.”

  “Not the first time you’ve said that to me,” chuckled Frank.

  “I’m serious,” replied Stan. “Give it a pull.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Frank, looking up to see what it was attached to. “Does a bucket of water come crashing down when I pull it?”

  “Just pull it!” repeated Stan.

  Tentatively, with a cautionary glance over his shoulder, Frank tugged at the rope, instinctively retreating a step as he did so. He was expecting more fanfare, with the resulting action being no more than a plastic sheet – still, for the most part, affixed – rustling in the wind.

  Stan was mortified. “It worked in rehearsal, honestly!”

  Frank looked like he might be losing his patience.

  “Pull it once more, a bit harder!” Stan said, in his finest Benny Hill styling.

  Anxious for any sort of resolution to this affair, Frank gripped and pulled, this time releasing an invisible clasp, setting the plastic sheet free to reveal...

  Stan hovered, with jazz hands poised. “Well?” he asked. “Do you like it?”

  Frank took several steps back for a proper look, placing his thumb and forefinger to his chin and cocking his head to one side.

  Above the dingy, bordering-on-derelict shop was an immaculate gloss-white sign that ran the length of the glass frontage. Either side of the sign were two huge portraits of Frank and Stan, radiating a prideful confidence, like two marble lions stood sentry at the gates to a splendid country residence. The bold images
were matched only by the impressive wording that gave the impression the lettering had been applied by hand with painstaking precision.

  Frank freed his chin from his grasp and read aloud what he saw:

  Frank looked at the sign, over to Stan, and then back over to the sign. “I bloody love it,” said Frank, much to Stan’s visible and audible relief. “And I’m assuming you’ve leased the shop as well, and not just appropriated the face of it to hang the sign? I’m not even going to ask the cost–”

  “You probably shouldn’t,” interjected Stan. “But we’ve got enough – well, had enough – without going into debt or borrowing anything.”

  Frank patted his belly like he’d just enjoyed a good meal, then shrugged his shoulders.

  “What’ve we got to lose, Stanley? You have to speculate to accumulate. But that whole sheep and lamb thing? If you spend my money without telling me, ever again, the only thing that’ll be getting hung, is you, by your testicles! Now, come on, you need to buy me a decent pint of beer and assure me that dump of a pub we’ve just been is not going to be our local!”

  With that, the two of them skipped off to begin a new chapter in their lives. Certainly, for Frank at least, it was a chapter he didn’t see coming. But he figured, what’s the worst that could happen?

  “Stan,” said Frank, pausing for a moment. “That sign you’ve put up?”

  “It’s good, isn’t it,” replied Stan, rather more a statement than a question.

  “It’s brilliant,” replied Frank, pushing out his bottom lip in appreciation. “But one small point, if I may?”

  “Of course,” said Stan. “Go on.”

  Frank used his finger, counting imaginary figures, before continuing:

  “Established nineteen sixty-two? We were at primary school in nineteen sixty-two. I’m not convinced you could tie your own shoelace in nineteen sixty-two?”

  “Details, Frank. I said this earlier, it’s all about the details, or, once again, the lack of them. I didn’t want people to know we were beginners. And if anyone pushes the point, we’ll just say we’re second-generation.”

  “Okay,” replied Frank, seemingly content with the strategy proposed. “Stan,” asked Frank, in a manner which indicated he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to know the answer. “Do we actually have any money left?”

  Stan chuckled. “Of course we do,” he said. “Just not an awful lot. But you remember this conversation next year when we’re swimming in a bathtub full of cash!”

  “I may get you to sign something to that effect!” countered Frank. “Now, come on, you can buy me a pint that’s actually got a head on it.”

  Stan picked up the pace and broke into an enthusiastic skip, gambolling down the pavement whilst singing the Cole Porter classic “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” – to which Frank joined in.

  “I’ve got a good feeling about this!” shouted Stan over Frank, who was now in full voice. “Here’s to the Garden Tools!” he proclaimed, shaking his fist in delight.

  “The Garden Tools!” repeated Frank, before adding, “What the hell have we got ourselves into!”

  Chapter Ten

  T he curtain-raiser to the Isle of Man TT was the eagerly anticipated launch event. Held several weeks before the action on track commenced, it was the ideal showcase for the teams to talk about their ambitions, show off their new machinery, or perhaps to introduce the latest riders to their team. For those fortunate enough to secure tickets for the sell-out event, you had the opportunity to mingle with your sporting heroes and be immersed in the majestic atmosphere that is the TT Races – the greatest sporting spectacle on earth.

  The general feeling in the queue outside the Villa Marina was one of cheerful, patient camaraderie. Those waiting were eager to share their own experiences of the TT and, perhaps, offer an opinion on who’d be at the top of the podium come race day. Conversations got only more animated as the queue progressed, with spirits high all around.

  There were, however, two people who were not as jovial as those in their immediate vicinity, with their admittance into the event hitting a bit of a snag.

  Security at the entrance was minimal – after all, this was the TT, not football – and entrance to the evening’s proceedings was granted by a slight youth wearing a white shirt a size too big for him. Adrian, was his name, according to the name badge he proudly sported. He was a polite young man, wielding his tally counter with a practised ease and great facility, and giving it a confident click with each passing ticket holder. Despite his pleasant demeanour, he was, nevertheless, a boy who took his job very seriously.

  And Adrian, in the case of the two ne’er-do-wells before him, had apparently seen enough.

  “I’ve told you two. And I shan’t tell you again, I’m afraid. If you do not have a ticket, then I cannot let you in. It’s really as simple as that,” Adrian admonished the pair, puffing out his pigeon chest as he did so. “You’ll need to step away from the queue, please,” he instructed. Adrian wasn’t for coercing, but his tone was rather firm and he was in no doubt of the important authority bestowed upon him as gatekeeper.

  Dave finally relented. “Fine!” he said, with a petulant stamp of the foot, and then taking Monty by the arm and leading him away.

  “One bloody job, Monty,” Dave whinged while stepping out of the queue, as instructed. “One job to not forget the tickets…”

  “You can’t blame me for this,” Monty protested, with a shrug of his shoulders. “It’s hardly my fault.”

  Dave held out his empty hands. His hands were quite large, making their emptiness only that much more apparent. “Monty,” he said. “Did you have the tickets?”

  “Yes!” replied Monty happily.

  “Monty,” Dave continued, extending his hands closer to Monty’s face so as to make their lack of contents indisputable. “Do I have anything in my hands?”

  Monty examined Dave’s palms very carefully, even though they were now only inches from his face and plain to see. He shook his head. “Nothing there!” he said, enjoying this game, and waiting for the magic trick he was sure would come.

  “No, Monty, there isn’t. There is nothing in my hands because you didn’t bring the tickets!” Dave answered.

  It was the most rubbish magic trick Monty had ever seen, and naturally he was disappointed.

  “I do have a day job, you know!” he protested. “Besides, I didn’t think they’d have that bloody jobsworth on the door!”

  “Insults won’t get you anywhere, gentlemen,” Adrian replied, overhearing. He turned to them and gave them a stern look. “No ticket, no show. You need a ticket to see the show,” he told them. “Those are the rules.”

  Dave took an impatient breath, looking to the watch on his chubby wrist for emphasis. “Adrian,” he implored, adopting a more conciliatory tone. “Adrian, I can see you’re a man of power and influence. But we don’t want to attend the show. We’re in the bloody show, you see.”

  Monty, pleased that they were all on a first-name basis, took a step forward and happily joined in the conversation. “Adrian, my friend,” he said. “Dave and I are sidecar racers and we’re due to be interviewed in the Q-and-A in about twenty-five minutes, he explained,” with so much pride in his voice he was fit to burst.

  The queue – which was accumulating in number due to the current delay – looked Dave and Monty up and down in unison.

  “You’re racers?” asked Adrian, asking what everyone was thinking, rather quite incredulous. “I’ve heard some unlikely excuses in my time,” chuckled Adrian, as if his experience were vast and spanned ages. “But if you two are sidecar racers, then I’m Vin Diesel.” Adrian was proud of that comment, looking to the crowd for laughter, but got no reaction. Everyone was too busy staring at Dave and Monty. “Vin Diesel,” Adrian said again for emphasis, undeterred.

  Enough was enough for Dave. “Right. Get it out of the bag, Monty,” he instructed his partner.

  Monty stared at Adrian for an intense few seconds
. “Right-O. You asked for this,” he told the boy, before ever-so-slowly reaching into the cheap supermarket plastic bag, partially torn near the handle. Monty kept his eyes locked to those of the gatekeeper, his hand plunging into the depths of his receptacle…

  And fished around…

  It was there somewhere…

  Fucksake, it was a small bag…

  Shouldn’t be that hard to find…

  Where could it have…?

  Adrian placed the clicker in his pocket. This is the moment he’d been waiting for. This is where all his training would finally be put to use. It was his moment to shine.

  “Tooled up, are we?” the boy – all of about four-foot-two, and ninety pounds soaking wet if he were very lucky – asked with a cocky grin.

  Before Monty could respond, Adrian, in one fluid motion – a motion presumably practised in front of his mum’s mirror – whipped out a solid piece of wood secured to his ankle. Given the oriental design on the cosh, it was evident that Adrian was quite the kung-fu aficionado.

  “Bring it!” demanded Adrian, now prancing on the spot like a featherweight prizefighter.

  “What the hell? I thought we were friends now!” pleaded Monty, taking a step back behind Dave for cover.

  “Thou shall not pass!” Adrian called out, in no uncertain terms. His lungs may have been small but his will was indomitable.

  “Look at this,” Monty whimpered, finally producing from the shallow depths of the flimsy plastic bag the sought-upon object. “This is why we’re here. This.”

  Monty held up the object in his hand like one would brandish a crucifix to ward off a creature of the night.

  “Right. Did you lot steal that?” asked Adrian, gazing reverently at the gleaming trophy in astonishment, as if he were staring at the Holy Grail itself. “Because if you did, I warn you, I’ll be forced to open up your head like a tin of beans!”

  “To be fair, I can see why you’d think that,” Dave intervened. “But, no. We won that Spirit of the TT award. Last year.”

  “You must recognise us, surely?” suggested Monty, bravely stepping out from behind Dave once again. “We’re heroes,” he added, arms thrust back, chin – well, at least one of his chins – raised skyward.