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

  “You’re bloody kidding me!” he shouted as the last disc revealed nothing, shaking his fist to the heavens. Unfortunately, his balance being precarious as it was, that wasn’t the best thing to do, as it turned out, and he tumbled to the floor like a large sack of potatoes. “Bastard!” he said, because there was little else to be said at this point.

  “What’s all the ruckus? The safe isn’t in–” began Sally, but she stopped short as she entered Frank’s office and surveyed the scene, with him laid on the floor on his back and Stan’s chair spinning round in circles.

  “What are you…?”

  “I’m, eh… doing some exercises? Exercises, that’s it. Got to stay fit,” Frank put forth.

  “Fucksake, you really are a daft bugger,” she replied, shaking her head in dismay. “I came to tell you the safe’s not in here. But here’s the key,” she said, holding it out for him. “Not that it’ll do you any good.”

  “Help me up, will you?” Frank pleaded.

  After he’d dusted himself off, he held the key in his hand, unsure what to do with it. “Hang on, what do you mean it won’t do me any good?”

  “Because it’s unlocked already. And there’s nothing in it, besides.”

  “There’s nothing–? Have we been robbed??” Frank wailed.

  “You great pillock,” Sally sighed. “There’s never been anything in the safe.”

  “Pillock,” a young voice reiterated.

  “Didn’t I give you some money to bugger off and buy sweets??” Frank replied at the sound of the higher-trebled voice.

  “The safe has always been kept open, with nothing inside of it,” Sally explained to a confused Frank. “To fool burglars into thinking there was nothing to steal. At least that was you and Stan’s reasoning at the start. Don’t you remember?”

  “What? But that doesn’t even–”

  “Make sense?” Sally answered. “Yes, I know. But this is the sort of absolutely sterling logic to which I’ve grown accustomed from you two bellend boys whilst working here.”

  “Bellend Boys,” Stella giggled.

  “Not helping, Stella,” said Frank, shooting the girl a look.

  “I presume you’re trying to figure out what Stan’s been up to? Have you tried his filing cabinet?” suggested Sally.

  “He’s got a filing cabinet?”

  “You both do!” replied Sally with despair. “I don’t know why I bother, really I don’t. Here,” she said, removing a key from her chain. “Here’s the spare key to both cabinets. Have at it!”

  Frank foraged through the first cabinet, aware that Stan could return at any time. “Empty! I’m guessing, er… I’m guessing this one must be mine, then,” he said, sliding it shut, before returning his attention to the second cabinet.

  “Here we go,” he said as the key opened the lock. This one gave the appearance of belonging to someone with a greater degree of organisation. Frank thumbed through several files, but he didn’t know what to anticipate. He half expected to find a file marked ABC, but life wasn’t often that generous. Still, fortune, as it would happen, seemed to be on Frank’s side. He looked over his shoulder before removing a tatty-looking white envelope and removing the contents.

  His left hand hung loose, the envelope dropping to the floor, as Frank gawked.

  “Stella, can you please do me a favour and go to the shop? There’s a good girl.”

  Frank’s hand trembled, with the photograph firmly in his grip.

  Sally could see from Frank’s face the graveness of the situation. She pressed gently on Stella’s back. “Go on, luv,” she instructed. “Do as he says, dear.”

  Frank rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, and then opened them again to confirm what he’d just seen was still, in fact, what he’d just seen.

  “Sally…” was all he said, passing the black & white photo over to her.

  “Oh my,” came her reply. “Hell’s bells. Stan, you very naughty boy. Frank, how’s he managed to even get himself into that position? I don’t even…” she said, turning the photograph several different directions.

  Frank shook his head. “Sally, forget about what they’re doing, and what position they’re in, or what that aubergine has endured,” he said. “Just look at the person that he’s doing it all with.”

  Sally looked at the photo, up to Frank, and then back down once again. “Holy fuckballs, Frank. Is that who I think it is?”

  Frank took the opportunity to retrieve his bottle of whisky. “It is that, Sally. That is indeed who you think it is,” he said, taking a generous mouthful from the bottle. “Oh, Stan. Stan, Stan. What the bloody hell have you gotten yourself into?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I n a little over a week’s time, pit lane would be home to organised chaos. Precious seconds on a fuel stop, or, a shaking hand on a tyre change could be the difference between TT glory or a trip home on the boat wondering if next year, perhaps, might instead be your year. There was no margin for error if you wanted to be on the top step of the podium. One mistake, no matter how slight, and someone else as hungry for victory as you was then snapping at your heels.

  Teams had started to arrive on the Island for what was the pinnacle of their racing calendar; it simply didn’t come any bigger than the TT. Parc fermé and the paddock – empty for months – were, once again, welcoming their guests for the better part of a month. Gargantuan race trucks were equally as welcome as the rusty transit vans which would be home to these warriors of the tarmac. The Island, so tranquil and sedate for most of the year, was about to come alive, yet again, with the unadulterated sounds of majestic horsepower of mechanical steed. The atmosphere was changing – it was charged with tension, optimism, hope, a daring to believe, and, for most, a healthy respect and desire that everyone arriving would make it back home, when all was said and done, unharmed.

  A gang of wide-eyed children were circulating around the race trucks, hopeful of a glimpse of their sporting heroes, or, more likely, in hopes the teams with their merchandise would throw a t-shirt or cap their way – which they most often did.

  “Excuse me, mister. Are you Dave Quirk?” asked one small boy, resting on the crossbar of his bicycle.

  Dave eyed him warily, waiting for a barbed comment or maybe an egg to be thrown at him. Dave nodded in confirmation that he was indeed himself and no other, but kept one eye out for a covert attack.

  The little boy – ten or maybe eleven – reached into his pocket, resulting in Dave taking a precautionary step back. The boy shouted over to his friends, “I told you it was him!” With the others gathering round, the boy then presented his mobile to set up a shot. “Mister Quirk, you’re our favourite rider. Can we have a photo?”

  “Did Monty put you up to this?” Dave laughed, but didn’t wait for a response, rather jumping in the middle and going with it. He was three times the size of his fan club members, but gave a genuine and not-at-all affected grin. His ego was bolstered further when another child mentioned a snapshot he’d taken of Dave and Monty the previous year, asking if Dave would sign it. The boy thumbed through his pile of unsigned pictures excitedly until reaching the image in question.

  “Sure!” said Dave, obligingly. “I think this is the first picture I’ve been asked to sign, actually. If you hang about, maybe I can find Monty to sign it for you as well.”

  Dave crouched down on one knee, placing the picture on the top of his thigh. “Writing implement, my good man?” he asked of the child, receiving promptly, upon request, a biro in return. This kid was clearly an accomplished autograph hunter.

  “This is a cracking picture,” remarked Dave. “Did you take it?”

  “Yes!” came the reply, with the boy swelling with pride. “My dad took me out to watch.”

  “It’s cracking,” said Dave again. The reason for the chatter was that he had no real idea what to write or what sort of signature to do. “Do you want me to dedicate it?” he asked.

  “Yes, please,” came the polite reply from the
golden-skinned child. “My name is Theodopolis.”

  “Bless you,” said Dave, but received only blank faces in return. “Oh, you’re being serious. How do you spell that?”

  Familiar with that question, the boy – ever the consummate professional – produced a pre-written card with his name on it, presumably to avoid erroneous entries on his prized photographs.

  Dave drew a small line on the card, ensuring the flow of the pen was fluid. “To T-H-E-O-D-O-P-O-L-I-S,” he said, announcing every letter as he wrote. “Yours faithfully,” he said, admiring the neatness of his handwriting. He pressed down to deliver a seamless signature that would adorn the wall of his young admirer for life. A final glance up to absorb the pride in the boy’s face spurred Dave on, but as he pressed down he heard the sickening sound of a tear.

  The pen had sunken straight through the picture, coming to a halt when it met the surface of his jeans. The boy, unaware at this point, continued to smile.

  “This picture,” said Dave, clearing his throat, nodding down as if the child needed a reminder of what the picture looked like. “Is, eh, this picture the only copy you have?”

  “Yes!” said the boy. “The only one in the world! That’s why it’s so special. I took it on my dad’s camera before he returned to Greece with work. He would be so proud of me to know I’ve managed to get it signed.” The boy’s face beamed, radiantly, as pure as extra-virgin olive oil.

  Dave cupped the pen with his other hand, engaging the child in further chit-chat. He slid his hand down the shaft of the pen, using the tip of his finger to feel for the damage without moving his eyeline. Bastard, he thought.

  “Theodopolis. You know how this picture is the only one? In the world?” continued Dave. “Well, I think this is the very best picture of me that I’ve ever seen. I think it would look absolutely fantastic in my van. Would you like to see my van? No, no, forget about that, Theo, that came out all wrong,” he said, holding out a pacifying arm. “I think I’d really like to buy your photograph for my van. Would you like to sell it to me?”

  The boy thought for a moment. “I guess,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Fifty pound,” the boy dispatched without delay.

  “Fifty pound??” shouted Dave, rearing up somewhat.

  That was not a good idea, the rearing, as it was met with the sound of a further tear.

  “Twenty pound,” countered Dave.

  “Fifty,” came the swift reply. “It’s the only one in the world, and I took it right before my father returned to Greece…”

  Dave uttered something incoherently, in feeble protest.

  “… right before he passed away,” Theodopolis added.

  “Right, fine,” said Dave, giving in. “Fifty it is, for the greatest picture in the world,” he agreed through gritted teeth. A wallet was produced, and five crisp ten-pound notes were handed over in return for the violated picture which Dave managed to keep concealed. “You should work in finance when you’re older,” said Dave. “You’d be an excellent banker.”

  Dave went to ruffle the child’s hair, but then thought better of it in view of the earlier do-you-want-to-see-the-interior-of-my-van suggestion.

  “I hope you have a great TT, Mister Quirk!” said the boy, gleefully fanning the fifty pounds.

  Dave put his empty wallet back in his pocket. “Me, too! I need the prize money!”

  Two of the other boys stepped forward. “Could we also have our picture signed, Mister Quirk?”

  Eager to make amends, Dave agreed, but also took their cardboard-backed envelope to use as a writing surface, lest he make the same (costly) mistake twice. The two boys handed over three pictures in total, which Dave held like a poker hand. He looked at the three pictures in turn, then over the top towards Theodopolis, who was poised to make good his escape.

  “These are all the same bloody picture, you little bugger! You told me yours was the only one in the world!”

  “It’s the only one in the world with a hole poked through it!” laughed Theodopolis, now waving the notes in Dave’s direction. “Thanks for the money, Mister Quirk!”

  “What just happened?” said Dave to nobody in particular, before he then started to chuckle. “Little bastard, that’s brilliant,” he said to himself. “Fair play to the cheeky little monkey.”

  Although his wallet was lighter, he walked in the direction of pit lane with a spring in his step. After all, all things considered, the children knew who he was, and even had his photograph.

  “Where’ve you been?” asked Frank, tapping his watch, at Dave’s arrival minutes later. “The film crew were getting twitchy.”

  “I’ve just been waylaid,” said Dave. “But I’m here now.”

  Frank, Stan, and Monty were stood at the entrance to pit lane, joined by an exceptionally attractive female journalist testing her volume with her cameraman.

  “What’s that?” asked Dave, while waiting, spotting the package in Monty’s hand, but he was afraid he already knew the answer.

  “Frank got them for us!” replied an enthusiastic Monty. “It’s an action shot from last year’s TT. We can hand them out for a bit of publicity for the charity. Have a look!” suggested Monty.

  “No need, my old mate. I think I’ve just seen them three or four times already.”

  “Okay, guys, I think we’re good to go,” said the cheerful blonde-haired presenter, microphone in hand. “I’m Jenny,” she told them. “And you may feel a little bit nervous, but you should just try and relax. Just be yourself and you’ll be fine,” she assured them. “Okay, I’m going to stand to the right of the camera, so can I ask you all to look towards me rather than directly into the camera? It comes off more naturally that way. Is that all right?” she asked, without waiting for a response. “Right, are we good to go, Neil?” she asked of the cameraman, and then started.

  “I’m here with two very special guests today. We have the winners of last year’s…. wait, Neil, pause it,” she said.

  Neil paused it.

  “Could I ask you to look towards me, rather than at the camera?” she asked Monty.

  Monty nodded in agreement, though didn’t move a muscle.

  “You’re, em, you’re still doing it,” said Jenny, offering a forced smile.

  Monty smiled back, unsure what exactly he was being accused of. “Erm… what?” he eventually asked, confused.

  “Can I ask you not to look at the camera?”

  “Ah! Sure!” Monty replied, now that was sorted.

  “Great, thank you. Okay, Neil, if we can…” She paused again. “Mister Montgomery? You’re still... only you… it’s just… if you could…”

  “Ah,” offered Dave after a few minutes of this. “If I may? He’s not looking at the camera, not exactly. He’s looking at you. But, it also looks like he’s looking at the camera. When he’s not.”

  Jenny the presenter lowered her microphone. “What…?” she said, her bubbly demeanour now slightly muddled, and lessening in effervescence with each passing second.

  Dave was used to this line of questioning. “Well,” he said, hands now being used in an animated fashion. “Do you know when you see a chameleon on the television, and their eyes move independently of each other? Right. Well, that’s our Monty.”

  “He can move his eyes independently?” she asked.

  “Well, not precisely,” explained Dave. “But it kind of looks like it. He has one eye that’s looking at you, and one eye looking for you. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I can’t say I do, no,” came the reply.

  “They’re stuck that way. He’s looking right at you, but also at the camera. At the same time,” Dave explained. “All at once. See?”

  “Could we… perhaps turn him around a bit?” she suggested.

  “I am here, you know,” protested Monty. “I’m stood right here.”

  “Spin round a bit, won’t you?” said Neil over the ridge of the camera, before returning to the viewfinder. “That’s done it, Jenny,” said N
eil, with a thumbs-up.

  And they started again:

  “I’m here with two very special guests, the winners of last year’s Spirit of the TT Award, Dave Quirk and Shaun “Monty” Montgomery. I’m sure you need no reminder, but their selfless act in response to a fellow racer’s troubled sidecar mitigated a tragedy that could have been much, much more serious. Dave, if I can come to you first?” she said, deliberately keeping Monty standing in the same spot. “Dave, you were both injured last year in the crash. How are you feeling now?”

  Dave cleared his throat. “I’m excellent now, Jenny, thank you for asking. If I’m being honest, I’d struggled for years with my knee, but the crash seems to have knocked something back into place! Which is an unexpected but happy outcome. Monty, however, is still on the mend, and struggles with his hip and ankle. Don’t you, Monty?”

  “I do!” said Monty merrily, but he was rigid, like a poker had been inserted up his bum. He was afraid of moving.

  “But you’re okay to race, Monty?” pressed Jenny.

  “You couldn’t stop me!” said Monty. “My leg would have to be hanging by a bit of gristle for me to not race!”

  “Your machine was, of course, destroyed last year. What’s the plan for this TT, Dave?”

  “We’re very fortunate to have our sponsors from last year back on board,” said Dave, pointing to an out-of-shot Frank and Stan. “They’ve given us the financial backing to put a package together that’s beyond our wildest dreams. The new machine is like a rocket! Our sponsors are involved in a charity called Frank and Stan’s Food Stamps, which raises money to feed the homeless.”

  “Excellent. So, your new outfit. What sort of result are you hoping for?”