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 told him, then?” asked Stan, cowering behind Frank. “Who’s he on the phone to, Frank? Is it Henk?”

  But before Frank responded, Dave hung up the phone, stomping toward their position.

  “So… you decided not to do it?” asked Stan tentatively, stepping out from behind Frank’s shadow.

  “Hey, guys. Do what?” asked Dave, picking oily grime out from under his nails.

  Frank sharpened his elbow, delivering a less-than-discreet blow. “I’ve not told him,” whispered Frank through the corner of his mouth.

  Dave’s face was still reddened and angry from his call, moments before. “Do what?” he repeated to Stan, who’d now retreated once again – leaving Frank to receive the question.

  Frank looked this way and that. “Monty not about?”

  “He’s at the physio.”

  “Right,” said Frank, mustering up his courage. “Dave, you know about Tom McMullan being arrested,” he began.

  Dave’s face was now returning to its normal colour, at least temporarily. “Thanks for the reminder,” he chuckled.

  Frank paused for a bit, then continued. “Dave, before I proceed,” he said, with some trepidation. “That call you were just on. That wasn’t by any chance Henk you were shouting at?”

  “Why would I be shouting at Henk? No, this was that bloody fitness instructor you employed,” Dave said. “He thinks it would be a good idea to lay off alcohol for one month. That, of course, will not be happening.”

  “Okay, anyway,” continued Frank. “Henk hasn’t been to see you?”

  “Noooo,” Dave replied slowly. “Why would he?”

  Frank looked around once more, ensuring Monty hadn’t returned. “Dave, before I tell you this, as your sponsors, and your friends, we’re one hundred percent happy with whatever you should ultimately decide.”

  Dave turned up his nose. “You’re not trying to fix me up with your friend, Stella, are you?”

  “What? No, look. Henk phoned Stan this afternoon. Tom McMullan can’t race, as you know.”

  “A shame, innit?” replied Dave, chuckling once more.

  Frank took a step forward. He was going to place his hands over Dave’s shoulders. However, considering their respective heights, and the raised elevation of Dave’s shoulders, he settled for a pat on Dave’s chest.

  “What’s going on?” asked Dave. “Why are you two acting so odd?”

  “Dave, Henk wants you to take Tom McMullan’s place. He wants you to pilot his sidecar with Harry McMullan as your passenger. He believes that you as driver and Harry as passenger, on that bike, can win the TT…”

  Frank said all this without daring to pause for breath.

  “Okay. You do know you can’t just swap like that, don’t you?” said Dave.

  Frank looked at Stan. And then he looked back to Dave.

  “You can’t?”

  “No, of course not. You have to qualify. Henk would know this.”

  “Oh. So I guess it’s not possible?” asked Frank.

  Dave thought for a moment, rubbing his chin, which he did when deep in thought, which wasn’t that often.

  “It is theoretically possible, I reckon,” he conceded. “You’d have to complete three laps at a qualifying time. There are precisely three practice laps next week, with two of them on Monday after the Supersport solo race, and the third on Wednesday, after the Lightweight solo race. That’s also assuming the Clerk of the Course would give the change the green light, but I don’t think it’s been done before so I’m not sure what he’d say?”

  “So you’d consider it? You know, if all went to plan?” asked Stan.

  “Heavens, no,” said Dave. “That was all hypothetical. I would never split up the dream team that is Dave and Monty, not ever. It’d be like breaking apart fish and chips. Or bangers and mash. Theoretically it could be done, sure. But what would be the point of it?”

  “It’s a relief to hear you say that, actually,” Frank said.

  “We were worried this could get very awkward,” said Stan, feeling it safe to emerge from behind Frank now the crisis was over.

  “I know, yeah. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice idea. But Monty and I are inseparable, as I said. So, it’s a no from me. Anyway. Beer?” asked Dave, pointing to the fridge.

  “Good god, yes!” replied Stan. “If you’d seen what Frank and I had to do in the name of friendship earlier today, you’d understand our need for alcohol.”

  After the first beer was demolished, Monty appeared, heading straight for the beer fridge himself. Monty didn’t speak, draining the contents of the tin in one go, before reaching for another, and then another, and then one more.

  Watching Monty down a can of beer was compelling viewing, but Frank felt the requirement to nevertheless interject. “Everything okay there, Monty? You seem thirstier than usual.”

  Monty collapsed back onto the leather sofa, holding his wonky gaze skyward. He didn’t speak for an age. Finally, he turned to Dave. His face was grim.

  “Dave, I’m not sure how to say this, but it’s over for us.”

  “What?” laughed Dave. “Can’t we at least talk about it? Is it something I said or did? I can change, you know. Monty, is there someone else?”

  “I’m serious,” Monty went on. “Dave, I’ve just been to the physio and she’s told me enough is enough. The leg hasn’t healed, and she said it’s fucked if I carry on racing. Well, not those words exactly, but that’s the general theme. Dave, if I stay on, I’ll only make a dog’s dinner of things, and I may not walk again. I didn’t want to tell you, and I’m shattered, but… there’s no other option.”

  Dave’s jovial expression turned serious as well. He thought for a moment before speaking.

  “I’m sorry about that, mate. I really am. We had a shot at the top ten on Friday, but, your leg is more important, so no hard feelings. I’m gutted, but, well…” Dave stood and gave Monty a firm embrace. “Some things are more important, Monty,” said Dave, failing to hold back a tear.

  Monty excused himself, likely to recycle the vast quantity of lager he’d just consumed.

  Frank placed a comforting hand on Dave’s. “I know this isn’t the best time, Dave,” he ventured. “But there is that other option. We should go and speak with Henk directly.”

  Stan nodded. “Frank’s right, Dave. You can’t give up on your dream. You’ve got a shot at the title, and ending it now would be a tragedy.”

  “It’s true,” Frank joined in again. “Dave, you could very well be an Isle of Man TT Winner. You simply cannot let this opportunity pass you by. Monty will understand. He’d want this for you.”

  Dave looked at his watch, and then to Frank and Stan. “I’d be mad not to, wouldn’t I?” Dave looked down to the ground, deep in thought, twice in such a short time frame.

  “Come on, boys,” said Dave after a fashion. “Let’s go and see Henk.”

  “I’ll wait here,” said Stan. “Maybe have a drink with Monty. You want me to mention this to him?”

  “Please,” confirmed Dave. “I’d have told him myself, but it’s getting late and if we’re going to do this we need to do it quickly.”

  Stan walked around the awning, caressing the oil-soaked surfaces, pondering on how this environment was now so important to him. He really wouldn’t be without it.

  Monty returned, clutching another beer.

  “The beer’s helping your leg, Monty?” remarked Stan, in reference to the absence of any observable limp.

  Monty took that as another instruction to take his medicine. “It is, at that,” he said, pulling up with a now visible limp, like a lame horse.

  “I thought it was the other leg?” asked Stan.

  “What?”

  “Your limp, Monty. It seems to have moved to the other leg.” Stan smiled, realisation dawning. “You’ve given your friend the chance to win a TT, Monty. Haven’t you?”

  Monty didn’t react until the waterworks began. “Damn beer is playing with my emotio
ns,” he said, unconvincingly. “This is between me and you, Stan. Promise?”

  Stan handed him a box of tissues. “Monty, I promise.”

  Monty reflected. “We wouldn’t have gotten a top-ten finish with me onboard, Stan. We just wouldn’t have. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for Dave and there was no way I was getting in the way of that.”

  “Oh, bloody hell, Monty. Now you’ve got me going as well,” sobbed Stan. “Give me some of those tissues back.”

  After Stan had regained his composure, he said, “Monty, your friendship with Dave. It reminds me of mine with Frank. You’re very lucky in that regard, you know, to find someone who’s like that as a friend. Not everyone has that in their life.”

  Monty raised his beer. “Here’s to my good friend, Dave. Hopefully soon to be a TT winner!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  D utch Henk was a formidable force: built like the side of a house, and the life and soul of the party, but, if you were on the wrong side of him, you’d better watch out for he wasn’t backwards in coming forwards.

  “YOU VERY LARGE PIECE OF THE EXCREMENT!” he screamed, marching with vigour through the TT paddock. Those finding themselves in his way quickly made it their business to make certain they were not in his way for long.

  “WHERE IS RODNEY FRANKS?” Henk demanded, looming over a grease-covered mechanic who dropped his spanner in fright (and with his bowels likely loosing next). The mechanic picked up his spanner without daring to break eye contact, raising it weakly, and pointing it with a trembling hand to a temporary office at the back of their awning. “In there?” he offered with a breaking voice.

  Henk didn’t wait for further invitation, rather, striding over and virtually taking the door off its hinges as he burst through. Rodney Franks pressed himself against the back of his chair, for his only exit was blocked by the hulk of a man in front of him.

  Franks’ chief mechanic Abe Maddocks, currently sat on the corner of Rodney’s desk, stiffened up for a moment. “Are we going to have trouble here?” he asked bravely, though likely only to impress his boss.

  Henk looked straight through the mechanic and pointed his index finger – which resembled a braadworst sausage – straight at Rodney, causing Franks to wheel his chair back a foot or two until it was up against the wall and could go no further.

  “TOM MCMULLAN IS STILL BEING HELD BY POLICE BECAUSE OF YOU!”

  Rodney raised his hands in feigned innocence. “It wasn’t me who started throwing punches!”

  “You were the cause of the punches! You gave Tom McMullan the PHOTOGRAPH of his girlfriend with Andy Thomas! Andy Thomas is your own rider! Why in GOD’S hell would you even do thIS? You must have known that Tom would knock him… Ah!” said Henk, circulating like a rabid animal. Henk started to laugh. “Ah, I see now what you HAve done!”

  The valour in the mechanic’s demeanour began to wane as quickly as Henk’s increased. He slid over the desk trying to reach for the phone as casually as possible, but Henk’s further advancement brought a halt to that notion.

  Henk stood over the desk with a crazed smile on his face, saying: “You knew that by giving Tom that photo he WOULd loOseN his mind and that he WOULd be disqualified FROM THE RACE, or EVEN worsT! You did this because you knew if we won that second race you WOULd be handing TO me the farm you wanted so badly for yourself! You really are a large piece of THE excrement! THE VERY LARGEST PIECE OF THE EXCREMENT! You were willing to sacrifice your own rider just to avoid loOsing a bet??”

  Henk’s look of disgust was now matched by that of the mechanic. “Boss, tell him that’s not true… It’s not true, right, boss? Boss?” Maddocks asked, though it seemed he already suspected the answer.

  Rodney grinned like a petulant child. “What can I say? The hotel I’m going to build on that farm will be worth a fortune. We’re both businessmen. You can understand, surely? I’ll tell you what, Henk. If you want in on a slice of the action, just ask, how’s that?” Franks wheedled.

  “My rider is in the jail!” Henk thundered in his inimitable Dutch drawl.

  “I didn’t think they’d come down so hard on him,” Franks replied with a shrug and a smirk. “So that was just an unexpected bonus, I suppose.” And then he laughed.

  Henk flung himself over the desk, taking a grip of Franks’ cravat. The very fact that Rodney Franks wore a cravat was in itself an egregious offence.

  The mechanic, Maddocks, whose look of disgust intensified, grabbed Henk’s arm – but not in an aggressive manner. “Leave him, Henk,” he said calmly. “You don’t want to end up in jail with Tom.”

  Henk held his grip a moment, then threw Franks back against his chair. “I WIll bet it was you that told Andy Thomas that Tom had BEEN drawnING the fallus on the side of the van, yes?”

  “I should think you’d have had enough of bets, Henk?” sniggered Franks. “What can I say? If the photo didn’t get them to fight, the huge cock would.”

  Henk shook his fist, indicating he was about to launch an assault.

  “Do it, Henk!” taunted Franks, holding out the point of his chin as an easy target. “Please, be my guest.”

  But it was Abe Maddocks who swung into action, swiping his arm across his boss’s desk, spilling the desktop’s contents to the floor. He looked down on Rodney with contempt.

  “I always defended you, Rodney, gave you the benefit of the doubt. Most people think you’re a Grade-A tool, but I always stuck up for you. Always.”

  “That was your mistake?” Franks offered with a sneer.

  “You know how hard me and the boys have been working on your sidecar,” Maddocks went on. “But you were willing to potentially get your rider injured or even disqualified, all to win a bet? Well, you can take your job, Rodney, and stick it right up your arse!”

  With that, Abe grabbed Henk’s arm once more. “He really isn’t worth it, Henk,” Abe told him.

  Henk lowered his fist. “You ARE needING a job? You come work for me?” he asked.

  “Sure,” said Abe, flicking one final finger in Rodney’s direction.

  Henk took a breath for composure. “I HAve just spoken to thIS Clerk of the Course, Rodney!” he said with a smile emerging. “Your objection to our change of rider was rejected! Dave and Harry have now completed three qualifying laps and they are ready to race on Friday!”

  Franks shrugged his shoulders and waved his hand dismissively. “Dave Quirk?” he laughed derisively. “You’ve got to be joking. He’s a fat grease monkey! Granted, Harry is an impressive passenger. But, Henk, Quirk is a club racer at best.” Rodney reached for the qualifying timings on his desk but they were no longer there, courtesy of Maddocks. Franks carried on, undeterred. “Have you seen the timings that Quirk and McMullan have put in? They’re two miles an hour slower. You haven’t got a bloody chance.”

  “Wat denk jullie wel, vuile typhuslijder, dat ik mijn kostelijke bedden door zulke sikreten laat bezijken!” bellowed Henk. And then, remembering to speak English: “Fuck you! And fuck…” he said, looking around the office. “Fuck your bin!” he added, swinging his leg like a pendulum, and launching the metal object straight towards Rodney’s head.

  “Temper, temper, Henk,” said Franks as he dodged the projectile, which served only to rile Henk further.

  “We will BE beatING you on THE Friday, Rodney!” continued Henk, with two of his braadworst fingers now aimed at Franks like a gun. “And when you hand me over thIS farm, I will BE buildING your hotel, and in the toilets OF THIS HOTEL will be your pHOTO! AND When people go to leave their faeces, they will see your disease-ridden face AS THEY DO THIS, and trust TO me, I will be the first OF THE PEOPLE dropping THE VERY largest OF THE faeces in your honour!”

  Maddocks escorted him out, more for Rodney’s safety, and to also keep his new boss out of jail.

  Once clear of the awning, Henk casually turned, with full composure regained. “Was that tirade sounding okay to you?” he asked of his new friend Abe Maddocks, and with his volume level no
w reduced to nearly human level.

  Confused, Abe held his response for a second. “Sure, I think Rodney may have pissed himself. If that’s what you were after?”

  “Ah, good. And what about the dropping of the faeces? English is not my first language, you see. Did I get this right? I know how it is with the English loving to drop excrement everywhere.”

  “Sorry?” said a confused Abe.

  “In your language,” Henk explained. “You like to play with your excrement. We Dutch, however, are much more sophisticated in our cursing.”

  “Oh?” asked Abe, unsure what else to say.

  “Yes, yes!” replied Henk excitedly, mistaking Abe’s response for interest. “In the Nederlands, we use disease-related words for our cursing and insults!”

  “Disease?” said Abe, at a loss again how to further reply.

  “Yes!” Henk answered, animatedly. “It is a much more civilised way of speaking!” he said. “No offence to you English,” he added.

  “None taken?” replied Abe, uncertainly. “So, when you were yelling at Rodney, what is it you were saying, then?”

  “Ah, yes! Sometimes, when I am excited, I forget to use my English! I told him, Wat denk jullie wel, vuile typhuslijder, dat ik mijn kostelijke bedden door zulke sikreten laat bezijken! I will translate this for you. This means, What do you really think, dirty typhus sufferer, that I will allow my desirable beds to be pissed upon!”

  “Em…?” offered Abe encouragingly.

  “Yes! It is very excellent cursing!” Henk replied enthusiastically. “This is proper cursing, yes??”

  Truth be told, Abe wasn’t sure quite what to make of this Dutch style of cursing. But Henk’s enthusiasm was infectious, and he burst out laughing in response.

  “Yes, yes!” said Henk, clapping a massive hand on Abe’s back and joining in on the laughter.

  “Excellent!” said Henk, after Abe had picked himself up off the ground, giving his newest employee a warm embrace. “Welcome to the team! Excellent! Now, there is a sidecar over there that I want you to make love with!”