“You. Asking me… that. Please don’t.”
Monty’s head emerged slowly from the drain, almost as if Mother Nature were, herself, experiencing the joy of giving birth.
Dave recoiled as Monty eased ever closer. “Eergh, Monty. You stink of shit!”
“Grab hold again, big fella. Keep pulling— I’m coming this time. I’m coming!”
“Monty…”
“Don’t stop. Don’t stop this time! Keep tugging till I’m done!”
“Seriously, Monty, you have to stop this. Think about what you’re saying…”
Dave dug his heels in, pulling for all his might — he did not want to go through this again — and his efforts were eventually rewarded when the top half of Monty’s torso slapped, like the aforementioned elephant seal, onto the cold grass beneath.
“Give me a minute,” suggested Monty. “I need to get my breath back.”
“Get your breath back?” countered Dave. “I’m the one that’s done all the bloody work! And-oh-dear-god-in-heaven-I-can-now-see-your-arse-cheeks.”
“Magnificent, I can only imagine,” reflected Monty jealously.
“Yeah, that’s not the word I had in mind to describe it,” Dave lamented.
Monty lifted his head, his good eye honing in on Dave and his other veering off to the left. “Dave,” he whispered with a cautionary tone.
“Seriously, Monty, that’s not the word I—”
“No. Dave. Listen. There’s an angry-looking goat behind you.”
“Yeah, I’m not falling for that one again, me lad. Every time we’re in a paddock, yeah? Every time. You’re all like, Oh, Dave, watch out, there’s an angry-looking goat behind you. Only this time I’m not falling for it, okay? This time—”
“No, for real, this time,” Monty said, trying again.
Dave wasn’t for fooling and shook his head sternly. “Just how stupid do you think I am, mate? Do you seriously think, if I turn my head right now, I’m going to find…?”
Dave turned his head to illustrate his point.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, bugger,” he said, turning his head to look directly at a considerably cross-looking goat.
“Do something, Dave?” Monty suggested.
Dave held his hands aloft, as if he were turning himself over to the police, in an I-give-up motion. Unfortunately, the goat did not appear to be familiar with this universally-recognised display of submission.
“Like what?” Dave asked desperately to Monty through the corner of his mouth, eyes locked on the goat. “You think I’ve got all the answers? Because that bastard’s got horns,” he said. “Nice goat…” Dave cooed to the goat, taking a tentative step back and offering soothing, gibberish words as he did so, hoping they were noises the beast might find appealing and mollifying.
The goat advanced, snuffling and snorting, and for a moment gave the indication that it might well attack. The goat, however, turned its attention to the clothing cast aside on the earth. It ambled over, catching the scent, and rummaged casually for a moment or two in the clothing pile, appearing, suddenly, quite content.
“That horny bugger’s got my underpants!” protested Monty from the mouth of his still-partially-inhabited hole. “Stop it!” he demanded of Dave. “Stop it doing… whatever it’s doing! Hang on, what is it doing…?”
“I’ll do no such thing!” replied Dave. “He’s not attacking, and that’s good enough for me! Besides, he looks like… yes, he looks like he’s enjoying them, and who am I to interrupt?”
The goat stared impassively at Monty, chewing what was left of his underpants with no apparent concern for their previous employment. With Monty’s undies swiftly dispatched, the goat turned its attention towards the pair of jeans remaining, quite invitingly, there on the grass.
“It’s going for my jeans, Dave. Stop it, please!”
“Hang on,” replied Dave, reaching into his pocket.
“Thank goodness!” Monty came back, certain that Dave had come up with some sort of cunning plan.
Dave removed a device from his pocket. “Hang on,” he said again. “Why am I not filming any of this?” he asked, rhetorically, as he began capturing video with his phone.
With Dave offering no indication of assistance, immediate or otherwise, Monty pushed his feet against the other side of the drain, forcing the portion of his torso that yet remained below ground, above ground. It was a struggle, what with gravity working against him and all, but Monty’s well-padded frame soon lay on the surface of the field, naked from the waist down, and with a goat watching on inquisitively, munching on his clothes.
He jumped up, like a salmon returning home — okay, like an elephant seal returning home — and clapped his hands furiously. If he could only balance a ball on his nose, Monty might have found a home in the circus.
“Shoo!” he barked, but the goat was not for disturbing— it was dinnertime.
“Jayzus. Just how cold was it down there?” asked Dave in horror, lowering his phone (though only lowering it for a moment).
Monty flailed his arms and bellowed a noise, best likened to something a moose would make after getting a hoof caught in a beartrap. The verbal assault offered, in fact, a modicum of success, with the goat dropping the jeans. Monty instinctively smiled to camera for a moment, whilst simultaneously yelling, “Stop bloody filming me, Dave!”
Monty’s smug grin disappeared quicker than his appendage had in cold water as the goat lowered its head, scratching its front leg on the grass with menace.
“It’s going to charge!” shouted Dave.
“Do goats charge?” Monty asked in a panic. “I thought it was just bulls that charged! And I’m not even waving anything around!”
“You’re certainly not, mate!” Dave agreed, with a hearty laugh at poor Monty’s expense.
The goat lifted its head — presumably, locking onto its target — but its impressive horns, in the process, caught on the waistband of Monty’s abandoned jeans, draping them down over its face as a result, rendering it temporarily blind. Startled and confused, the goat charged.
Fortunately for Monty the assault was unsuccessful, with the goat missing him by a wide margin. Still, there was the matter of the trousers.
“They’re my jeans! You can’t have them!” screamed Monty at the goat, looking in vain towards Dave for assistance. And why he thought Dave might offer assistance is anyone’s guess, since…
“Best get after them, then,” was all Dave offered, with a shrug and a wry smile.
For a fairly small creature, the goat could certainly motor. The breeze caught Monty’s jeans, lifting them from its face as it ran, but the horns weren’t willing to let go of their prize just yet. The goat leapt like a spring lamb, shaking its head furiously, but the jeans just wouldn’t budge.
Dave fully intended to continue videoing, but the sight and speed of Monty’s pale buttocks disappearing to the hedgerow in the far corner of the field very much appeared like too much effort for him to follow after, and his contented smile was disturbed by a rather dapper-looking Stan approaching at pace.
“It’s going brilliantly,” suggested Stan, once there, peering down into the drain and then cautiously back over his shoulder. “I don’t see Monty. Did you get rid of the shit blockage?” he asked.
“Faeces,” replied Dave. “And that’s no way to talk about Monty.”
“What?”
“Faeces, Stan. Faeces.”
“You mean shit?”
“Well, yes, of course.”
“Well why didn’t you just say shit, then?” asked Stan.
Dave sighed. “It’s a long story, mate.”
“Ohhh-kay,” said Stan, trying to decide whether or not he should enquire further.
“Anyway,” replied Dave, saving Stan the trouble of deciding. “I won’t bore you with the details. But, yes, I believe we’ve sorted the blockage. And Monty is currently off exercising the animals.”
Stan was of course unable to appreciate Dave’s mom
ent of comic genius. And, besides, he was more concerned, at present, in removing a fleck of mud from his designer Wellington boots. Stan was indeed embracing the outdoor life, in his own way, by boasting a fabulous tweed jacket and trouser ensemble, replete with the designer Wellingtons.
“Eileen loves what we’ve done with the house and the outbuildings, and, well, I think we’re a shoo-in for the lottery funding,” he whispered with an enthusiastic shake of the fist.
It was a shake of the fist resembling dice being shaken, or, more unfortunately for Dave, Stan having an impromptu wank.
“If we get this money,” Stan went on. “It’ll really take the charity farm to the next—”
Stan stopped dead, mid-sentence.
“Dave is that, Monty?” asked Stan, after a pause. “Why is he—?”
“It is indeed,” said Dave, providing no additional information.
“He’s got no shoes on and half his trouser leg is missing?”
Dave, though unsurprised, turned to confirm this before turning back and stating casually, “Ah. Yes. He had a bit of an… association, shall we say… with a particularly…”
“Not interested, Dave. Look, here comes Eileen and Frank. Go and give Monty the heads-up. I need you two to be, well, normal. At least for a bit. And I had hoped for fully dressed, as well, though that’s not looking too likely just now.”
Monty trudged towards Stan and Dave, stopping periodically — presumably — to ensure he wasn’t being followed. He looked down, pointing. “I got them back!” he shouted in triumph, wiping copious amounts of sweat from his face, before continuing. “The little bugger took them, but he didn’t know he was up against Shaun Monty Montgomery, nossir!”
Stan put an exasperated hand to his forehead. “Dave,” he commanded. “I don’t care to know what you two have been up to, but you make sure you two simpletons don’t fuc… Eileen, how good to see you again,” offered Stan, nervously taking his hand from his head then thrusting it towards her, which was unusual, possibly a bit weird, bearing-in-mind Stan had only been out of her company for five minutes, maximum. “You like what we’ve done with the barn?” he asked, one eye on her and one eye on Monty.
Eileen flicked her arm out, taking note of the time before opening her pristine leather binder. She was well-turned-out, possibly from the horsey-set and Dave smirked at the spectacle of Frank and Stan talking like they were landed gentry, and who were now busying themselves in idle chit-chat with Eileen.
Stan ended his closing anecdote with a high-pitched nasal laugh that sounded like the whinny of a Grand National winner. “So you like what we’ve done with the place, Eileen?”
Frank and Stan arched their necks to spy on the notes Eileen was furiously writing. She lifted her head and went to speak but the sound of Monty’s voice carried on the breeze.
“It’s eaten my bloody underpants,” he announced, once again pointing in the vicinity of his crotch.
Frank took a pace to the left in an attempt to obscure her view, but it was, well, useless. She looked at Monty, towards Frank, then back to Monty. “That man has his trousers on back-to-front,” she exclaimed, taking a pace back in the process. “He also has no shoes on.”
“That’s our Monty,” laughed Dave by way of explanation. “Ahh, Monty…” he continued, before veering off.
Frank laughed for no apparent reason. “Yes, Eileen. He comes here for exercise. He loves the fresh air,” suggested Frank, sniffing the country air for good measure.
Eileen took a further pace back. “Exercise? With no shoes on?” she asked.
Stan took a step forward. “He’s, well, unusual,” he offered by way of explanation. “He likes to gallop around the field— back to nature, ah-ha,” continued Stan, waving his arms for emphasis. “Dave’s his carer... helper if you will, aren’t you, Dave!” confirmed Stan staring at Dave who now wore a bemused expression.
“I am,” confirmed Dave, playing along to he-wasn’t-sure-what. “Monty just loves it here. So when we heard Frank and Stan were taking over, we were delighted when they said I could continue to exercise Monty hereabouts.”
“I see,” replied Eileen, unable to break her gaze from Monty. “Is that blood on his face? Is he okay?”
Dave turned to Monty then back to Eileen. “He’s fine. It’s probably from the berries.”
“The berries?” asked Eileen.
Dave put his arm around Monty. “Sure… Monty loves nothing more than sticking his head in the bushes to eat the berries.”
Monty had one eye on Dave and one on Eileen. He wasn’t sure, exactly, what was going on, but appeared to go with it.
“Are they not poisonous?” asked Eileen.
“Probably,” replied Dave with a friendly slap on Monty’s back. “It’d probably explain quite a lot now you mention it.”
An awkward silence ensued which Stan tried, unsuccessfully, several times to break, before Frank stepped in. “So, Eileen. Do you think the lottery trust will be impressed by what we’ve done with the place?”
She cleared her throat taking another fleeting glance at her watch. “Yes. Yes, I think so. Very much,” she stammered before getting into her stride. She looked back up towards the farmhouse and back the expectant, Frank and Stan. “Splendid,” she continued. “What you’ve done here is remarkable. You’ve turned a run-down farmhouse into a place to give homeless and vulnerable people the opportunity to turn their lives around or, perhaps, a place of safety. What you’ve done with the outbuildings is, well, wonderful. To give these people the opportunity to learn new skills whilst they’re here, is inspiring. And able to do this in a location as beautiful as this,” she continued, waving her arm to introduce the countryside. She took a pace forward, placing a gentle hand on Monty’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy here,” she told him, slowly but not unkindly. “You’ve got your trousers on back-to-front, dear boy.”
With that, Monty turned on a sixpence revealing two perfectly round holes, positioned perfectly to provide a portal onto each of his buttocks.
Monty twisted his neck without removing his arse from Eileen’s line-of-sight. He slapped each cheek in turn. “The goat ate my underpants and then the back of my jeans. I put them on back-to-front so you didn’t have to see.”
Frank shuddered. “And here you are, Monty. Quite happily, showing it off.”
“I’m sure you’ll be very happy here,” repeated Eileen, quite possibly even slower than the last time before she returned her attention to Frank and Stan. “I need to present this to the board, but I think I’m quite confident that the funding will be approved, which, will go some way to helping your project?”
Frank offered a visible jig. “That’s wonderful, Eileen, it certainly will. We’ve a long way to go with the fundraising, but that will be a wonderful help. Please,” offered Frank ushering Eileen towards the farmhouse. She looked back once more. “Nice to meet you all. Oh, and Monty, do be careful with those berries.”
With Frank and Eileen at a safe distance, Stan placed his palms on his thighs and took several deep breaths. “What the hell just happened?” he asked. “In fact, forget that. Monty, have you actually been eating berries?”
Monty wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, the goat kicked me. It’s blood.”
“You’ve been here five bloody minutes and you’ve started a fight with a goat?” asked Stan. “I didn’t think we had any goats. Are you sure it wasn’t a sheep?”
“That’s what I said!” confirmed Dave.
Monty scoured the field, presumably looking for his new friend. “It was a goat! There’s no way a sheep could eat my underpants, half my jeans and give me a bleeding nose.”
Stan took up position in between Dave and Monty and the three of them stood in line looking up to the farmhouse and the converted barns with contended grins on their faces. He put his arms around his friends and bobbed his head. “We’ve done well here, guys. This place is going to be something special. With the charity across the UK
and this place, Frank ’n’ Stan’s Food Stamps is really going to be on the map. We can really help people here; just need to keep the momentum with the fundraising. We just need to get people over to stay in the place now!”
Stan provided a motivational pat on the shoulders of Dave and Monty. “You guys, you know you’re very much a part of this? Sure, Lee is running the charity, but you are as much a part of this as…” Stan paused, lowering his arms and his head. He retched before gasping for air. “Monty,” he gasped, with tears streaming down his face. “Monty, you stink of shit!”
“Meehhh!” screamed Dave, in his best effort to mimic the bleating of a goat. It was unconvincing, but sufficient to launch Monty several feet skyward.
“Bastard!” yelled Monty, he knew it was Dave, but still took a moment to scour the field, once more.
“Ah… you guys,” laughed Stan. “We’re going to have a lot of fun working here, together… a lot of fun,” he repeated for no obvious reason. “Monty, for the love of god go for a shower. But not in the house, Dave… you know what to do.”
Dave rubbed his shovel-like hands together. “Roger that, Stanley. Come on, Monty, we’ve got an appointment with the hosepipe! All we have to do now is find one!”
Chapter
Four
T he inadequately-proportioned carpark was jam-packed with vehicles seemingly abandoned at will, with more hopelessly trying to nudge their way in. Rebecca gripped the black metal railing at the top of the stairs, staring intently to the building opposite, and her resolute gaze broken only by the eruption of laughter from the group of women on the opposing side of the concrete stairwell. She smiled when she looked over, but the gesture was not returned. She looked at her watch again.
“First day?” asked a gentle voice behind her.
“Sorry?” replied Rebecca, flicking her brunette fringe to one side.
“I’m Susie,” continued the friendly voice. “Is it your first day?” she repeated.
“Oh. Yes. Is it that obvious? I’m Rebecca. Rebecca Hul…” she paused. “Rebecca Howard,” confirmed Rebecca, offering a hand. “I nearly forgot my surname there,” she joked, her cheeks flushing for a moment.
Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin Page 5