Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin

by J. C. Williams

  “Right,” the boy said, pausing a tick to remember what it was he’d been instructed to say. “Right, then,” the boy began, rather smartly. “Me da can’t run on them crutches,” he continued. “So he done sent me instead. He sez you look like Dave Quark, and wants to know if you is indeed Dave Quark.”

  “That would be me,” Dave told the lad, wondering now where exactly this might be heading. His hand, pen still in hand, lowered to half-mast.

  “Right. So. Good. Me da sez he wasn’t sure, but that you looked an awful lot like that Dave Quark that ran out on him in a poker game after you lost and owed him money.”

  Dave’s pen hand drooped down by his side, limply, at this point. “Erm…” was all he said.

  “Me da sez, if it’s really that Dave Quark fella, then it’s a good thing he’s up again this way. Because me da never thought he was gonna get his money after all these years from that thievin’ bastard Dave Quark. And he’s on crutches and can’t run. So he sent me to ask. Cuz I haven’t got crutches and I can run fast enough to catch up with a fat bastard like Dave Quark even though me da can’t right now. Cuz he’s still on the crutches.”

  The wee lad smiled proudly, pleased that he was able to remember all the things he was meant to say.

  Dave sighed, pulled his wallet from his trousers pocket, and counted out a handful of notes. “Tell your da there’s two hundred quid thee,” he told the young one. “And that includes extra for interest.”

  Dave stood, and he watched the little boy race back to his father. Once there, a whoop of joy could be heard, even from that pronounced distance, and the boy’s father punched the sky in victory like Rocky Balboa atop the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. “Thank ya, Dave Quark, ya fat bastard!” the boy’s father shouted, and Dave gave a feeble wave in return. The boy’s father even, at this point, attempted a jump for joy. This did not go well, being, as he was, still on the crutches. Still, he seemed happy enough, shouting once more, “Ya fat bastard!” as he turned to hobble merrily away, money in hand.

  “Fans everywhere,” Monty agreed. But he left it at that, choosing not to further poke the bear, so to speak, since Dave was now skint and this meant that Monty would now have to spend his own money.

  With Dave’s admirer taken care of, the group continued on, making good progress, and soon found themselves in front of an imposing glass-fronted hotel. Luxurious red carpet invited guests from the street, directing them up a flight of steps with a shimmering gold revolving door at the summit, where stood an elegant moustached gentleman on sentry duty.

  “They’ve got a doorman,” gawped Monty, with eyes widened. “And red rope heading up the stairs.”

  “That doorman’s got a top hat on,” added Dave. “A bloody top hat. Stan, are you sure this is the right place?”

  “As Frank and your mum are already halfway up the steps, I think it very well could be,” Stan assured him.

  “As long as Frank doesn’t punch the air once he gets to the top,” said Dave miserably.

  Monty walked up the pristine carpet with his mouth agape. “I’ve never stayed in a place like this, Stan,” he confided. “When me and Dave go away, the hotels we stay in usually have an hourly rate and rubber sheets. That sort of thing.”

  Frank took a step back down the stairs, seeing the others were still a few paces behind. What with the sheer opulence of their accommodation now on full display, he felt the need to impress upon them the relevant matter of financial clarification as they approached. “Don’t forget, guys, this is all on me and Stan,” he told Dave and Monty. “So don’t worry about letting your hair down and enjoying yourselves. It’s our little treat.”

  “Let our hair down, he says,” whispered Monty to Dave. “Now he tells us. After I’ve already gone and got a haircut for the occasion.”

  “Isn’t it always the way?” Dave agreed with a laugh, taking the steps two at a time.

  It was still early afternoon, but the reception area was a hive of activity, with people presumably preparing for the gala dinner that evening. The line for the check-in desk was doubled back on itself, but rather than a feeling of frustration, the Isle of Man contingent soaked up the atmosphere, marvelling at their plush surroundings. It was apparent that this place was the real deal, suited to a traveller with a certain degree of sophistication and panache. Of course, not all present necessarily possessed this level of sophistication and panache, and in fact some murmurings closer to the front of the queue could be heard in this regard.

  “You need to extinguish that, madam. If you’d be as kind,” said a velvety female voice.

  A plume of smoke rose like that emanating from an Indian campfire. What it was signalling was not yet apparent. The request had been eloquently delivered by a polite woman in a dark pinstripe jacket and skirt. “This is a no-smoking hotel, madam,” she continued, with a timely finger to the no smoking sign.

  A further puff of smoke appeared, before a rather gruff voice announced, “Fine. But tell those idiots to hurry up. I’ve been in this queue for twenty minutes and I need to drop a few friends off at the pool.” This was Stella’s way of speaking politely.

  “I’m sorry? Are there more in your party?” the hostess enquired.

  “I need to see a man about a dog,” Stella rephrased. And, then, seeing no recognition in the woman’s eyes, she spoke more plainly. “I need to have a shit. A massive one,” Stella explained, in a manner of speech more to which she was accustomed.

  “Ah. There’s a restroom at the rear of the reception area,” the apparently unflappable staff member replied, without upset.

  “Trust me on this, sweetheart. I’ve been eating cold chicken tikka in the car for the last three hours, and while I do love my curry, it does tend to do a number on my insides. If you know what I mean. Some things need doing in the comfort of your own loo, if you know what I’m saying, so you better make it snappy because I’m nearly touching cloth.” And then, turning to her gentleman companion, “Lee, I’m going outside to finish this cigarette. No sense letting a good fag go to waste.”

  As Stella stepped straight through the queue on her way out, rather than taking the only-slightly-longer way around it, Stan, further back in the line and near to Stella’s incursion in the ranks, lowered his head, hoping not to be noticed. Frank, however, did not share Stan’s modesty. “You arrived okay, Stella?” he asked, making himself clearly known.

  Stella placed the temporarily extinguished ciggie behind her ear, offering a cursory nod to both Frank and the rest of their party. “You need to give Lee your credit card,” she instructed Frank, with no further explanation or acknowledgement. She walked the walk of a person clearly clenching their buttocks. A hushed silence followed Stella, as the present calibre of guest on hand were fearful of attracting this unusual woman’s attention, or, worse, her wrath.

  Stella stopped just before the revolving door. “Lee!” she shouted across the lobby. “Lee, tell the girl on reception to send a few extra bog rolls up to the room, just to be on the safe side! This is going to be a multiple-wiper, I can feel it, and I don’t want to run out! Cheers, luv!” Once outside, she removed the fag from behind her ear, setting to work on it again, in earnest, and giving a casual wink to the moustachioed attendant. “All right?” she asked the doorman. To which he tipped his top hat accommodating and replied, “All right,” most agreeably.

  “I need a drink,” announced Stan. “And a large one at that.”

  “Since you lot are paying, I’ll be happy to join you,” volunteered Monty.

  “That sounds like a fine idea!” agreed Dave happily.

  Stan paced back and forth across the polished marble hotel foyer floor, stopping by a mirror on the wall at each pass, to check and see if his bowtie hadn’t moved since the last time he’d checked to make certain it was positioned properly just moments before. He offered a courteous smile to those he encountered arriving in their finest eveningwear, in between the pacing, and the checking of his tie in the mirror,
and of checking his watch for any number of inestimable times. He recognised several of the faces walking by him, though unsure from where. Stan had a number of famous former acquaintances from his and Frank’s days, years ago, as talent agents. Or, it could be they were simply celebrities he recognised. In either case, he offered a hearty welcome to all, to a point where people began to think he was a member of staff, looking him up-and-down for a glass of something with bubbles — unfortunately to no avail on that front. He was waiting for Frank to make his way down from their rooms. Stan was already dressed in his finest, but Frank was taking ages.

  Frank stood in the centre of the wide, gently-spiralling staircase leading down from the second floor, finally making his grand entrance. He extended a hand, inviting Jessie to a place beside him. Her sequined red ankle-length dress shimmered from the light of the chandeliers overhead. Before they continued on, Frank reached out to take his daughter Molly’s hand from where she stood on his opposite side. Stan now stood poised, with his camera at the ready, and those coming down from the top of the stairs held back for a moment to allow for the group’s picture to be taken below.

  Stan captured the moment of Frank, stood proudly there, flanked by the two ladies most dear to him. As Stan lowered his camera, he couldn't help letting his eyes linger fondly, and he took a moment to blow an affectionate kiss in their direction. “Oh my,” he said to himself, taking a handkerchief to dab at the corner of his eye. Stan hated himself for thinking it, but he knew one day he’d be looking at the photograph he’d just taken of that beautiful scene he’d witnessed a moment ago, but that he’d likely be viewing it through the lens of sadness and loss.

  “You look wonderful. All of you,” proclaimed Stan, leaning in for a generous cuddle as he met them at the foot of the stairs.

  “You don’t look too bad yourself, Stan,” Frank answered him. “Very dapper, I must say.”

  “And did you expect any less?” replied Stan with a grin.

  “Not at all,” Frank agreed. “I wonder if…?” Frank began, but then, turning his head, he got his answer. “Oh, my,” he declared. “Look at the Dynamic Duo making their way down the stairs.”

  Dave and Monty sauntered down that posh staircase like they owned the place, dressed to the nines, resplendent in their tuxedos. “My son’s even combed his hair,” said Jessie, chuffed pink.

  “They certainly clean up well,” Stan marvelled.

  For two gentlemen more used to having their heads buried in the mechanical workings of a sidecar, they blended into their surrounding perfectly, except, perhaps, for one minor detail, as evinced by an intermittent flash of white about Monty’s ankles as he’d made his way down the steps.

  “Monty, are you wearing white socks?” asked Frank, peering down in the general direction of Monty’s feet.

  “I am indeed,” Monty replied, pleased as punch. “They match my handkerchief,” he said, pulling up his trouser legs an inch or so in confirmation to show off his colour-coordinating skills.

  Frank closed one eye, like he’d just been stabbed in it. “Normally, Monty, for formalwear, you’d wear bla–” he began, but thought better of it. “You know what, Monty? You look splendid. You both look splendid,” he said. “Thank you,” he added, both to Monty and Dave at their efforts to look presentable, and also to the waitron who was carrying a trayful of glasses of champagne, as Frank had just lifted off two of them — one for himself, and one for Jessie.

  The waitron, a middle-aged man of impeccable breeding, perfect posture, and a back as straight as Monty’s was crooked, tarried, steadfast in his goal of emptying the tray perched upon his upturned palm. “Ehem, would you care for a refreshment, sir?” he enquired of Monty, to that very end.

  The champagne server stepped to his left, likely in conflict for which of Monty’s eyes he should be looking at. But, as the waitron moved, so did Monty, with the two of them moving this way, and then that way, in order to reconcile their difference. It was slow at first, but then picked up speed, this sort of no-touch Viennese waltz. “A refreshment, sir?” the waitron asked again, now giving up entirely on the prospect of effective eye contact and their impromptu dance.

  After performing several more dance routines with the help, Monty and the rest of the group made their way to their assigned table. The brass section of the assembled band drew to a climactic crescendo, and then silence, as the final guests had taken their seats in the opulent ballroom. That is, apart from a pair of still-empty seats on Team Frank & Stan’s table. Frank’s eyes darted around but, with the mood lighting such as it was, it was difficult for him to see. “Where’s our Lee and Stella?” he asked, looking to the others, hopefully, for any insight.

  “There’s dozens of tables in here… maybe they’re at the wrong one?” Stan whispered, conscious of the hushed silence.

  “I saw them running back to their room,” Jessie informed them. “Stella said they were going for a quick one, and I don’t think she meant a cigarette.”

  “Jeezuz, Mum,” Dave said with a shudder. “Anyway, here’s Lee now,” he offered, pointing his thumb over his shoulder like a hitchhiker. “And if anybody deserves a charitable award at this affair it’s got to be him, after what he’s just had to suffer through.”

  “Sorry, guys, there was a big job that needed doing upstairs,” Lee told them as he joined the table a few moments later.

  Dave produced a sturgeon-faced frown of admiration and approval. “You’re not wrong there, Lee. That’s enough of a job for two men,” he said, but his comments washed over Lee’s head, as Lee was currently looking back to the room’s entrance in anticipation of Stella’s follow-up arrival.

  All eyes in the room except Lee’s were on the raised stage, rigged with lighting and an imposing videoscreen backdrop, eagerly awaiting the host for the evening. A spotlight raked over the stage, further building the tension. At the sound of footsteps, heads began to turn in anticipation, like wedding attendees waiting for the bride to appear. The spotlight operator, clearly caught off-guard at suddenly having an actual target to highlight, struggled to adjust his aim accordingly, sloppily, like a rum-drunk, one-eyed harpoonsman.

  Finally, the light locked on Stella, who walked casually, with no regard for the hundreds of people now looking intently at her. In fact, such was her air of confidence that people started to applaud, fully believing that she was part of the show, perhaps even the master of ceremonies.

  There was no doubt that Stella was at the high end of some sort of spectrum, and that a psychologist could spend a career on her. Still, it was impressive how she couldn’t possibly care less about unwanted or unexpected attention, where others in a similar situation might wish to find a nearest corner in which to cower.

  “Frank!” Stella shouted over the din of silence, peering through the darkened room past her eye-of-the-storm spotlight. “Oi!” she shouted, which was the first indication that she was perhaps not part of the official proceedings after all.

  “Over here!” Lee called out, with an enthusiastic wave.

  The spotlight followed her as she made her way over, perhaps to guide her safe passage, or perhaps because the operator believed she was a noteworthy spectacle worth illuminating for the curious. Stella’s black hobnail boots announced every step she took, obligingly, and her black mini-bandeau strapless dress left little to the imagination, regardless of whether the observer should desperately wish it. The front of the dress, which had the unenviable task of securing Stella’s cleavage, was bearing up… if only just. It wasn’t this attracting muttered voices, however. Rather, it was the rear perspective. Stella, as it turned out, in her haste after the ‘big job’ upstairs, had failed to adjust herself, and the rear of her dress was now tucked into the back of her pink undergarments — undergarments which became lost in the crevasse of her buttocks, affording onlookers a generous view of her extremely overly-generous posterior.

  When a brave attendee pointed out Stella’s fashion faux pas, whether out of helpfulness or abj
ect horror, Stella simply nodded appreciation, entirely unbothered, and sorted herself out. Lee, ever the gentleman, stood, removing the chair for the arrival of his Queen, and welcoming her to the fold. Once seated, Stella looked over to Stan. “Right, then. Well pass that wine this way, you greedy bastard,” she admonished him, wiggling her empty wine glass to stress the point that it was, in fact, empty and in proper need of filling.

  Food was soon dispatched, as were several additional bottles of very expensive red wine. Stella stood to loosen a notch on her belt after wolfing down her meal, as well as both her cheesecake dessert and Lee’s. Lee, for his part, sat back in his chair, himself defeated by the impressive fillet of beef all on its own.

  As Stella stood, Stan stared across the table. “Is that a toolbelt you’re wearing, Stella?” he asked in disbelief. Little did he know that, after this evening, toolbelts with dresses would be all the rage in Glasgow and beyond, thanks to Stella’s spotlight celebrity catwalk moment.

  “You shouldn’t have your eyes down there,” she scolded him, pointing back up to her face, indicating where Stan ought to be looking. “You may have noticed this dress is somewhat form-fitting, and so lacking in places to stow things,” she explained. “And so my toolbelt is perfect for holding my money, fags, hip flask, and various and sundries.” She opened and closed the various compartments to illustrate their efficacy, refastening each Velcro-secured pocket in turn, before sitting back down.

  Stan didn’t dare ask what her various bits ’n bobs might consist of. Instead, he busied himself replenishing glasses. “That host…” he observed, glancing up to the stage… “And I’m not an authority on the subject… not as much of an authority as some here might be… but that doesn’t look much like Guy Martin, I don’t think?” After receiving no response to his roundabout form of querying, Stan posed his question directly to Lee. “Lee, where’s Guy Martin?”

  “Ay? Oh. Good ol’ Guy Martin is up in the room. On charge, at present, if I’m not mistaken,” Lee answered him. “Why do you ask?”