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

by J. C. Williams

  A brief grimace flickered across Stan’s face. “No, I mean the actual Guy Martin,” he clarified. “I thought you said he was hosting this thing?”

  Lee gave a micro-shake of his head in response, and then leaned in close to address Stan further so as not to upset Stella with what he was about to say. “I got it wrong,” he admitted. “Guy’s only handing out one of the prizes, as opposed to being the host for the whole thing. Stella was not a happy bunny when she found out.”

  While Stan was having this conversation with Lee, the actual host for the evening had brought the formal proceedings to proper order with a well-timed tap on his microphone, at which point he had introduced a small girl. Lee was just beginning to detail precisely how cross Stella had in fact been, sharing with Stan some of the amusingly un-ladylike curses which had issued forth from his dear one’s mouth, when a round of rapturous applause brought their attention back to the affair at hand.

  “What did she win a prize for?” Stan whispered, but Lee was just as clueless as he was since the both of them had missed and hadn’t heard the emotional back-story. Jessie, on the other hand, was consumed in tears — just as most of those in the room were. For fear of appearing heartless, and unsure if television cameras were in attendance, Stan wiped an imaginary tear from his cheek in solidarity. In unison, the crowd offered sympathetic murmurings as the little girl blathered on about something or other in her acceptance speech, followed by the sound of muffled sobbing, and then another round of applause as the host said something to the effect of, “And there you have it.” At this, the little girl stood on tiptoes in order to say a final thank you into the microphone before accepting her prize and making her exit.

  “You’d think she was bloody Mother Teresa or something,” Stan said to Lee, confidentially. Only it didn’t turn out to be confidential, as Stan spoke too loudly just as the applause abruptly ended —leaving much of the audience to hear his unfortunate pithy observation clear as day.

  Angry eyes focussed their fury on Stan, with the little girl on stage opting not to deliver her final words, but to instead bugger straight off instead, sobbing. The prize-giver stood there rooted to the spot, with the girl’s undelivered trophy still in his hands.

  “What an inspiration to us all,” Lionel, the white-suited host said flatly, the moment ruined. The audience offered up a timid round of applause, keeping a disapproving eye on Stan in the process.

  “This is shit,” announced Stella some great while later, with no attempt to disguise her frustration. “What time are we going? It’s either that or they need to bring more food out. Because this, as it stands, is shit.”

  In fairness to Stella, hers was a sentiment which by this point appeared to be shared by many. Indeed, on the adjacent table, one elderly gentleman was asleep on the shoulder of his female companion. Frank glanced at his watch, and had to admit as well that she certainly had a point. It really had turned out to be an extraordinarily arduous, never-ending slog of one rubbish award after another. Salvation finally, blessedly, came in the form of Lionel announcing the penultimate award for the evening.

  “And so,” Lionel continued on from his previous droning monologue. “To present the Fundraiser of the Year award, I’m delighted to invite on stage TV celebrity and racer Guy Martin.”

  With that, an uncommon occurrence was manifesting itself at Team Frank & Stan’s table, as rare as hen’s teeth, one could say, or rocking horse shit: Stella’s teeth were slowly appearing, a strange configuration taking hold, creeping across, and finally overtaking her face. She was, in fact, smiling.

  Like a chink in a dragon’s armour, it was unusual to see this soft white underbelly exposed. Granted, in Stella’s case, it was a very large underbelly, as well as being particularly soft.

  “I’d ride him like a new bicycle on Christmas Day,” proclaimed Stella aloud, her eyes locked on target and boring into the beefcake on display at the stage like drill bits.

  At this, a well-presented lady well past middle age, sat with her back to Stella at the next table over, turned round and leaned over, confiding, “I’ve named my vibrator after him.”

  Stella nodded her head sympathetically. “You and me both, sister,” she said, with an approving wink. “You and me both.”

  Frank pressed his elbows into the table, leaning forward. He was showing a keen interest in Guy Martin as well, though of a slightly different type. “That’s who we need for our Isle ‘Le Mans’ TT,” he declared. “We could do with a third racer on our team. If we get Guy Martin on board, think of the publicity. Dave, we need him.”

  “You’re telling me this as if you’re expecting me to make it happen,” Dave remarked. “Do you think I’ve some sort of magic wand up my sleeve?”

  “Dave is rubbish at magic tricks,” Monty added.

  “Didn’t you used to race on the same track as him?” suggested Stan, chiming in.

  “I once sat next to Sean Bean on a train,” Dave answered. “But that doesn’t mean I know him, or that he managed to get me a part on Game of Thrones. Though I did ask.”

  “You would’ve been good as one of them Wildlings north of the wall,” Monty opined wistfully.

  “Thank you, Monty, that’s lovely of you to say,” Dave answered Monty appreciatively. “Anyway,” he went on, “Just because I happened to be in the same races as Guy Martin doesn’t mean I’ve got Guy Martin’s ear.”

  “He’d be brilliant,” Frank carried on, undeterred. “How do we get hold of… Hang on, where’s Stella going? Stella, what are you doing?” he asked, in reference to a now-standing Stella, wine glass in hand.

  “I’m going to ask Guy Martin to join us at the event and be on our team,” she replied with a faraway, monotone effect, as if she were in some kind of hypnotic state, completely mesmerised. Which of course she was. And, upon issuing her pronouncement, she began advancing towards the stage.

  “Someone grab her! Lee!” shouted Frank desperately. And then, calling after her, “Stella, he’s on stage presenting a prize! You can’t just—”

  “What about that, ladies and gentlemen,” announced Lionel, returning to the stage once more after Guy Martin had done his bit. “A very worthy winner, I’m sure you’ll agree. And that brings us onto our final award of the evening, the Charity of the Year. Now, unlike the other awards, we don’t read out the shortlist, but rather head straight into the winning charity, who, by the way, will be receiving a fifty-thousand-pound donation to their cause!”

  “Holy shit,” said Frank, going pale, and completely forgetting about the errant Stella. “I didn’t know about this prize money. We can really do this, Stan,” he said encouragingly.

  Time slowed to a crawl, with Frank and Stan virtually on each other’s laps. Frank looked around his table with a contented grin, confident as to what was to come, as Lionel teased the silver envelope open, ever so slowly, to draw out the anticipation.

  “And, the winner is…” he said, and then, after a dramatic pause… “Mrs Tillypickle’s Hedgehog Sanctuary!”

  “Oh, fuck off!” shouted Stan, in a somewhat uncharacteristically expletive-laden outburst.

  “It’s okay, Stan. There’s always next year,” said an equally-gutted Frank, trying his best to console Stan. But a “next year” seemed unlikely, as…

  “Beaten by a bloody hedgehog hotel?” Stan was screaming. “Seriously? Fucking seriously??” he continued, in full-on Tourette syndrome fashion now. “That’s right, I said it! You can fucking fuck right off!” he shouted. “FUCK. RIGHT. OFF.”

  “Stan… Stan…” Frank attempted, massaging the air in front of him, as if that might calm Stan down. But San wasn’t listening.

  “Oh, brilliant, here comes security!” said Stan, still shouting. “Well that’s just great, isn’t it! It’s okay, I’m going! Believe me, I’m going!” Stan carried on, much to the amusement of a returning Stella, who cackled away in delight.

  “That’s the spirit, Stan!” she said, complimenting him. “Now you’re lea
rning!”

  “What, all of us?” asked Frank of the stern-looking security guard. “Great, well, all right, then. Come on, guys, let’s go,” he said to the others.

  “Apologies for the disturbance, ladies and gentlemen,” offered Lionel from the stage. “Security is dealing with the troublemakers presently.”

  Stella stood ramrod straight, extending two fingers to the stage. “Oi! Didn’t Stan tell you to fuck off?” she called out. “He did! And up yours, Lionel!” she said, with an upward motion of her two raised fingers, making it eminently clear, lest any doubt should remain, that she was not making a ‘V-for-Victory’ sign. At all. “And sort that suit out!” she added for good measure. “You look like you’ve nicked it from a corpse!”

  “That… certainly escalated quickly?” put forth Jessie, somewhat shell-shocked, once they were all in the hotel lobby.

  “You have to understand,” Molly told her, a comforting hand on her shoulder. “This is all perfectly normal for a night out with Stan and my father.”

  “Yes, I’m starting to realise that,” said Jessie, along with the sort of giggle a madwoman might give. “I hope it’s just the function room they’re throwing us out of, though, bearing in mind we’re staying at the hotel?”

  “Bloody hedgehogs,” lamented Stan. “Still… I suppose I may have overacted just a little.”

  “At least the night’s not a complete washout,” Dave offered. “We still got a good meal out of it, yeah?” he said, trying to look on the bright side of things.

  “More productive than you might think,” interjected Stella.

  “How so?” asked Dave, and the others turned as well to Stella to see what news she had to reveal.

  “Well. While you lot were faffing about, as usual,” she began, reaching into one of her toolbelt pockets for a celebratory fag, but then, remembering she was not allowed to smoke there in the lobby, placing it behind her ear instead. “I’ve actually procured Guy Martin for our event. He’s on the team.”

  “Jeez boy, she’s something pure special, that girl,” declared Lee in reference to Stella, flushed with admiration. “There’s no man alive that can resist the charms of this heavenly beauty, am I wrong?”

  “Stella, how on earth did you—?” asked Frank.

  “Where exactly did you go?” Stan cut in. “I saw you walking up to the stage, but then you disappeared. Did you go backstage after Guy did his bit?”

  “I got things done. Like I always do,” Stella answered, enjoying her moment of glory.

  “Like a weary sailor at the mercy of the siren’s song, so it is,” Lee carried on. “Poor bastard didn’t stand a chance,” he said, properly chuffed.

  At that moment, Frank spotted Martin making his way over from the event and heading towards the men’s loo. Frank gave him a friendly wave. “Happy to have you in the fold, Guy!” he called out, cheerfully.

  Martin froze just as he was pushing through the bathroom door. Like a deer caught in headlamps, he was glassy-eyed and stared at them vacantly. There was what appeared to be an odd mixture of excitement and terror over his face. Mouth open, but unable to speak, he gave a curt nod to Frank after a moment or two, and then made a hasty exit into the loo, disappearing from sight.

  “Stella, what did you do to that poor fellow?” asked an incredulous Frank, turning to her for answers.

  “Things needed sorting. She sorted them. It’s what she does,” Lee reiterated, echoing Stella’s words.

  Stella didn’t answer. She merely licked her lips and took the cigarette from behind her ear, placing it into her mouth carefully and affectionately, receiving it like an old friend. Remembering herself, she then tucked it back up, for the time being, where it had been. “No rush,” she said to herself aloud in a calm, placid voice. “Plenty of time for more of that later.” Her eyes lingered on the now-empty doorway of the men’s loo. “Loads of time,” she said.

  Chapter

  Ten

  F rank sat back in his leather chair, resting his feet on top of his desk, staring at a spot on the wall.

  Stan followed his eyes to the object of Frank’s attention. “You may have been rather presumptuous with the shelf, Frank.”

  “What’s that?” Frank said, shaking loose of his contemplation.

  “The shelf. I was saying it was a bit presumptuous.”

  “You’re not half wrong, Stan. A shiny trophy should be nestled on that shelf. When we decided to build the office in the house, I wanted something to go on that wall. That trophy would have been perfect, but now every time I look at it I’ll think of those bloody hedgehogs.”

  “Bloody hedgehogs,” Stan repeated, commiserating from his side of the office. “Frank, when you think of hedgehogs, though, what image does that conjure up in your mind?”

  “What?” asked Frank, laughing. “I’m not really sure I fully understand the question. Dinsdale, I suppose? Spiny Norman?”

  Stan tapped the fingers of his right hand rhythmically, gently playing them across the surface of his desk as if it were a piano, while he pondered a burgeoning thought taking shape in his brain. “Besides that,” he told Frank. “See, the thing is…” he went on… “The thing is, the only time I ever see hedgehogs for real is at the side of the road. You know?”

  “Selling lemonade?” Frank ventured, unsure where Stan was heading with this.

  “No. With a tyre mark embedded in their back,” Stan explained patiently. “And because of that — see? — because of that, the image I have in my mind isn’t one of cuddly little spiky things, but rather of something that looks like it’s been flattened by a steamroller, and with a grid pattern over it like it’s been cooked on a grill. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Stan, I’ve long since given up trying to work out what goes on in that mind of yours, if I’m being honest,” Frank responded. “I’ve got enough trouble trying to figure out my own.”

  Dave eased open the door with his foot. “Knock-knock, ay-up, gents,” he said, juggling several cups of coffee in his hands along with an assortment of sugar-coated snacks. “That’s yours, Stan,” he told Stan, now indicating to Stan with a nod which coffee he should take. “And, Frank, this one is yours,” he went on, performing the same routine. “Black as pitch, same as your dark heart, just as you like it.”

  “I do so have a heart!” Frank protested. “It’s in here somewhere, I’m sure of it,” he said, looking down to examine his chest and thumping on it with two fingers to search for the aortic organ.

  “It’s on holiday at the moment?” Stan offered with a chuckle, playing along.

  “It was there only a moment ago,” said Frank, feigning alarm.

  “You’re looking on the wrong side,” Dave offered. “You won’t have one there on the right side, not unless you’re a Time Lord,” he said, setting out the treats and then placing his own coffee down.

  “Pity I can’t regenerate,” came Frank’s reply, gone from jocular to suddenly melancholy. “Eh. No Monty with you?” asked Frank, spirits raised again, and examining the contents of his cup to make sure Dave had in fact gotten it right.

  Hands now free, Dave held a thumb and forefinger to his ear for illustrative purposes. “He’s on a call just now,” he said. “Let’s just say the phone hasn’t stopped since we got back from Glasgow…”

  Dave dragged out ‘ow’ in Glasgow for dramatic effect, but his audience were not impressed, preoccupied at the moment as they were tucking into the selection of doughnuts on offer. Dave went on…

  “Since you put me and my learned colleague, Mr Montgomery, in charge of Isle ‘Le Mans’ TT, things have been moving at quite a pace.”

  Still bugger-all interest from Frank and Stan. Frank had gotten hold of a glazed chocolate cake job, and was currently dunking it into his coffee with enthusiasm. Stan, for his part, had got his hands round a custard-filled and was presently squeezing it and licking off the excess thick, viscous custard that issued forth and came running lazily down the side.

  “It’
s a wonder we get anything done here at all,” a dismayed Dave said to himself, since no one else was listening.

  “Did you tell them?” enquired an animated Monty, entering the room at an exuberant canter, scanning the faces in the room for any form of reaction.

  Dave sat on the corner of Stan’s desk, smiling sadly, and swept his hand through the air in a gesture meant to express something along the lines of, Witness the state of things, me lad.

  “We’ve offered a first prize of fifty-thousand pounds to the winner of the inaugural Isle ‘Le Mans’ TT,” announced Monty, not to be undone, and holding both hands out to emphasise his point, like Spider-Man shooting webs.

  Stan guffawed between gobs of custard. “Very good,” he said, nearly choking on his treat. “Nice one. You almost had me there.”

  “He’s being deadly serious,” Dave attested. “The prize for first place is fifty-thousand pounds. Look, it’s even on the flyers and posters we had printed.”

  Frank was ready to join the frivolity and come to Stan’s defence when he caught sight of the poster in Monty’s hand. In one fluid motion, he spun about on his chair, swinging his legs into action and leaping forth like a panther. “What the hell, Monty?” moaned a keening Frank. “What the hell??” he said again, frantically pawing at the relevant bit on the poster confirming what Monty and Dave were telling him.

  Dave nodded. “That’s right, boys. Fifty-thousand clams to the winner, baby!”

  “Are you completely and utterly mental, Dave?” said Frank, turning the poster around to examine the rear, blank side in a hopeless attempt to search for something — like an explanation, perhaps — that couldn’t possibly be there.

  “Mad as a box of frogs,” Dave admitted happily. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “How many of these have you handed out?” cried Frank. “We need to get them back out of circulation!”

  “All of them, Frank!” replied Monty, receiving a high-five from Dave for his enthusiasm in response. “That’s why we’re late. We had to drop off the last of them.”