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

by J. C. Williams

  CK:Who’s in your team?

  PH:I’ve got TT legend Lee Johnston with me, plus a chap from our sponsors who I’ve not yet met. As far as Lee, though, I think I may need to get him a cushion so he can see over the steering wheel when it’s his turn to drive!

  CK:And blocks for his feet so he can reach the pedals?

  PH:That’s a bit harsh, Chris. Blimey, I was just talking about being sat in the van for so long.

  CK:Oh… erm…

  PH:Ha! I’m just kidding with you, Chris! I was actually tempted to dress him up like a jockey, the fella’s so short. Still might! Anyhow, I’m looking forward to having a tussle with Guy Martin’s team, but they’ve got the sidecar being readied, I see, so they must mean business.

  CK:I imagine they do! And, thanks, Peter!

  And there you have it, folks. A whole host of celebrities on show for you today, including the absolute TT lap record-holder and world’s fastest road racer Peter Hickman. I’ll be back with you throughout the course of the day if you can’t get over here yourselves. But it does promise to be a treat, so do pop up to Jurby if you’re able!

  C hris Kinley lowered his microphone and received the nod that they were off-air. He strolled over to Team Frank & Stan, peering round the garage door. “Morning, boys!” he shouted. “How’s the preparation?”

  Dave had his hands full, so lowered his sausage & bacon bap, wiping brown sauce from his chin as he did so, and then licking his fingers. “Heya, Chris. All right?”

  “Sure, sure,” Chris replied amiably.

  “So you’re a man in the know,” said Dave, wasting no time. “So tell me. Who exactly is racing in the other teams?”

  This question prompted Frank, Stan, and Monty to circle around Kinley like disgruntled footballers about a referee. “I’m not sure, boys,” he told them with a shrug.

  “Bugger off, Kinley, nothing gets past you,” said Dave, shaking his butty in the air as he spoke. “So spill it!”

  Chris took a careful look over his shoulder to add to the intrigue, before leaning in conspiratorially, causing those around him to tighten their circle ever closer. “Well…” Chris began, casting about several furtive glances before continuing… “I’ve not got much of a clue, as everyone is staying rather tight-lipped. I do know a couple of them, however.”

  “Yes…?” prompted Dave.

  “As it turns out…” Chris said, looking over his shoulder once more… “There’s one team with an absolute ringer. But you shouldn’t let yourselves worry, because the other two are overweight, stupid, unhygienic and, well, gullible.”

  “Chris, it’s a good job you’ve got in stature what you haven’t got in humour. Oh, wait—” said Dave.

  “Hang on, I’m confused,” interrupted Monty. “Who’s he talking about, Dave?”

  “I rest my case,” said Chris, laughing.

  “He’s talking about us,” Dave informed his partner, ignoring Kinley for the moment.

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” said Monty, still trying to work it all out. “Because then who’s the ringer, Dave, if not you?”

  “He means Guy Martin,” Dave told him.

  “Well he’s got it wrong, then,” Monty concluded.

  “You see, Kinley?” Dave said, turning back to him, well and truly chuffed. “Not as stupid as you think!”

  “Alright, but seriously,” Chris went on. “Because I like you lads. And because you promise not to swear again when I interview you afterwards…?”

  The lads shook their heads in agreement.

  “Then I can tell you a couple of things. Out of all the teams, only seven are using the option to enter a sidecar. Including your friend, Rodney Franks. The other teams are—”

  “Franks is NOT our friend,” replied Dave, cutting across. “But about Franks. I know he’s got his two cockwombles Napier and Thomas with him, and they’re ace on a bike, much as I dislike them. But who’s Franks’ ringer for the van part? I know he must’ve brought in someone very good, since he won’t be taking any chances here.”

  “Right, well I don’t know his name,” Chris told them. “Honestly I don’t. But he’s some form of racer from the BTCC, apparently. Retired, I believe, but he must be fairly decent? Anyway, need to make my rounds, so good luck, chaps!”

  “BTTC?” asked Stan to the others once Chris Kinley had moved on.

  “That’s bad news, then,” said Monty, clenching and unclenching his fists. “BTCC, Stan. It’s the British Touring Car Championship,” he explained. “They’re seriously good at driving. Proper good.”

  “And so what?” protested Dave. “We’ve got Dave Quirk, Shaun Montgomery, and bloody Guy Martin. That’s a team to be reckoned with, Monty. Seriously reckoned with. And that’s the team that’s going to not only get us the farm, but also to keep the jobs we love, me lad. Believe it!”

  Dave gripped Monty and planted a big sloppy kiss on his sweaty forehead.

  “We can do this, Monty,” Dave went on. “Napier and Thomas are fine enough on their machine, yes. But that’s mainly because they’ve always had a better sidecar than us. We’ve put our heart into getting ours running like a dream, and sure theirs is quicker than ours, but what we don’t have in horsepower, we have in passion, me old mate. In other words, it’s on, chaps! It is SO fucking on.”

  “BUT YOU DO!” boomed a thundering voice through a perspex window in the corner of the garage. Henk removed his head from the window and walked around the front of the garage. “You have horsepower, my crazy bastard friends!” he yelled, even though he was standing right before them now.

  “I don’t understand,” said Monty.

  “I don’t understand, either,” said Dave. “How do you mean, Henk?” asked Dave.

  “It is simple,” Henk explained. “You take my sidecar, and I take yours. You see? Simple,” he said again. “I have got the McMullan brothers driving in my team, but I am not interested in winning. In fact, the slower my team drives, the more the public sees my advertising! Ha!”

  “Can we…?” Frank began to say. But Henk wasn’t quite finished.

  “You take their sidecar, yes? And we will take yours! I want you to finish higher than Rodney Franks so I may sell the farm to you! Not him!”

  “Can we do that?” Frank was able to say.

  “Buy the farm?” Henk asked. “You must! I do not wish for it to ever be in Rodney Franks’ disease-carrying hands!”

  “No, I meant, can we do that?” asked Frank, looking to anyone for any form of insight. “Change the sidecars this late?”

  “Of course,” replied Dave, rubbing his chin with the sort of contained excitement one might find inside an engine cylinder, spark igniting. “This is essentially an exhibition race, and it’s not compulsory to race a sidecar, so on that basis, there are no rules covering it. The only rule is about the van not being overly modified, and it having a limit on its maximum engine capacity. Hell, in theory, we could strap a jet engine to the back of the sidecar if we wanted!”

  “Hmm,” said Frank.

  “Hmm,” said Stan.

  “Hmm,” said Monty, seeing as how everyone else was saying it.

  “With Henk’s sidecar…” Dave went on… “We’re on machinery equal to, if not better than, Napier and Thomas’. And although they may have a BTCC driver on board with them, we’ve got bloody Guy Martin, and he’s fast as fu–”

  “I say, fellows!” exclaimed an all-too-familiar nasal-twanged voice. “Lovely day for it, yes?” asked Rodney Franks, with a smug grin perfectly ripe for the slapping.

  “Do you ever not wear a cravat, Rodney?” asked a disgusted Stan.

  Rodney stroked the fabric. “I have to wear it, unfortunately,” he said. “I have to wear it to conceal the love bites from Mr Quirk’s mother, don’t you see.”

  Dave and Frank looked at each other, quite unsure who was supposed to be defending Jessie’s honour. “Ah, piss off, Rodney, before I tell Henk what you were calling him last week,” said Stan, to which Frank ga
ve him an approving look.

  Henk reared up. He was just waiting for an excuse, any excuse at all, to mash Franks’ face to a pulp.

  “Goodness gracious, this is supposed to be a nice day all about the charity,” Franks chided them. “Oh, on that point, if you need any sponsorship, I’d be delighted to throw a couple of pounds in the pot.” Franks looked down on the big blue boiled sweet that was their motorbike. “Oh dear. Are you sure that thing’s going to last two hours around here?” he asked, with a disturbingly girlish giggle.

  “Ah!” began Monty, index finger raised. “That’s where you’re—”

  But before Monty had chance to finish, Dave poked him in the ribs with his elbow, giving him a certain look, and then turned back to Franks. “Mind how you go, Rodney,” he told him. “Be sure not to bang your head on the spanner in my hand on your way out. I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”

  “I hate that suppurating prick,” exclaimed Monty, which was surprising given Rodney hadn’t actually walked away yet. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s my eye, isn’t it?” explained Monty sarcastically. “Only I thought you’d already gone, didn’t I? Because of my eye and all,” he said flatly. He blew Rodney a kiss for good luck. “Mind how you go, now, Rodney,” he added. “Watch out for Dave’s spanner.”

  Dave looked at Monty, open-mouthed in astonishment. “Where’d you learn a word like that?” he asked after Franks had buggered off.

  “What? Prick?” Monty said, confused.

  “No, the other one. Suppurating.”

  “Well I like to read in my spare time, Dave. Didn’t you know that?” Monty answered him.

  Dave had to take his hands and manually close his mouth, because it wasn’t closing by itself. “We won’t tell him about the change of machinery,” offered Dave, first staring at Monty with newfound admiration, and then to the others as well. “It’ll be a pleasant surprise for them all later.”

  “Number three, boys!” shouted a marshal in a high-viz jacket. “They’ve just pulled out the numbers and you’re third on the grid in the start position. And keep an ear out for an announcement in…” he said, looking at his watch… “Ten to fifteen minutes, which will be the first call to get machinery out onto the track for warm-up. We’re looking good for a nine-a.m. start, guys, so a little over one hour for the actual start of the race,” he added, before continuing on his way to notify the other teams of their positions and such as well.

  “I’m starting to feel a little sick,” said Monty, rubbing his belly.

  “That’ll be the three sausage baps,” suggested Stan. “Anyway…” he continued, looking around the garage and the area outside… “Where’s Guy disappeared to? Why isn’t he here?”

  “Well,” Dave began, whirling his hand around, indicating the other garages around them. “Here’s the thing, and this about sums Guy up rather neatly. See, some chap stuck his head round the corner hoping to find a particular type of wrench about two hours ago. And not only did Guy have that very sort of wrench the fellow needed, but he went off to see if he could help him fix whatever it was needed fixing.”

  “Ah,” said Stan. “But then…?”

  “Yes, well not only did he help sort that out…” Dave went on… “But the guys in the adjacent garage also had a problem needed sorting, and now he’s helping them fix that, as well!”

  “Strewth,” said Monty with a hearty chuckle. “That’s our Guy Martin.”

  “I never really knew Guy that well around the paddock,” Dave continued. “Mainly because he rode two wheels, and us three, you know? But I’ll tell you, he really is a proper genuine chap. There’s absolutely no celebrity about that man, and the fact he’s currently doing what he’s doing marks him out as an absolute gentleman in my book.”

  “Not only that but he’s got a cracking arse,” offered Stan. “So there’s that as well.”

  “Yeeesss, and on that note,” said Frank, “I’m going to give the van a quick wash to get her looking pristine.” He looked over to Dave and Monty. “Are we all set with everything mechanically now?” he asked. “She’s ready for action?”

  Dave rubbed his hands together gleefully. “All ready, Frank. Right now, I’m going to take my fine-looking passenger here…”

  Monty tipped an imaginary hat in acknowledgement.

  “… and swop sidecars with the McMullan brothers.” With his hands all warmed up from the rubbing, he stopped, pressing his palms together like he was praying. Which in fact he was. “Oh god,” he said. “I hope Henk hasn’t told the McMullan brothers that he’s given their sidecar away to us. I really, really, would like the pleasure and satisfaction of doing that myself.”

  At this point, Dave was interrupted by the ringtone on his phone indicating he’d gotten a text message. He pulled his phone out, read the message, and then, smiling broadly, shared it with Monty. To which Monty replied: “Noice.” And then two more cricketers joined the crease…

  “Morning, Molly! And a fine good morning to you as well, Stella! It’s a lovely morning for it!” Dave greeted them cheerfully.

  “You’re certainly in fine spirits!” Molly answered him. “Looking forward to the race?”

  “Ta! Talk later!” replied Dave, buggering off for a moment to make a call.

  “That, and he’s just had a text,” volunteered Monty, in Dave’s absence. “From Becks. She’s bringing Tyler down soon, and Dave’s also got the chance to ruin the McMullan brother’s day. I don’t expect—” But, with that, Monty went suddenly quiet. He was afraid to reveal too much, lest Dave should overhear, because he didn’t want another elbow in the ribs. Dave hadn’t meant for it, not knowing his own strength, Monty thought, but that last jab had really fucking hurt.

  Monty’s eyes shifted furtively, darting from side to side. Or, in his case, side to side to side. Either he was deep in thought, or possibly he was having some form of seizure. It was difficult to tell which.

  It was disconcerting enough for Molly to enquire as to his well-being. “Monty?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’ve just realised that we’ve got Becks and Stella in our camp,” he said, smiling. “And that can’t be bad.”

  Dave, back from making his call, grinned in admiration a second time. ‘Nice save,’ he mouthed to his friend.

  Molly smiled to be polite, though not understanding what she was smiling about.

  Stella, on the other hand, released a course guffaw. “I like it, Monty,” she said, scratching her arse in appreciation.

  “I still don’t get it?” said Molly, looking for an explanation.

  “Don’t feel bad, there’s not much to get, Molly,” Frank explained to his daughter. “Monty’s merely excited because we’ll soon have two kinds of beer on hand.”

  “Ah. Becks and Stella. I see,” said Molly, seeing. “Now all we need, then, is a…” she began, before trailing off, no further feminine-sounding beer brands coming to mind.

  As if on cue, Dave returned, though feminine of course he was not. His jovial mood now appeared to be considerably soured, judging by the look on his face. He waited until all eyes were on him before he spoke. “Em, not so good news, I’m afraid,” he began.

  “How so?” asked a concerned Frank.

  “Well, you know how the TV production company are coming over and giving us a boatload of money to cover the event? Well, I just phoned to see where they are, and they’re not coming, as it happens.”

  “Why?” asked Frank, simply.

  Dave looked to the garage ceiling with a shake of the head. “The lady I spoke to was under the impression that the event had been cancelled. And so didn’t send the crew over,” he told them, looking back down at them again, his expression dour.

  “What about the money they’re paying us?” suggested Stan. “After all, it’s their cock-up…?” He could just as easily have said their mistake, of course. But Stan liked the sound of ‘cock up’ much better.

  It was clear from Dave’s face that it wasn’t a positi
ve outcome in that regard. “She offered her apologies and said they might see us next year, but did offer their best wishes for the event. Which is nice, of course. Though doesn’t help us much. Is there any way we can have a word with Henk about the final price for the farm?” Dave asked, looking specifically to Frank and Stan.

  Frank pondered that thought for a moment before responding. “We can’t, Dave,” Frank told him, finally. “And I’m sure he would, if we were to ask. But it’s not fair to ask him. He’s moved heaven and earth for us on this whole adventure, and we’ve caused the poor fellow nothing but grief. And even after all that, he’s offered us the use of his sidecar, which is beyond generous. Look, the weather’s good, and we’re putting on a wonderful show today, so we can only hope to make more than we’ve anticipated from the ticket prices and Fun Day goings-on.”

  “It’s quite a financial hole to plug,” Dave commented, sighing, and picturing in his head Dutch Henk sticking his finger into it and plugging it up quite nicely.

  Frank bowed his head. “I know, but you two need to concentrate on the driving and let us worry about the money. If you don’t finish above Rodney’s crew, the TV money will be the least of our issues.”

  “We should have spoken to the BBC,” Monty offered up, for no discernible reason. But, after a pause, he continued… “I was in the loo earlier, standing next to some bloke in white overalls who was wearing a white helmet. He didn’t say much, of course, being stood at a urinal as he was. Although I did try to strike up a conversation. Anyway, he had a BBC logo on his back. Looked like he knew what he was doing.”

  “Peeing’s not hard?” remarked a befuddled Stan. “Under normal conditions, surely…?”

  “I meant like he knew his way around racing,” Monty explained. “Although he looked a bit out of place, to be honest. Like he was selling drugs or summat.”

  “Top Gear?” asked Dave.

  “I don’t know, I didn’t buy any,” Monty answered, holding his stare for several arduous seconds, where he marvelled at the genius of his own joke, but received no reply.

  “C’mon,” was all Dave said. “Let’s go swop them bikes.”