The Lonely Heart Attack Club: Wrinkly Olympics - Welcome to the Isle of Man's first dating club for the elderly. Sublimely funny!

by J C Williams

  The rest of the interview went without incident. Rather than ending the interview prematurely, Scarlett continued beyond their allotted time. As she drew the interview to a close and broke to the weather girl, she smiled at Jack. “What you’re doing is admirable. I’ve got an elderly mother who got taken in by some scumbag. Well done and if I can get involved, just ask Kelvin to get in touch.”

  “I will, thank you!” said Jack. He extended his hand towards her, but she took another look at his underpants and politely turned her back on him.

  Charlotte waved towards him and for a horrific moment she thought Jack would walk directly in the path of the live TV stream. Only momentarily discomposed, he corrected himself and exited stage right.

  “That went well, remarkably so!” she said. “Anyway, I found you a spare pair of trousers from wardrobe. I’ve got a feeling that they belong to Monty Don, so if you meet him, you didn’t get them from me!”

  Jack was overjoyed that his TV debut was over. Fully clothed and reunited with his Cossack hat, he made his way back into the fresh morning air and phoned Emma. He listened intently for a few moments and walked towards the taxi rank with a beaming smile. “So, I came across okay?” he asked. He listened for a moment longer, and then, “Emma, if you can guess what I wasn’t wearing during that interview, I’ll take you for a weekend in Paris!”

  He started to laugh. “No clues, you have to guess. Anyway, I need to jump in a taxi. I should be home just after lunch and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Before he climbed into the taxi, he cocked his right leg and released a pungent burst of gas. He chuckled to himself as he opened the door. “Sorry, Monty,” he said. “Airport, please, driver.”

  .

  Chapter Two

  T he Lonely Heart Attack Club was the brainchild of two colleagues — soon to be a bit more — Jack Tate and Emma Reid. With their coffee shop on the brink of going under — another victim of the ‘corporate shysters’ — only the foresight of Emma to embrace their ageing client base saved them from the mire and a trip to the jobcentre. A good portion of the office workers had migrated to the larger chains, and a decreasing client base with increasing outstanding invoices was not the desired business model. Emma was acutely aware that the shop was more than a coffee shop to their mature clients; it was a social gathering, a reason for some to get out of bed in the morning. It took Jack a while longer to catch up and he evolved into a considerate, selfless individual who finally started to care about people other than himself.

  Several of their new friends had fallen victim to a variety of scams, they found, and it was soon evident that the problem was widespread. Jack and Emma wanted to create an environment where the elderly and vulnerable in the community could meet up and find new friends. The numbers soon increased and an offshoot was formed, ‘The Silver Sprinters,’ an activity group for the more adventurous. Jack was close to his grandad, Geoffrey, and the social club meant they could spend more time together. Geoffrey had been in a couple of inadvertent flirtations with the local law enforcement of late, so Jack was eager to keep a particularly close eye on him.

  A welcome consequence of the increased volumes in the shop was that Emma and Jack were able to pay their bills, and for the first time in a long while, pay themselves. One coffee shop turned to two, then three, and currently there were four ‘Java the Hutt’ coffee shops in the Isle of Man. Each one had their own ‘Lonely Heart Attack Club’ which now served the community in each corner of the Island.

  Such was the success — and the publicity of their previous world record attempt — that they’d been approached by coffee shops in England eager to replicate a club for themselves. For a small fee, to cover expenses and advertising, Jack and Emma would grant a licence to operate a similar club. There were over twenty across the country, but this number was growing weekly. Jack’s recent appearance on national television was designed to swell these numbers further. The vulnerable in the community were in an environment where they could meet with likeminded people — perhaps distant friendships could be rekindled — and importantly, the subject of the scamming was highlighted. Where, once, people were embarrassed to admit they’d fallen victim, they were now eager to share their experiences in the hope that their new friends would learn from their encounter.

  Emma Reid was captivating and people were very eager to point out to Jack that he was punching significantly above his weight. For someone who kept early hours in the shop, she was radiant with her olive skin and dark, smouldering eyes. She knew the name of every regular who walked in their shop, and she could tell you the age of their grandchildren and what school they went to.

  Emma was the Erin Brockovich of the coffee industry. People became nicer around her. If one of her friends didn’t come in at their usual time, she noticed. They’d recently lost one of their founding members of the club… Derek. He would come in at 8:20 a.m., sharp. She didn’t even need to look at the door. As soon as it opened, she’d start preparing his cup of tea. He was, in part, their inspiration to help people in a similar situation. Now, at 8:20 a.m. every morning, Emma would go to the chair where he once sat and polish the small plaque, which served as a reminder to one of their special friends. “Morning, my lovely,” she’d say to the empty seat, with a heartfelt smile.

  Presently…

  “Good morning to you beautiful people,” said Postman Pete, as he flounced into the shop with his usual zest. “Can I have your autograph, Jack?”

  Jack pulled the pen embedded in the back of Emma’s hair, and wrote furiously on a white napkin.

  “To the campest mailman in the Western Hemisphere, Postman Pete, yours truly, Jack Tate.”

  “I’m going to frame this,” he said, tucking it into the rear pocket of his tight navy shorts.

  Emma rested on her elbows and peered over the counter. “Those shorts look like they’re painted on, Pete. I wish I had an arse like that. Are you still going to the gym?”

  “He is,” said Jack, with a pained expression. “He thinks he’s funny when he sits one inch away from me — naked in the changing rooms — and proceeds to have an intimate conversation about our ‘future plans’ to anyone within earshot.”

  “I look wonderful, don’t I!” said Pete, as a statement rather than a question. He spun on the spot — like a ballerina on a music box — affording them the maximum opportunity to admire his toned physique.

  “You look fabulous!” said Emma.

  “Well, I need toooo!” exclaimed Pete, clearly with something to reveal. Ever the showman, Pete extended his arms theatrically, drawing out the finale of the sentence.

  Jack turned his back and continued to make a coffee, leaving Emma to look interested in the outcome.

  “So…?” asked Emma.

  Pete started to giggle like a schoolgirl, jumping on the spot.

  “I need to tone up and lose some weight,” he continued, “because I need to get into my wedding dress!”

  Emma’s jaw dropped. If she were a cartoon character, her eyes would have erupted on springs and hit Pete in the chest.

  “What? No way… You’ve been with Kelvin the same time, almost to the day, as me, and you’re getting married!” She threw Jack a look that only a woman could. A look where the man has done nothing wrong, but could be chastised by a simple scowl from a distance of up to forty feet.

  It was effective and Jack bowed his head in confused submission.

  “Congratulations!” she exclaimed, running from behind the counter to give Postman Pete a warm embrace. “That’s absolutely wonderful. You know you’re going to be all over the newspapers, don’t you?”

  Most would be apprehensive about this prospect, but not Pete. Ever the showman, he demonstrated his various poses, which he had been working on.

  Kelvin Reed was the king of gardening programmes on BBC Two. He’d fallen victim to the ‘gutter press’ — who’d all but destroyed his career. His reluctant appearance at Emma and Jack’s first, unsuccessful, world record a
ttempt, however, had been the catalyst that returned the former king of the gardening world back to his throne. It later came out that the journalist who’d tried to end his career was one of the instigators of the ‘phone hacking’ scandal. The other thing that ‘came out’ was Kelvin himself. He was firmly out of the closet, much to the delight of the campest mailman in the Isle of Man. Kelvin and Pete had grown closer over the last few months, much to the delight of the garbage press — who’d had a field day with ‘special delivery for the uphill-gardener’ styled puns. It was a script destined for a rehash of the Carry On films.

  Pete didn’t need to lose weight; he looked good — which he didn’t need to be told about, but always liked to hear. His former double chin was now replaced by a chiselled jawline. His long nose and styled black hair gave him the appearance of an ageing male model.

  “Wait… you’re not leaving the Island, are you?” asked Emma.

  “Of course I’m not. Kelvin is going to move over here. He loves the place and the Manx people were the only ones who treated him like a normal person when all that nonsense in the papers was going on.”

  Jack extended his congratulations, but knew what was coming; they’d been friends for a long time and it was a task he thought he’d escape, what with Pete being gay and everything.

  Jack hovered, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible while Pete regaled Emma with every detail of the proposal. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested — well, it was, actually, and he wasn’t. He dried cups that were already dry and polished cutlery that was already polished.

  “Jack…” said Pete, in an overly drawn-out manner.

  Jack grimaced before turning around with a look of apprehension.

  Pete moved towards him and placed his hands on top of Jack’s. “Jack, you know how you’re one of my longest and dearest friends?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Well… I’d be delighted if you’d be my best man...” Pete said, extending his hands like a cheap comedian who’d delivered an appalling joke.

  Emma covered her mouth to stifle a smile. She knew how little Jack wanted to be a best man. For anyone.

  Jack stared at Pete, desperately searching for an exit strategy. He felt like one eye was focused and the other was darting in every direction.

  “I’d be honoured,” he said. “You’re not going to make me wear white and pink… like a flamingo?”

  Pete leaned forward and placed a kiss onto Jack’s cheek. “You’ll look adorable!”

  “You’ve got outfits in mind?” asked Emma.

  “Darling, I’ve had my wedding outfits worked out since I was thirteen. Although it wasn’t quite as legal as it is now. Emma, I need to ask a favour from you, also.”

  “Anything!” she said confidently, knowing that, whatever it was, she’d be getting off lightly.

  Pete moved closer to her. “You’ve also been one of my oldest friends, and I’d love it if you’d be my maid of honour.”

  The smirk deserted her and appeared on Jack’s face. “You can’t have both, can you?” she asked, more in hope than in fact.

  “Emma, this is going to be the most ostentatious wedding the Isle of Man has ever seen. I want to share it with two of my closest friends, and I could think of no better way than this.”

  “Aww,” said Emma. “In that case, we’d both be delighted to be a part of your special day! I’m with Jack, though. I don’t want to be seen in one of those ruffled, 80’s-style candy-floss dresses.”

  “I can promise you both that you won’t be outshining me on the day. I’ll make Elton John look like a prude. I’m going to be the most fabulous bride and groom — rolled into one!”

  Pete clapped the tips of his fingers in excitement. “Kelvin is going to be super excited when I tell him. He really likes you both. He’s back over in a couple of weeks — we’ll have to all go out for something to eat.”

  “Pete,” said Jack, “I should tell you that everything I get involved with, you know, important, well, it always goes tits-up. I thought I should warn you in advance and I have a witness.”

  “Jack, you’ll be absolutely fine. Besides, if you do muck things up, I’ll tell all those strapping specimens in the gym what a wonderful and tender lover you really are. Toodle-pip!” he said, blowing a kiss as he left.

  Emma left it for a few moments until she could be sure that Pete had moved on and that there were no customers within earshot.

  “You know what this means?” she said, already giggling at her own joke. “You’re going to have to keep a firm grip on Pete’s ring.”

  Jack smiled. “Very good! So long as it’s clean, that’s all that matters! Does this mean that we have to arrange a stag do and a hen party? I can’t imagine Pete in a strip club in Soho at 3 a.m. with his trousers around his ankles.” As soon as the words left his lips, he knew he’d said too much.

  “Speaking from experience?” asked Emma.

  He could feel his cheeks flush and he became suddenly interested in an unattended cup on a vacated table. “Something I read on Facebook,” he mumbled unconvincingly.

  Jack could sense Emma moving in to follow up and knew distraction was his only salvation. He turned towards her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, in a rare admission. “That house we looked at last week. I think we should put an offer in!”

  “What!” shrieked Emma. “Are you kidding?!” She pressed her hands against her face before jumping on Jack, peppering his face with a volley of kisses. “Do you mean it?”

  “No, I was kidding,” he said. “Of course I meant it. The shops are doing well, we’ve got money in the bank, why not?”

  “Oh my god, I don’t believe it. We’re going to be homeowners!”

  Jack smiled. “At least I won’t be far from Grandad and... speak of the devil,” said Jack, reaching for the phone in his back pocket. He struggled to hear anything and stuck his finger firmly into his open ear. “Put the phone next to your ear, Grandad,” he said, with increasing frustration. “Next to your ear!” he shouted, startling the customer sat at the far end of the shop.

  “Two months since I bought that phone for him and he still holds it in front of his head. Oh… yes, I can hear you now, Grandad.” Jack rolled his eyes as he listened intently.

  He paced in a circle before placing the palm of his spare hand onto his forehead. “What do you mean you’ve fallen off your bike? Are you okay?”

  Emma moved closer but she didn’t need to, such was the volume that Grandad was shouting.

  “He’s fallen off his bike and he’s got a puncture,” he said to Emma.

  Jack composed himself for a moment. “I told you to wait and I’d take you out on the bike at the weekend. Where are you?”

  Jack listened, shaking his head. “Well, what’s around you if you don’t know?”

  “Bloody trees! What am I supposed to do with that?! Are you okay, is anything broken?”

  His blood pressure was climbing. “I don’t mean on the bike. Have you broken any bones? Grandad, this is why I said you shouldn’t go out on the bike on your own?”

  “Oh, you’re with Ray?” Jack lowered the phone and mouthed to Emma, “It’s fine… he’s with Ray.”

  “Grandad… You’re eighty-two years of age and Ray can’t be far off that and… hang on, are you wearing my Lycra cycling clothes?”

  He looked at Emma who was now laughing as she knew he was fine. “He’s wearing my Lycra — he’ll get arrested for indecent exposure.”

  “Okay… Grandad. I’ve got the work van. Where did you set off from and how long did you travel?”

  Jack took a notepad from Emma. “Okay, you started in the TT Grandstand car park. Where are you now?”

  He shook his head. “You’re still in the bloody car park?”

  “He’s still in the car park,” he mouthed to Emma. “Why am I writing that down?” he said. “Look, stay where you are and I’ll be up there in ten minutes or so.”

  Jack’s gr
andad, Geoffrey, had undergone somewhat of a renaissance since the formation of the Lonely Heart Attack Club. He was on the committee of both the Club and its activity offshoot, The Silver Sprinters. He was the epitome of what Jack and Emma had set out to achieve. Geoffrey had a great social circle and he was fitter than he’d ever been. The club — who were, on the whole, the elderly of the community — were computer and internet-savvy and, thanks to classes they’d put on, more aware of the scams that the vulnerable in the community are more likely to fall victim to. Geoffrey had formed a close friendship with one of their shop neighbours and recovering alcoholic, Ray. Two years earlier, Ray was nearly dead. Overweight and blood pressure through the roof and here he was, now, the best part of two stone lighter and on a bike ride with Grandad. These were just two examples from their club. They were receiving similar anecdotes from all of their other clubs, and hearing how they were changing people’s lives spurred Emma and Jack on to develop and grow further. Geoffrey had even found romance with Stella — grandmother to their neighbour and florist, Hayley.

  “Are you okay here?” asked Jack. “I better go and rescue…”

  “Lance Armstrong,” laughed Emma.

  “More like Stretch Armstrong, if he’s wearing my cycling shorts.”

  Emma grabbed him by the hand. “So, you mean it? You know. About the house?”

  Jack took his keys and for some reason looked at the destination he’d written on the scrap of paper. “Emma, never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d end up with you. To buy a house with you would make me the happiest man in the world.”

  “Aww, Jack, I love you!” she said, and then, “Jack…!” she shouted as he was leaving, deliberately causing him to pop his head back into the shop. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the trousers around the ankles comment! Love you!” she said, waving him on his way.

  .

  Chapter Three

  J ack sat with his laptop rested on his crotch, with Horace vying for his attention. When Helen left, she didn’t just leave Jack — she also left their cat. They’d been through some pretty miserable times together, he and Horace, but the cat seemed to be fairly accepting now of Emma.