Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #1: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and exceptionally funny!

by J. C. Williams

  “Am I safe to leave you?” asked Lee.

  “You’re fine, Lee, I promise,” said Arthur.

  “Here’s my phone number, Arthur,” Lee said, extending to him a card. “If I can help, I will. Please don’t hesitate to ask. I’ve got plans to extend the remit of the charity, so hopefully we can help more also, you know, with accommodation and that.”

  Lee stood, preparing to go, and gave Arthur the look of a concerned parent. “Arthur, I’m going to meet you tomorrow, and help you find somewhere to live,” he said.

  “I’m okay, Lee. You’ve done something special today, and, please, can you tell your friends Frank and Stan that as well.”

  Arthur took another sip of hot tea.

  “Lee,” Arthur said to Lee, now at the door. “Thank you for treating me with dignity.”

  Arthur sat, cuppa in hand, and smiled to himself. He looked at his boots once more, considering them. They really were quite nice, no complaints. And the clear moonlit sky predicted a welcome night on the street, free from the common wet British weather so often experienced. Arthur felt positive. He took a deep breath in, straightening his back, and raising his shoulders up.

  Suddenly, Lee burst back through the door, shaking his head.

  “I can’t bloody leave you to sleep out there tonight!” exclaimed Lee. “Don’t think I’m mad — well I am, just not weird or anything — but you can come home with me tonight, and we’ll get you sorted with something. I’m not sure what, but we’ll sort something out!”

  “Right. Can I finish my tea first?” Arthur asked.

  Chapter Thirteen

  T his must be the street,” said Stan, examining a crude map drawn on the back of an envelope. “What’s the point in having a mobile phone if you don’t answer it,” he continued, more a statement then a question.

  “Maybe he’s sleeping,” replied Frank. “It is only eight a.m., after all”

  The two walked along an unassuming row of red-brick terraced houses, each with a small garden to the front.

  Stan crumpled the paper in frustration. “Do they not know how to put numbers on the front of these bloody houses?”

  Frank was a few paces in front, and peered over a small wall. “I’m going to take an educated guess that this is the one,” he said.

  Stan quickened his pace. “There’s no number.”

  “Yes,” said Frank. “But there’s an empty beer can in the garden.”

  “Doesn’t mean it’s Dave’s house?” Stan answered, nearly caught up.

  “It does when it’s still in Monty’s hand,” replied Frank.

  “Ah,” said Stan.

  Monty lay motionless, his arms wrapped around a garden gnome in a manner which appeared very much one of great affection.

  “I think he likes that gnome a bit too much,” said Frank.

  “No, it’s okay,” said Stan, now in the garden and leaning over Monty. “He’s just got a mobile phone in his pocket, is all.”

  “Let’s hope that’s all it is,” Frank replied.

  “Wait, hang on,” said Stan.

  “Is he alive?” asked Frank.

  “The gnome is broken,” said Stan. “It’s busted right down the middle.”

  “Correction, then,” Frank offered. “I think he liked that gnome a bit too much… quite literally. Anyhow, I meant what state is Monty in?”

  “Well I’m not a bloody doctor, am I?” protested Stan.

  “I know, but you understand the concept of air coming out of the nose or mouth as an indication that someone is alive? Hold your hand over his mouth.”

  Stan knelt down, giving Monty a good once-over. He took a hesitant why me? sort of glance at Frank, before slowly lowering his hands down to Monty’s face.

  “Anyways, it’s too breezy,” he said. “I can’t hear if he’s breathing.”

  “Put your ear to his mouth,” suggested Frank.

  Stan adjusted his position and lowered his head. Monty was a considerable unit, and Stan struggled to get in a comfortable position to listen to him breathing. He had to place a hand either side of Monty’s chest as he listened intently.

  “Well?” asked Frank. “Can you hear him breathing?”

  “No, but he’s definitely alive,” called back.

  “How can you tell?” Frank said, confused.

  “I can smell his breath, and trust me, it’s not good. He’s alive, but it smells like something has gone and died in his mouth. You’re going to have to help me up, now, as I’m feeling a bit faint.”

  Frank stood over the two of them, unsure of how best to approach this. He intended to crouch down, put his hands under Stan’s armpits and help him up… but as he moved forward, Monty roused briefly from his slumber. His face contorted with fear and panic when he saw Frank stood above him and Stan crouched beside him. Most disconcerting, at least to Frank, was that, through the benefit of his lazy eye, Monty was able to focus one eye on each of them — independently.

  Monty made a garbled scream and instinctively kicked out to protect himself. His right foot rose majestically, and the toe of his heavy boot caught Frank squarely in the bollocks.

  The air flew out of Frank’s lungs as a wave of agony ascended through his body like a lightning bolt. He wailed in pain, cupping his throbbing testicles. His legs, now like jelly, gave out, and he dropped to his knees, leant over, his head coming to rest a few mere inches south of Monty’s groin. Monty’s incoherent mumbling was drowned out by Frank praying to a higher power to relieve the agony he was in.

  Without the offered assistance, Stan was unable to right himself. This left them, currently, a tangle of limbs — with Monty still clutching the garden gnome under one arm, Frank in pain and virtually in tears next to Monty’s crotch, and Stan at Monty’s throat, with grunting noises from the exertion, trying desperately to… well, it wasn’t quite clear what he was trying to do at this point.

  “Help me!” screamed Monty, becoming lucid. “I’m being violated!”

  Mrs Timpson — Dave’s long-suffering neighbour — was on her morning rounds with her chihuahua, Frodo. Alerted by the various screams, she picked up her dog, placing a protective arm around it. “I’ll phone the police!” she warned, as she looked apprehensively into the garden.

  She stood with her mouth agape and instinctively covered Frodo’s eyes to protect him from the imagined depravity that was on display before her. There sat Monty, laid on his back, Stan making Unh-unh-unh! noises at his neck, and Frank making Ah-ah-ah! noises at his crotch. And, in the middle of all this, was an abused garden gnome.

  “You disgust me, you, you… bloody deviants!” she shouted, retreating up the street. “Come on, Frodo!” she added, though Frodo could do nought else, being as he was still in Mrs Timpson’s arms.

  “It’s not what it looks like!” Frank, who’d managed to get some air back into his lungs, called after her. “It’s only a mobile phone he’s got in his pocket!” he insisted, grabbing the bulge in Monty’s pocket to emphasise the point.

  Frank struggled to his feet and used the last of his energy to pull Stan upright.

  “We’re going to get bloody arrested,” said Stan. “And how the hell has he fallen back to sleep?” he added, looking at Monty, who was curled up, once again, with his garden gnome.

  “I don’t know,” said Frank. “But I feel compelled to tell you… that was not, in fact, a mobile phone in his pocket.”

  Frank rattled the knocker — shaped like a sidecar — on the white, plastic door, but no answer was immediately forthcoming.

  Stan looked nervously up the street. “We need to get the hell out of here,” he said. “Being arrested for violating Monty and a garden ornament is not how I want to be remembered.”

  “The ornament was like that when we arrived,” Frank assured him. “Wait there,” he said, wincing in pain, his bollocks still hurting, and he jockeyed around for a better view inside.

  “I think I can see movement,” he announced after a few productive minutes of peepi
ng.

  Frank rattled the door several times further before a shadow became apparent, looming through the frosted glass.

  The door opened, and Dave filled the frame. Like the first time they met, Dave was once again sporting a pair of oil-stained Y-fronts, only this time, regrettably, there was no t-shirt to spare his modesty — just a pair of underpants and a generous stomach, an image that was starting to burn an unholy imprint on Frank’s retinas, but was nevertheless a welcome distraction from his pain.

  “You pair been mucking about, having fun with Monty?” asked Dave cheerily.

  “Dave,” said Frank slowly. “You do know that you’ve got a toothbrush in your hair and what looks like the remains of a chocolate digestive stuck to your right… breast.”

  Dave rubbed his eyes, yawned, and looked down onto his chest. “McVitie’s. They’re the best, aren’t they? I seem to recall I was looking for that last night, after it’d gone missing. Cheers.”

  “Look, Dave. Henk took us out to watch the practices last night…” Frank started to say, but the big man was only half-listening.

  Dave plucked what was left of the McVitie’s chocolate digestive from the tangle of his chest hairs and popped it into his mouth. The toothbrush, he did not remove; he left it right where it was, and, grasping the handle, used it to scratch his head. He munched on the digestive contentedly.

  “It’s pretty special,” Dave said thoughtfully, though it was unclear if he was referring to the TT practices or the biscuit. “So, anyway, what’s up?”

  “Henk took us out to watch the practices last night,” Frank explained again. “And, well, it’s the most remarkable thing we’ve ever seen. I can understand how this thing gets into your blood, into your soul.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Dave agreed.

  “Anyway,” continued Frank. “I know you’ve met Henk before. But did you know that he’s got loads and loads of motorsport memorabilia in his house? You know, ones that he’s sponsored over the years?”

  “I didn’t, but go on,” said Dave, who’d now pulled the toothbrush from his hair, inspected it, and, apparently satisfied it still had remnants of toothpaste on it, set about giving his teeth a bit of a spot clean.

  “Well, he’s got a sidecar at the bottom of his stairs, and it’s only the twenty-fourteen world championship-winning sidecar,” Frank said.

  “Twenty-thirteen, I think,” interrupted Stan.

  “Whatever year it is, it won a world championship,” continued Frank. “Apparently, Henk was the main sponsor. And, guess what!”

  Dave’s eyes widened. “He’s going to let me use the engine?”

  Frank looked a bit deflated. “No, but to be honest, we did ask him. But he started to laugh.”

  “And I think he was still laughing when we left the house, in fact,” added Stan, interrupting once again.

  “So why did you word it like that?” asked Dave. “Like you were coming to the door with the offer of a world-championship-winning sidecar engine? You can see why I’d think that, don’t you?”

  “You’re right, Dave. And, sorry, I didn’t mean to get your hopes up too much. I just meant to set the scene, you know, about Henk being into sidecars in a big way,” explained Frank.

  “So, can Henk get me an engine?” asked Dave, his hopes once again piqued.

  “Well, no,” Frank said.

  “So you’ve woken me and Monty up to tell me that you saw a nice sidecar?” Dave said, getting visibly irritated.

  Stan didn’t say a word. He simply let Frank carry on, seeing as how he was doing so well at it.

  “Well, yes, but I can get you an engine,” Frank said. “Just not from Henk, from one of his friends that’s staying with him,” he elaborated.

  Dave was tired and confused, so Frank clarified further.

  “Right, it’s like this, Dave. One of Henk’s friends also sponsors a few of the bike riders, and he’s offered to sell us a Suzuki 600, whatever the technical name you called it, that you can put in your sidecar. It’s raced before and it’s good to go, apparently. There’s just this one thing — it’s one of the spare engines the McMullan brother was going to use.”

  “You’re joking?” asked Dave.

  “No, it’s not cheap. But don’t worry about that, after we watched the practices, we wanted to be involved, didn’t we, Stan?”

  Stan nodded. “We did,” he agreed, now that it was somewhat safe to speak. “But one thing, Dave. Don’t take this the wrong way, but Henk’s friend would only sell it if you guys were serious about racing.”

  “We’re serious,” said Dave immediately. “Dead serious. Serious as the grave.”

  “I know,” continued Stan. “We know that well enough. But, see, this fella, he was almost coming with us this morning, and he’d have been greeted by…”

  Stan swept his hand in front of him expansively, like a game show host’s lovely assistant highlighting a prospective prize on display just revealed to the audience.

  “Greeted by what?” asked Dave, getting more frustrated.

  “Well,” said Stan, coughing uncomfortably. “You’ve got your passenger asleep in your garden, for instance, and he looks like he’s spent the entire night making love to Papa Smurf, and—”

  “We love who we love,” Dave interrupted.

  “And you’re walking around in your underpants,” Stan continued. “With a hangover, and with a biscuit stuck to your chest.”

  “What? Did I miss some?” Dave asked, examining his chest to see if there were perhaps more breakfast available.

  Dave looked as if he was going to say something else, possibly in his defence, when Stan took a step forward and looked past him into the sitting room.

  “Dave, hang on,” Stan said. “But is that a bloke asleep, standing up, or have you nailed him to the wall?”

  Dave turned and started to chuckle. “Ah, that’s James,” he said, as if this should be enough of an explanation in itself. Seeing that it was not, he continued, “The sofa must have been taken, and he’s pretty good a sleeping upright. You know. Like a cow or a horse — whichever one of those sleeps standing up, I can’t remember. I’m not so good with farm animals.”

  “That would surprise me,” Stan said.

  Dave faced Stan, with a solemn look on his face. “We’re serious about racing,” he said. “The only reason we’re like this today is because we were so devastated about not being able to race. Monty was in tears all night, and I’ve started to comfort eat, once again,” he said, pointing to the ring of chocolate on his chest left where the McVitie’s had been. “We’ve lived this for the last twelve months, and the bottom of our world dropped out when the reality that it was all for nothing sunk in.”

  Stan held his hands up. “No offence meant, Dave. I was just worried that if he’d seen you this morning, he may have changed his mind, that’s all.”

  “He doesn’t know you like we know you, is all,” Frank added.

  “So… we’ve got an engine?” Dave ventured.

  Frank smiled. “Yes, we do indeed have an engine.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so at the start!” shouted Dave excitedly.

  “He had to, y’know, set the scene,” said Stan.

  James, stirred by Dave’s shouting, snorted once, clomped his foot to the floor several times, then settled back to sleep, still standing up.

  “I’ve got the guy’s number,” Frank went on. “He said if you call him, you can meet him, and it’s pretty much ready to go. You should be able to go out tonight, in fact. That is, if you two have sobered up enough?”

  James whinnied. He was dreaming.

  “We’ll be fine, I can promise you that!” insisted Dave. “And I cannot wait to see the look on that bell-end Harry McMullan’s face when he knows I’ve got one of his engines!”

  “Probably best if we didn’t mention that, actually,” suggested Stan diplomatically. “He’s no fan of McMullan either, but the guy didn’t want to cause any trouble around the paddock.”

&
nbsp; “Hmph. Well I suppose I see your point,” Dave said, licking his finger and rubbing it round the crown of chocolate on his chest so he could enjoy every last bit.

  “Oh, and we’ve been on the phone,” Stan added. “And your pitch at the grandstand is still available!”

  Dave began to perform his finest truffle-shuffle, and for a gentleman with a larger figure he could move surprisingly smoothly and rhythmically. Mesmerised, Stan had to shake his head to break the spell, as the motion of Dave’s breasts jiggling — with the one glistening — was almost hypnotic.

  “We’re going racing, Monty! We’re only going racing!” Dave repeated over and over, calling outside to the garden in celebration as he danced.

  Monty didn’t stir, so Dave went out to him, moved the gnome unceremoniously to one side, jumped on top of him, and, finding purchase, began dry-humping his leg.

  “We’re going racing!” Dave shouted, and between the shouting and the humping, Monty was finally roused.

  “Bloody perverts!” shouted Mrs Timpson again, returning from her morning walk just in time to witness still more debauchery. “Don’t look, Frodo,” she insisted, though she already had Frodo’s eyes well covered.

  Dave gripped Monty by the ears, holding them out, the better with which to capture the sound of his shouting. “We’ve got an engine, Monty, we’ve got a bloody engine!”

  Monty opened one eye — his good one — and clenched his fist in delight. “You little beauty!” he shouted. “You’re being serious? You’re not having me on?”

  “That I am, Monty. That I am. We’re packing up the van, heading back to the grandstand, and, tonight, Monty my old son, you’re going to squeeze your tight little arse into your racing leathers.”

  Dave jumped around the garden, dancing, and generally scaring those heading off to their work, frightening the children, and spooking the horses.

  There was a whinny, came from inside the house.

  “Monty, and just one more thing,” Dave called out.

  “Wut’s that?” Monty asked. “You mean there’s more?”

  “Naw, it’s just, you really need this,” Dave said, handing him his toothbrush. “No offence, mate. But you could strip paint with that breath.”