Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #2: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and sublimely funny - one to put a huge smile on your face! Read online

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  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

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  Frank ’n’ Stan’s Bucket List #2:

  Destination… Isle of Man TT Races

  Again!

  Chapter One

  S t Luke’s Church sat proudly at the head of a rolling valley, flanked on either side by luscious green hillside, the still air filled with birdsong. Its remote location on the outskirts of Yorkshire caused modern navigation systems difficulty, but this idyllic church had provided solace to the remote rural communities for generations. A magnificent stone wall provided a protective arm around the quaint structure inside. Engraved stone headstones were peppered sporadically, providing a memorial for the occupants resting beneath. It truly was as beautiful a final resting place as one could have wished for. The stone bulwark, which would have taken a master craftsman weeks to painstakingly lay, was today being used for a purpose its creator could not possibly have conceived.

  Stella eased up and down in a rhythmic fashion, using two protruding stones in the otherwise uniform structure as a scratching post to relieve an itch on her left buttock. She manoeuvred like a brown bear rubbing its back on a tree – except, one might say, slightly less majestically. It was challenging to see beneath her generously-applied layer of makeup, but as she slid down once again, the faintest glimpse of a contented smile could be discerned through the acrid plume of cigarette smoke emanating from her lips in a steady stream.

  “Ahh,” she said, rotating her hips for maximum contact. Her moment of satisfaction was, however, rudely interrupted.

  “What the actual hell are you doing?” said Stan incredulously, stood underneath the wooden gatehouse at the entrance to the church grounds.

  Stella didn’t avert her gaze. “I’m having a fag, obviously,” she said, stopping only to take another drag. “And scratching my arse. What’s it to ya?”

  Stan put his hand to his head to steady himself, before removing it to create a clenched fist which he shook like he was rolling dice. In fact, any conversation with Stella, he found, was indeed a gamble.

  “Stella,” he said, in as controlled a manner as the situation would allow. “He’s bleeding, for god’s sake.”

  Stella shrugged. Or, it may have been a shudder of pleasure. From the rubbing.

  “Stella,” Stan repeated, bracing himself against the horror. “For the love of God...”

  It was rather an apt expression, considering their current location at a church.

  Stella finally reacted, and looked towards Stan. “You’ve got orange… muck on your shirt collar,” she said. “You should rub that fake tan sludge in with better care,” she offered.

  Stan looked over his shoulder, as if to an imagined accomplice, and paused grimly before returning his scorn toward Stella. “Why did you hit him?” he asked, finally. “He’s got a bloody cut above his lip. It might need stitches,” he added, with the tone of his voice increasing in pitch at the last word.

  Stella eyed him impassively as she sucked on the final remnants of her cigarette. “He grabbed me,” she explained. “So I hit him. Simples.” She stated this matter-of-factly, as if the answer should have been obvious.

  Stan’s clenched fist returned once again. “Stella, he only asked you to not smoke inside. You can’t smoke inside a church. Why would you think you could smoke inside a church?” said Stan, who was now concerning himself with containing his fake-tan on the intended area. “The only people that smoke in a church are those being cremated.”

  Stella’s expression remained distinctly unmoved. “He shouldn’t have touched me,” she continued. “And sometimes there’s incense.”

  “What?”

  “Incense. You said there’s never smoke in church, but sometimes there’s–”

  “Look,” Stan admonished, before she could finish. “He only put his hands on you as you ignored his first three requests.” He moved towards her. “Here. Like this,” he said, raising his hand by way of illustrative example, but judging by the sudden elevation of Stella’s imposing, drawn-on eyebrows, immediately thought better of it. He placed his hands firmly in his pockets, instead – where they’d remain safe.

  “Well I suppose I just didn’t hear him properly, now did I?” said Stella.

  “Well I heard him properly, and I was stood directly next to you!” Stan replied.

  “I could’ve been singing a tune,” Stella offered.

  “Singing a–?”

  “In my head,” Stella explained further. “A happy tune. So I didn’t hear him get shirty with me those three times, because I was distracted. By the happy tune.”

  “The happy tune in your head,” Stan stated flatly.

  “That’s right,” Stella agreed, pleased with herself.

  Stan was surprised that he could still be surprised by anything Stella might say. He should be used to this by now, he thought.

  “The poor guy was shaking after you hit him!” he said, trying to impress upon her the severity of the situation. “He’s got blood all over his… his… vestments!”

  “That’s still better than the muck you’ve got all over your vest-a-mints,” she replied. “Besides, he shouldn’t have touched me, like I said. Anyway, who the hell does he think he is, telling me where I can and cannot smoke? It’s rubbish.”

  “It’s his bloody church!” Stan shouted. “He’s the bloody vicar!”

  “Oi! Language!” Stella answered, tut-tutting him. “We’re in a churchyard, Stanley, after all. Show some respect!”

  “Oh, it’s me that’s disrespectful, is it? I’m the one? It’s been me this entire time?”

  “Yes, that’s right, now you’ve got it,” she said, happily lighting up another fag.

  “Right. Listen,” Stan carried on, undaunted. “The Big Man upstairs saw it fit to appoint the vicar as the man to look after this church, and this church’s flock, and you nearly knocked him unconscious because he asked you to smoke outside. It’s all I could do to not get him to phone the police, you know! I had to… I had to tell him…” said Stan, suddenly trailing off.

  “What’s this? Tell him what?” Stella demanded, her already-considerable body mass puffing out, inflating like a bullfrog.

  Stan wisely took several steps back and held his hands out like a poor mime artist. “Look,” he said, setting his stall out. “They were about to phone the police, so I had to think quick.”

  The foundation on Stella’s face was starting to crack like the mortar on the wall that she’d just violated.

  “Out with it, you scrawny piece of sh
it,” she growled.

  “I told them you were, well… simple,” Stan admitted. “I told them that you had mental issues. Several of them, in fact. And they were very quick to believe it in the circumstances.”

  Stan braced himself, screwing up his eyes in anticipation of being, himself, attacked. When no assault was forthcoming, he widened his eyes, once again, and found himself unsettled when Stella was revealed to be laughing.

  “That’s pretty quick, actually,” said Stella jovially. Then she snuffed her ciggie out and said, “Come on, then,” grabbing Stan’s arm. “Let’s get inside, shall we?” she said, quite agreeably. “Should I talk to myself, or maybe dribble a little bit? You know, to keep the pretence up?”

  Stan recoiled cautiously, his eyes scanning to see if she was being sincere. “Em… no more than usual?” he suggested timidly. When she didn’t strike him, he carried on. “In all honesty, Stella, I don’t think you’ll need to be doing anything more than simply being yourself, and you’ll be just fine,” he said. “Just fine. And, I’m sure, very convincing,” he added, with a tone of encouragement and a nod of the head for good measure.

  Once inside the church, sombre music emanated from the dilapidated organ stuck in the far corner. The tune was difficult to decipher due to the mashing of the keys by an enthusiastic elderly lady who was, perhaps, short-sighted judging by the proximity of her nose to the music sheet. Those in the congregation already seated offered encouragement by way of sympathetic smiles and nods. It was unlikely, given the organist’s lack of acuity in the vision department, that the organist was even aware of this – but the congregants were among the faithful, and presumably had hope of a miracle.

  “Over here!” said Lee to Stella and Stan, waving them over, as if they needed further direction in an already intimate church. “I’ve saved you a seat,” he told them.

  As he made his way over, Stan offered his apologies for disturbing those already taken their place in the pews that he was, well, disturbing. Whereas Stella waded through the sea of seated parishioners with little concern, leaving a trail of bruised knees in her prodigious wake. She was very much living up to her newfound persona of being somewhat less than stable.

  Lee, for his part, looked smart; no longer dependent on handed-down clothing, he carried a navy suit well. “There’s a fair few here,” he said to the pair in a gentle Irish accent, throwing his eyes over the room.

  Stan bobbed his head in agreement. “He was a popular guy. People liked him,” he said. “He’ll be missed a great deal.”

  “There better be food afterwards,” Stella interrupted, leaning across. “I’ve only had a Mars bar for breakfast and I’m bloody starving.” She stood up once again, and, after a brief struggle with the buttons, removed her jacket. She looked down on her protruding midriff. “Bloody hell, I’m wasting away to nothing here,” she said, shaking her head forlornly. “And I’m in desperate need of a lager as well – I’ve got a gob like Gandhi’s flip-flops.”

  As if the language weren’t bad enough, Stan’s jaw dropped as Stella stood there in the middle of the church, pinching bits of Lycra from every conceivable fold and crevice (of which there were many). He went to speak, but couldn’t. He moistened his lips, took a look at Lee who was equally as perplexed, and then cleared his throat. “Are you, eh, going for a run afterwards, Stella?” asked Stan.

  Stella was occupied by a struggle with the gusset area of her attire, a struggle that she appeared very much to be losing. “A run?” she replied. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Don’t be bloody daft. Honestly, where do you come up with this rubbish?”

  Stan looked over his shoulder, and, as usual, all eyes were zeroed in on Stella. He leaned closer to her and lowered his voice. “It’s just that, you know, wearing a Lycra running suit kinda gives one the impression that you might be going for a run. As opposed to, say, attending a funeral.”

  Stella was still stood for the world to see, on full display, in a skin-tight Lycra running suit to be precise, with the words JUST DO IT emblazoned in huge lettering across the front of the sleeveless top that was doing the best it could – pulling double duty, as it were – to contain her generous, ample bosom.

  “Sometimes you just don’t think, Stanley,” she said crossly. “You said to wear something black,” she told him. “And you know full well this is the only thing I’ve got that’s black.”

  “How in God’s name would I possibly–?” he began, but then shook the thought away. “Look, I can see it’s black,” said Stan, although in parts it was, in fact, transparent due to being stretched out like an overinflated balloon. He was about to carry on when he shrugged his shoulders in acquiescence and smiled. “You know what? You’re fine,” he said, knowing she was causing no real harm (or, at least, no permanent damage) to anybody. “It’d put a smile on his face if he was here,” Stan added agreeably, but Stella was no longer listening.

  Instead, she rubbed her hand over the surface of her leggings, on the area at the top of her thigh, on the outer perimeter of her panty line. She took a grip of her stomach and moved it temporarily out of the way, peering over for a closer inspection. After a moment, she let go of her stomach and gripped the waistband with one hand and delved in with the other one. The congregation were in turmoil, whether to focus their attention on the organ being tortured on one side or the horror that was Stella, stood with her hand down her pants, foraging like a hungry tramp in a bin. Oblivious to her audience, Stella’s pained expression turned to one of rapturous joy as she first retrieved a packet of cigarettes, closely followed by a partially-melted Mars bar.

  “I knew I’d brought a snack!” she said with a beaming smile. She positioned herself to take a seat, but first took a less-than-discreet sniff of the chocolate treat, and, when satisfied, retired back down to the pew, demolishing its contents like a seagull eating chips.

  “Is that Frank’s daughter over there?” asked Lee once Stella had sorted herself out, but before a response was forthcoming the organist came to a rather abrupt halt, causing a hushed silence. The considerable wooden doors at the entrance to the church were opened, flooding the room with natural light. The instinctive reaction was to turn and look – and those that did were greeted with the sight of the hearse parked sideways, its wooden delivery sat patiently, covered in flowers, waiting for its final journey.

  With the break in the music (described here, generously, as such), the vicar moved to his pulpit and cast a warm smile over the congregants. His magnanimous countenance faltered, however, as he glanced in Stella’s general direction, turning to a look of suspicion. Sensing the attention, and wanting to avoid the night in a police cell, Stella reverted to her alter-ego and began twitching whilst slapping herself on the back of her own head.

  As there was nothing that could be done, the vicar once again addressed his audience:

  “We’ve had a request from the family, if you’d provide your indulgence. At their wishes, they’d like the congregated family and friends to join them outside the church and escort the coffin, and so…” he suggested, motioning with a wave of his hands to usher them all out into the sunshine.

  Stan squinted his eyes as they emerged from the dark recess of the church, and, once outside, it was fairly obvious that there were fewer mourners than had initially appeared inside the intimate setting indoors.

  “Shit,” said Lee out of the corner of his mouth. “There’s actually not that many people bothered their arses to turn up.”

  “I see that now,” Stan answered him. “But at least we’re… here?” he said, his attention suddenly drawn elsewhere.

  “What is that–?” Lee began.

  “Ungodly caterwaul?” Stan finished, turning on a sixpence.

  A pained noise, comparable to, perhaps, a sick elephant, floated by on the breeze. Stan looked at Lee and they both moved to Stella, placing a comforting arm around her broad – very broad – shoulders, which now began to heave as she watched the coffin being lifted from the car.

/>   “I’m… going… to… miss… him…!” wailed Stella, with the tears now flowing freely.

  Stan was at first taken aback, as he’d always assumed that Stella was devoid of emotion. But, in that moment, she had an air of vulnerability that neither Stan, nor perhaps anybody, had seen before. Stan shared a tear, and the three of them held each other tenderly as the coffin was hoisted upon the shoulders of the pallbearers. There was a dignified silence.

  Well, there was a dignified silence at least for a few brief seconds, before…

  “Don’t start without us!” shouted a voice through the open window of a coach that was proceeding steadily on the narrow road outside the church, nearly there. The first was followed closely by a smaller coach a short distance behind.

  Rather than negotiate the narrow carpark, once reached, the coaches were abandoned, all but blocking the road to further traffic.

  “Wait there!” demanded the same voice, once more, this time with even further urgency and determination.

  The vicar looked warily as the occupants of the two coaches spilt onto the country lane and made their way, at great pace, stampeding through the church grounds. This was not the usual sort of service to which he was accustomed. First, it was the ungainly mentally-challenged woman’s antics. And, now this.

  The intention of the hordes was unknown, but as they advanced, they appeared somewhat a motley bunch. At first blush, from a distance, they looked reasonably smart. As they grew closer, however, the state of them was brought gradually into focus Their suits, for instance, were disparate affairs; most were a mismatch, with the trousers not belonging to the jacket and such. One chap was only wearing one shoe. And a number of them looked like it’d been days since they’d last clapped eyes on a bar of soap. In fact, their somewhat less-than-pleasant aroma arrived several seconds before they did, with their imminent influx causing several of the mourners to seek out a position of cover behind Stella’s broad frame – with Stella presently dabbing the tears off her cheeks with a rolled-up newspaper. Not only was Stella a barrier to the odoriferous assault on the senses, but it was taken as obvious that she could handle herself in a scrap as well.