John Foster, an Irish School Teacher, living and working in the Isle of Man, is compiling a booklet of True TT Tales and Silly Stories. All proceeds from the booklet will be donated to the various biking charities on the Island.
If you think you could help John, please e-mail him at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Here is one of the articles that will appear in the finished booklet.
Juan's wife had seemed attractive enough to him all those years ago when he married her in haste. But the maturing process had been unkind to her physical geography, and merciless to her personality. He put up with it by staying out of the house as much as possible, drowning his sorrows at the local, or cruising the TT Course on his Honda 90 when the weather was kind. Unfortunately, when he eventually plucked up the courage to return home from such missions, his wife would be transformed into a violent hurricane, inversely proportionate to the length of time that Juan had been absent. Juan tolerated this persecution with few displays of outward emotion, turning the other cheek so frequently that he always got it in the neck.
The crunch came when he plucked up enough courage to tell Her that he lusted after an R1, and had been offered a good deal on one in Douglas. There followed a volcanic eruption that disturbed the foundations of houses as far away as Crosby, and ended with "
over my dead body!" This, as subsequent events were to prove, was a rather appropriate choice of phraseology.
Juan trembled off to the pub and, following numerous tranquillisers, confided with an acquaintance that he'd had his fill (of Her) and would even contemplate paying someone to "do a job" for him. The acquaintance reported, rather enthusiastically, that there was a man who was known to do contract work, and could be found any Friday night in the Baltic, in Foxdale. "-Just ask for Arty."
Juan's mind was in chaos, but on Friday night he journeyed to Foxdale, with a full wallet. He asked for Arty and the barman referred him to a sinister, solitary drinker in the corner.
To cut a long story short, Juan arranged the business with Arty, and was gob smacked when Arty insisted that his fee was just one pound, adding, by way of explanation, that taking care of people was his hobby.
Early next morning, as dawn was breaking gently over Douglas Bay, Arty slipped silently into Robinsons' Fruit & Vegetable Emporium. Instantly he recognised the ample-but-ugly rear view of Juan's wife from the detailed description that Juan had provided. She was preparing a display of fruit before the shop opened for business. In an instant he had throttled her, and left her draped (appropriately) over a box of pears.
As he made his getaway through a rear storeroom he was surprised to see a lady, perfectly matching his victim's description, opening a bag of onions (there would be tears). Confused, but happy to carry out his vocation, Arty despatched his second victim by the joining of hands around the neck. He quickly made his getaway, and on his mobile reported the score to the anxious Juan, who was nervously thumbing through a pile of brochures about the love of his life.
When the "bad news" arrived officially Juan reacted as naturally as possible and, even after the funeral was over, he waited for a whole day before going to sign up for his beloved R1. As he passed through Union Mills the headline on the Examiner Board outside the shop caught his eye. It exclaimed boldly: