My Frank Bruno Story

One evening when I was rushing to get ready to go out with some friends, the telephone rang, and my wife said it’s Frank Bruno, and he wants to speak to you. I took the phone off my wife and bellowed, `Stop mucking about Eddie, I know it’s you’ to which Frank Bruno replied in that deep unmistakable voice. `I’m not mucking about mate, are you Ken Stock’ I apologized and said I was, he’d phoned to thank me for a favour, let me explain.
 
My cousin Mick lived at that time, about two hundred yards from Frank Bruno’s estate in a little village in Essex. Frank was a regular visitor to Mick’s nursery, either for plants for his wife or bags of mushroom compost, which I was told; he picked up two in each hand, as if they were Sainsburys shopping bags. Mick said he was always cheerful and ready to see the funny side of things, anyway, during their conversations Frank had told him that he was thinking of altering a part of the estate. Mick suggested he needed a plan, and I was the person to contact, I’d written up some plans for Mick a few months before. After a few phone calls, to and from Mick, to find out the measurements and aspect of the site, a detailed plan showing all the herbaceous plants, trees, and shrubs, was draw up and sent to Frank’s address. I’d forgotten all about it when the phone rang, I thought it was my mate Eddie, who knew about the situation.
 
After the initial hiccup Frank said he was grateful and how much did he owe me. He couldn’t believe it when I said he didn’t owe me a thing, because I’d done it for all the pleasure he’d given me and countless others during his rise to fame. He wasn’t satisfied with that, and told me he knew about our weekend charity events, and we’d be seeing him at the next. These charity weekends had been going on since a lady called Julia Catchpole had asked me to open my garden to the public in aid of a cancer charity she supported called Tenovus. She’d seen me while I was cutting the lawn in the front garden at 104 Petersfield Road. So that’s why on a beautiful September weekend in 1998 we were looking forwards to a visit from Frank Bruno. He couldn’t make it on the Saturday as he had other commitments but he said we’d see him on the Sunday. When it got to twelve thirty the following day we started to think he wasn’t going to make it. How wrong we were, we got a phone call from my cousin Mick who was travelling down in Frank’s Bentley with him; he said they’d be with us in half an hour. I don’t know how the word got round but by the time they arrived there was quite a crowd, and they hadn’t come to see the garden.

Autographs were signed, promotional photograph distributed, everything come to a stand still, including the buses. Eventually we introduced Frank to the cancer charity’s representatives and Professor Terry Hamblin, who is one of the leading cancer experts. We made our way through to the back garden and the crowd followed ol’ Frank like the Pied Piper, wherever he went so they followed. After photos were taken of Frank and the garden for the local press I asked him if he’d mind going in our house to meet my mum and dad, he obliged and the crowd come to.   

 My dad had cancer of the gullet and had under gone an operation over The Royal Bournemouth Hospital, to delay the cancer from closing his air supply. This involved inserting a stainless steel gauze tube into his throat. He was due out on the Saturday of our open weekend. As there was so much to do my wife phoned the hospital explaining about the event and our predicament, and see if it was possible for him to stay for just one more night, and I’d pick him up on the Sunday. Thank God they they let him stay in just one more night, there was such a lot to do, so early that morning I popped over the hospital to pick him up. After a wash and shave, I got him dressed and he didn’t look to bad, considering what he’d been through. With the aid of a wheelchair and the car we were soon back home. Mum was so pleased to see him; they’d both been living with us for a few months. My mum couldn’t be left by herself; as she had Alzheimer’s disease.

When my dad saw Frank he filled up, he just couldn’t believe he had Frank Bruno in front of him, as he wiped away the tears, ol’ Frank said `Stop crying Pop, You’ll have me blubbing in a minute’
 
After more banter than you’d get from a barrow boy down the old Petticoat Lane, we asked him if he’d like a cuppa. He said he would, and when asked if he took sugar. He replied `Two Please, one stirred one way and one the other’ by now dad had gained his composure and he asked Frank the ultimate question `How’s Harry?’ Frank looked at him and said `Oh Harry’s okay but how are you Pop’ Frank never knew about my dad’s trouble it wasn’t appropriate on such a smashing day. Luckily my son in laws father captured some of it on a video, which I hope to add to this article, as soon as I’ve worked out how to do it.

I told Frank during the afternoon about the cancer charity Tenovus and how I’d like to breed a collection of ten water lily flowered dahlias called the `Tenovus Collection’ he commented that as soon as I’ve done that I could perhaps get another called the `Bruno Collection’ I’m working on it Frank!

Too soon Frank had to leave but he’d given us a brilliant afternoons entertainment, which we’ll always remember, and for the first time we raised over one thousand pounds. I only met Frank in person for a short time but no one will ever tell me that big Frank is anything else than a thorough gentleman and a man who took his profession very serious, reaching the top by becoming the Heavy Weight Champion of the World. We don’t see enough of him on our small screen, the man’s a born performer. Last but not least, we wish him all the best for the future and when I’ve got the `Bruno Collection’ ready I’ll give him a bell, but I hope he don’t come out fighting.
 

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