The Idler

Stewart Enquiry: 3

Part 3: And he’s off…

The third instalment of Jock Scot’s tale of Stewart Enquiry, the most outrageous racing fan in the country, kicks off with Enquiry setting fire to the Union Jack at the Cheltenham Festival

There was no doubt as to Stewart Enquiry’s whereabouts on the Wednesday. In full view of the 40,000 racegoers who crowded the stands he was seen to scale the cupola atop the helter-skelter in the fairground opposite and, with a cheery wave to his racing chums drinking outside the Arkle Bar, he set fire to the Union Jack that fluttered there. As he did so, he lost his footing and descended the structure headfirst, into the waiting arms of the Gloucestershire constabulary. He was roughly arrested and led from the course like a common drunk. In the Black Maria he claimed to have been put up to it by a crowd from Ballybunion, who had earlier been seen forcing drinks on him in the depths of Guinness Village.

Gold Cup day broke bright and clear over the Cotswolds, but in the cells of Cheltenham nick no ray of sunlight penetrated. A Kerryman, who had been found walking the backstreets of Burford clutching a glass case containing a stuffed fox, shared Stewart’s cell.

The Kerryman relates: “I woke up in the midst of a coughing fit, at first I thought the cell was on fire. It was only yer man Enquiry, torching up his first reefer of the day. As my coughing subsided he passed the thing on to me. I had run out of baccy during the night and so accepted. While still reeling from the effects of the jazz banger, Enquiry removed some small tablets he had cunningly concealed in the hat-band of his battered brown fedora. “Get these down yer neck,” he barked and started dancing around the cell. Before long our cell door opened and we were led through to the desk. There we were met by Frank Murray, the Kilburn impressario, who stood us bail. Frank shepherded us to a waiting white stretch limo and drove us to the racecourse.

“En route, Stewart toyed with a Nintendo Gameboy. He had become an orange and green blur, yet I felt strangely at one with him until I realised he was trying to give me a blow job! On arrival we swapped hats and Frank waved us through the Owners and Trainers gate.”

Frank now takes up the tale:

“Once installed in his favourite corner of the Arkle Bar, Stewart ordered a jeroboam of Dom Perignon which he guzzled from a pint tumbler. The Kerryman was attempting to read The Sporting Life upside-down. He was foaming at the mouth. Stewart was now surrounded by the crows from Ballybunion. He proposed a toast. “What care I for the bubbles of Fortune’s fickle tide?” he loftily intoned, before gulping down another tumbler of the overpriced pop. He then regaled the band of peg-sellers with implausible tales of massive wagers, failed coups and doped jockeys, before being carried shoulder-high from the bar to sally fourth once more to the depths of the Guinness Village. Truly a man in his element. The void he left was quickly filled by the Kerryman, now stripped to the waist and shoeless, who sang preposterously out of tune airs no one could put a name to.

“Stewart was later interviewed by Festival Radio. He was courteous and polite as he attempted to provide answers to questions on the day’s fancied runners. But a sudden mood-swing made him describe Sibton Abbey’s chances in an almost mystical fashion. Before long, he had embarked on a lengthy and passionate discourse in defence of fox-hunting, and bloodsports in general. He had to be humoured and DJ Kevin Simple coaxed him from the booth with an offer of lunch in the Turf Club. That was a mistake.

The cultured tones and polite conversations of the sports grandees were abruptly halted as Stewart gladhandedly moved through the ?�lite conclave, pressing flesh and thumbing thighs, leaving an ever-increasing number of puzzled peers and dismayed dowagers in his wake. He was shown to a vacant corner table and called for a Nebuchadnezzar of champagne. His seat could not contain him so he stood, swaying to his own inner rhythm. Face awash with tears, he rendered an off-key, yet moving, version of “Carrickfergus”. To Stewart’s delighted surprise his turn was met by a polite round of applause and, after a momentary display of feigned modesty, he launched into a rousing stab at “The Boys are Back in Town”. Oblivious to the fact that the novelty of his boisterous intrusion was now wearing a bit thin (people were calling for his ejection, or at the very least that he cease his tuneless brawling) Stewart halted abruptly in mid-chorus and began chatting in an animated fashion with a pretty girl seated at the adjoining table.