| STEWART ENQUIRY ON TOUR The Idler To save face the Idler's racing correspondent, Stewart Enquiry, promises a special report on the Punchestown six day festival, Ireland. His companion on this mission? Shane MacGowan…as related by JOCK SCOT After a completely disastrous Cheltenham, where he dropped close on ?50,000, our racing correspondent, Stewart Enquiry, went to ground. For the first time in living memory he failed to show at Uttoxeter's Midland Grand National Meeting. Faces and lawyers alike quizzed each other as to his whereabouts, but this time he really had gone off the map. No sightings, unconfirmed or otherwise. The tight scene of the racing world was a poorer, adder place. Then, out of the blue, the phone rang at Idler mansions. It was Enquiry! In a voice that betrayed more than a hint of a guilty conscience, he asked whether or not he was still retained as the magazine's numero-uno nag napper. Since he had resolutely failed to file a single line of copy from the three-day NH Festival, and had tipped eighteen losing "certainties" in his pre-festival column, he had good reason to be unsure of his position. However, he was immediately reassured and forgiven by the long-suffering editor, on condition that he declare his whereabouts and immediate plans. His personal phone line had been bombarded with calls from rails, bookmakers, tearful young women and the manager of the Swan Hotel, Cheltenham, from whence Enquiry had done a runner. He bluffed his way out of all that with a string of excuses even more ludicrous than usual, trailing off with "Surely shum mishtake." A sure sign that he had already been drinking. He then bravely announced that he was off "on a retrieval mission". To the six-day NH Festival at Punchestown! The Ed. stared into the receiver in disbelief as Stewart gaily announced that he would be accompanied on his "mission" by none other than Shane MacGowan, the Irish folk singer/rock'n'roll animal, an old drinking buddy and the only real friend he had left. He then demanded that the Idler send ?500 cash over in a cab to Filthy McNasty's, a notorious drinking-den off the Pentonville Road. Apparently, he had been waiting there on MacGowan for three days, run up a massive drinks tab in the interim and the management were now insisting that he clear the bill! A hurried staff meeting was hastily convened and his outrageous demands were reluctantly met. Such was his popularity with the readership, the magazine's circulation would surely plummet without his column. "This is the last chance though," sighed a visibly ageing Ed, who then decided he would take an early lunch and sauntered out of the office saying he could be contacted in The Spread Eagle. Ernesto, the mini-cab driver who delivered the cash, returned to the office ashen-faced, and informed us that the scene over at Filthy's was "mayhem". Apparently Stewart had insisted that Ernesto, his "saviour", join him for a small refreshment, but had then collapsed on the Chesterfield in tears on receipt of the bulging envelope. He was consoled by Victoria, the gorgeous consort of MacGowan, who had finally turned up. "There, there," she purred as he bubbled and blubbed into her generous cleavage. MacGowan, swaying at the bar like a druidical rocking-stone and hollering "shop!" spied them out of the corner of his eye and quickly took offence at Stewart's over familiarity with his stunning muse. He lurched over and attempted a swift strangulation job on him, twisting his binocular strap even tighter as Stewart went purpler than he already was. Victoria, nonplussed, aimed a lethal Prada haymaker at her irate lover, in a desperate attempt to defuse a situation that she had witnessed too many times before. Her ridiculously expensive hand-bag, weighted with a bottle of dry martini, scythed a bruise making arc through the nicotine clouds, headed for Shane's shades. Luckily, the old friends tumbled over the back of the Chesterfield just then and the satchel missed its mark, only to find crunching purchase on the sweating forehead of Rabbi the potman, who came waltzing through from the other bar at just the wrong moment. Order was quickly restored with the unexpected arrival of Fr Bob, the local priest who, thinking a party was underway, had popped in as he passed by. The vainglorious pugilists picked themselves up and dusted themselves down; Stewart called for a round of drinks; Victoria and Shane smothered each other in kisses; the Rabbi was left where he had fallen, and in no time at all, an impromptu sing-song was under way. Stewart was in his element and called for his accordion, which was kept behind the bar. He strapped it on and launched into a medley of old Scotch tunes. The wheezing strains of the ancient box fused with his growling baritone and the sounds of revelry awoke. Tommy the banjo, who had been recovering in bed upstairs. He came down clutching his instrument and added a fine accompaniment. Gerry, the owner, wandered by in his underpants, clutching a bottle of Bombay Gin and smoking an enormous Cohiba Cigar. He rarely drank, but when he did, took no prisoners. He loudly announced that drinks were on the house as he bolted the door, and in a moment of inspired lunacy, danced a Hornpipe atop the bar. Rabbi stirred from his supine position blinking, took in the merry throng, thought better of it and passed out again. All was well with the world. With a rousing send-off from the filthy's posse, our heroes took a cab to Heathrow to begin the "Retrieval Mission". On arrival Stewart commandeered a wheelchair for Shane, who was having difficulty walking. They located the Aer Lingus desk and waited in the queue. Stewart gave Shane an occasional playful dig to keep him up to his work and in a handy position. His request for two First Class tickets on the next available flight to Dublin, was met with a disbelieving stare. The twin Rose of Tralee at the desk made incoherent pleading noises and Stewart checked on his flies. Satisfied that his dress was properly adjusted, he looked back at the Aer Lingus beauties just as one of them swooned away and collapsed behind the counter in a gorgeous green heap. After a superior official was called to appraise the situation, the boys were barred from boarding, on the grounds that Aer Lingus did not consider them "healthy enough to fly." Shane slept through it all, bleeding heavily from both nostrils. They retreated to the nearest bar to re-group and re-consider. Over over-flowing pints of Dry Martini, with ice'n'slice, they decided they hated flying anyway and that Heathrow was a shithole, so Stewart shouted for a cab. There were no cabs in the bar, so we wheeled the dozing MacGowan out to the forecourt of the terminal, ignoring the hordes of illegal immigrants, tanned fatties and Howard Marks impersonators and poured Shane into the first cab on the rank. He commanded the fascist behind the wheel to make all haste for Hollyhead, we've got a boat to catch, and don't spare the horses. Villages, towns and counties sped by, accompanied by an atonal avante-garde duet of snores, punctuated by the occasional nightmarish scream. Waking up on the outskirts of Bristol, Stewart suggested a stop-over in the St Pauls area, as he was now thirstily hungover and felt that he could use a livener. Benito, the driver, demanded payment again. Shane pulled a huge wad from the breast pocket of his bloodied Ben Sherman and threw a bundle of notes at Benito's knitted brow. The car pulled over and the pair fell out and crawled towards a red light which flickered on and off in a nearby basement. They got to their feet reluctantly but the going was affected by the large number of broken bottles which served as a doormat for the Addis Ababa shebeen. "Bit of cut in the ground, what?" muttered Stewart, as his red right hand rung the bell. The door had been open for some moments before the weary travellers realised. An ancient Rastaman with a waist-length, yellow, grey lock swaying, elephantine, in front of him, stood between them and a mountain of Red Stripe. "Is dat choo Stewart?" he cackled in a dialect which defied description. His mouth continued to work in a gummy, toothless manner, forming words they could no longer hear, as the ceiling high speakers of the clubs sound-system had screeched and farted into life, and they crossed the threshold to the deafening dub of "The Whole World is Africa". Dreadlocks Dread, the proprietor, greeted them warmly through a dense cloud of reefer smoke and ushered them through the crowd to a small private room in the rear. Four elderly rastas were playing dominoes with a physical passion which threatened to demolish the flimsy deal table around which they were seated. Dreadlocks Dread fished a bottle of 120 proof cane rum out of a filing cabinet drawer and poured three generous measures. He proposed a toast, "Praise Bob Marley!" They clinked glasses and drank Bob's health, even if he was dead. They sank into a comfy sofa and Stewart negotiated the purchase of a pound of loco weed. The first of many spliffs were rolled and, after a long, meandering discussion about the twelve tribes, Stewart was in the mood for dancing. With great difficulty he managed to stand up and then helped Shane to his feet. In the main room Dreadlocks Dread took over at the controls of the DJ booth, and, placing Lynval Thompson's "Don't Cut Off Your Dreadlocks," on the turntable, he cranked up the volume, torched up another spliff, and watched as the boys gave the Rastamen a demonstration of skinhead moonstompin'. They were joined on the tiny dancefloor by two sleeky oiled, black leather and gold chain-clad sistren, who bogled lewdly around them, giggling their heads off. After quickly exhausting their drugged frames, they took a break for a round of applause. Stewart, feeling peckish, ordered up rice and fish and peas over the roti counter, while Shane made another visit to the bog. As he shovelled the food into his grateful gob, he noticed a scuffle over by the loos, Shane was being mugged by a very large bald man, who smiled menacingly as he rifled through Shane's pockets. In a flash, Stewart was by his side, and then his fork was in baldy's forehead! He then executed an old skinhead dance step, which quickly saw screaming, red-faced Baldy become the dancefloor. Dreadlocks Dread appeared and cooled-out the situation, battering tooth-spitting, fork-in-forehead Baldy as he apologised to the boys. Within minutes they were leaving in the company of Junior, Dreadlock's regular driver. Safely ensconced in the back of the cab, they skinned-up in tandem and let the meter and miles tick away. The driver, although called Junior, was yet another Elder Dread. In next to no time they could hardly see each other through the dense reefer-fog. Junior joined in, passing back a wet-ragged chillum, "Jimson weed!" he cackled, grinning a gap-toothed grin to rival Shane's own, as he waved the stained clay cone at them. He had the unnerving habit of trying to make eye-contact each time he proffered the reeking chalice, rotating his dreadlocked bonce, Exorcist-like, as he did so. "Keep your bloodshot eyes on the road, ya mad Rasta bastard!" wailed Shane, as they drove straight across a flower-bedded roundabout, but the deafening volume of a bootleg tape by "Godspeed You Black Emperor" issuing from the sound system, concealed in the doors, under the seats and behind their heads, made verbal communication pointless. But it didn't stop the boys screaming in hysterical terror all the way to Hollyhead. At the ferry terminal, Junior hopped out and skanked over to enquire about the time of the next boat to Babylonbunnion, as he had taken to calling their destination. The boys slowly untangled themselves from the stoned deathlock they had adopted in midair, at the apex of the Severn bridge, when they had briefly become airborne. Junior soon returned, clutching King-Size Rizla, half a dozen bottles of strawberry, chocolate and banana flavoured milk and three packets of cheezy wotsits for sustenance. He waved three tickets at them and informed his still-quaking fare that he would accompany them to Eire, as he had promised Dreadlocks Dread that he would get them safely across the water: "I don' wancha fallin' overboard, and anyways I kinda like you guys." They were unable to utter any words of thanks or protest, but meekly accepted the fact that now they were three. So they rolled-up and rolled-on to the "Isle of Innishmore" parked-up, deep in the bowels of the rusty hull, then floated up to the bar and Duty-Free section. Their wire baskets were soon overflowing with bottles of Tequila, Power' Dark Rum, Dry Martini and hundreds of fags, plus a selection of disposable lighters, giant bars of chocolate the size of paving stones and a huge luminous green teddy bear they nicknamed "Rabbi" who would keep Junior company up front. Also deemed essential were some new cassettes of driving music: Credence Clearwater Revival, Motorhead, Thin Lizzy and ZZ Top seemed to suffice. They settled up and headed for the disco where they set up "Base Camp" for the voyage. Their arrival in the disco lounge did not go unnoticed and before they had settles in at a table close to the bar, the first of a steady stream of autograph-hunters swayed over clutching scraps of paper and biro's to request Shane's scribble. An MC appeared on stage in front of the gold tinsel curtain and announced that the Karaoke competition was about to get underway. A menu of available tracks would circulate. "Just fill in your name beside the song of your choice and we'll call you up. First prize, a litre bottle of Bailey's." The boys went into a huddle when the typed sheets arrived. Junior chose the rather obvious "No Woman No Cry." him being a Rastafarian and all that. Shane plumped for the Dubliners, "Seven Drunken Nights." Stewart, after much deliberation, came up with the inspired choice of the Osmands "Crazy Horses", which he proposed to sing in the style of Alex Harvey. Their choices made, they got down to some serious drinking, Junior displaying an amazing thirst now that he was free of the wheel. His drink of choice was Dark Rum and Coke with lime, pint of, and was soon impatiently his turn on the karaoke. Stuart stuck with his usual tipple of vintage champagne, ordering a nebuchadnezzar, the largest bottle they had on board. He was on top form, delighted that they were at last underway, and relishing the prospect of two weeks in Eire, centred around six days of top-class racing at Punchestown. Having Shane along introduced an element of unpredictability and guaranteed laughs, but not without a hint of danger…Shane had come to life in animated fashion, after a rather sluggish start to the day and was already working his way professionally through a long line of turbos, half pints of Dry Martini with loads of ice and a slice of lemon, which were arriving from all tables, everyone aboard keen to buy him a drink. He was soon up to dancing, gracefully executing a slow shuffle waltz step, punctuated with the occasional twirl of a hind-jive. His partner was a stunning red head who had been dared to get him up by her chums from a coach-party en-route to Bellewstown for a wedding. Stewart looked on grinning and running through the lyric to "Crazy Horses", in his head. Junior had gone off shopping and returned wearing a new T-shirt showing the map of Ireland under a Power's whiskey logo |