AGAINST THE ODDS:WHEN THE winter stomach bug struck Vinny Fitzpatrick last Saturday, it struck hard and without warning, writes
RODDY L'ESTRANGE.
One minute he was in Boru Betting whistling a tuneless tune and casting an eye over the runners at Cheltenham, Doncaster and Uttoxeter; the next, he was half-doubled up and scuttling desperately for the loo.
Not all bookies’ shops come equipped with toilets, but the forward-thinking management of Clontarf’s premier bookmakers, namely Vinny’s eye-catching better half, Angie, was aware of punters’ needs.
“Without somewhere to pee, sure, half your lot would nip in next door to Foley’s to watch the racing and I might lose some custom,” she’d once told Vinny.
The men’s toilets, fitted out with three boxes and five stalls, offered sanctuary for Vinny who burst in like a rampaging rhino, cursed loudly as he fumbled with a buckle and zip and plonked down heavily with seconds to spare – what followed wasn’t pleasant.
Some time later, Vinny couldn’t be sure how long, he emerged feeling as if the world had fallen out of his bottom. He was in some discomfort, as much for feeling tender in his nether regions as for missing the first couple of races.
Armed with a brave face, and putting what had happened down to the previous night’s large curried chips and onion rings, he repaired to the shop floor to join the regulars and study the form.
It was now a quarter past one and Vinny was trying to recall something he’d heard on Channel 4’s Morning Line earlier.
Angie had been drying her hair in the kitchen at the time and he’d been peering over her shoulder at the equally hirsute John Francome and Co. He’d caught the words “Sivola” and “banker”, but that was all.
Now, scribbling "Sivola" down on a docket, and armed with €20 in his paw, Vinny began to scan the index of runners in the Racing Postwhen the rumbling of unrest began again.
It felt like something was squiggling in his lower tummy, and was followed by a burp over which he had no control. “Excuse me,” he said to no one in particular.
He had just spied Ping Pong Sivola as a runner in the 1.30 at Cheltenham, guessed that was the horse in question, when the gurgle in his belly gathered irresistible momentum.
Catching Angie’s eye behind the counter, he thrust the betting slip and the score into her hand, muttered his apologies, and scuttled off in the direction of the toilets.
If the first eruption had been Mount Etna, the second was Krakatoa, east of Fairview – it almost lifted Vinny off his feet.
He lost count of the movements as he sat, head in hands, unable to halt the flow. He was vaguely aware of punters coming and going outside, of uncharitable remarks about “the pen and ink” being “Pádraig Pearse”, but was powerless to do anything.
He reckoned he was on the throne for over half an hour, by which time he was physically drained and racked with pain, when he heard the door to the toilets open.
“Shanghai, don’t let anyone in for a few minutes. I’ll see what’s keeping him.” It was Angie. “Hey, you there in trap one, are you alive or what?” she said.
Vinny groaned. “Hi love. I’m in bits. The wind and brass section, I’m afraid. Better put a health warning outside. Oh, and Angie, is there any more toilet roll?”
It was some time later before Vinny was back home with Angie, sitting gingerly on the couch, surrounded by cushions, sipping a cup of hot tea. He had asked for a couple of chocolate biscuits but Angie had imposed a “no solids” order “until this thing flushes out of your system”.
Vinny didn’t think it was possible for any further visitations, as he’d been to the small room under the stairs countless times since Angie had escorted him to his new home.
Propped up, he fumbled for the remote control and immediately flicked to Racing UK for the re-run of Saturday’s meetings.
When the runners lined up for the 1.30 at Cheltenham, he sat up and took notice. There was Ping Pong Sivola, the 3 to 1 favourite in the two-mile five-furlong novices’ chase.
“I wonder how she got on,” said Vinny. For the next five and three-quarter minutes Vinny forgot about the pain in his derriere; instead, he felt the old tingle course through his finger-tips and toes.
This was what floated his boat, jumps racing in winter, with a financial interest.
Ping Pong Sivola led from the off, a tactic Vinny approved of, and, apart from clouting the fourth-last fence, was never in trouble.
The winning margin was 16 lengths, but it might as well have been a short head to Vinny. “A winner’s a winner, after all,” he said, allowing himself the first smile of the day.
“Hey, Ange, did you see Ping Pong Sivola won? That means 60 smackers for Uncle Vinny. Not a bad way to finish the day, eh?”
Angie returned to the living room, touched Vinny lightly on the knee and said, “I wouldn’t be holding your breath on that one, love.”
Vinny sat upright. “What do you mean? I may be an aul fellah but there’s nothing wrong with my marbles. Before my, er, second trip to the toilet earlier, I remember handing over a docket and a score to you.”
Angie smiled. “That you did, love, but do you remember what was written on the docket?”
Vinny furrowed his brow and gathered his thoughts. “I definitely wrote down Sivola,” he said slowly. “Okay, I might have left out Ping Pong, but Sivola was enough to win, surely,” he said, a seed of doubt creeping into his mind.
“Normally, it would be love, even without the meeting or the time of the race on the slip. But you see, there were two other Sivolas running today, Reve de Sivola and Peut Etre Sivola. You needed to be more specific, I’m afraid.
“The docket was void, but here’s your 20 back, with a bonus,” she said, brushing her lips gently against Vinny’s ruddy cheek.
Vinny closed his eyes and groaned. Could things get any worse, he thought?
Just then, there was a burble from somewhere below his belly button.
They were about to.
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VINNY'S BISMARCK
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