Against the Odds: Casablancawas one of Vinny Fitzpatrick's favourite movies. He was a sucker for black and white melodramas and knew the script inside out.

Even now, as his head pounded and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, he could hear Humphrey Bogart as Rick Blaine. "Last night? That's so long ago I don't remember. Tonight? I never make plans that far ahead."

For Vinny, breakfast was too far ahead of him to plan. He was feeling lousy. It was the morning after the Christmas party at work and Vinny, not unlike the drivers on the 16A route, was unsure of his bearings.

The roar of Leyland engines from the Clontarf bus garage next door confirmed he was in his own cot. He was thankful for that, and thankful too that he was alone.

As he began to retrace his movements from the night before, bachelor Vinny knew he'd sailed too close to the wind with Irena, a Polish stunner who drove the 4A across the city like Fernando Alonso on speed.

The early part of Saturday night had given little indication of what was to unfold.

A lifelong Everton fan, Vinny had been in buoyant mood after his boys 'n blue had beaten West Ham for the second time in a week - he'd had a score on at 7 to 4 - when he rolled in to the Stag's Head for pre-dinner pints.

By the time the crew lurched into the Russian-style Odessa restaurant across the road, the craic was mighty.

After lashings of borsch, smoked salmon and caviar, washed down with champagne, the leggy Irena bestrode a table and dared all-comers to a vodka slammer challenge.

Before you could say "perestroika" Vinny had clambered, albeit a little unsteadily, on to a neighbouring table to take her on.

A book was opened on who would last the longer and Vinny had a vague memory of someone shouting "six to four against Vinny Fitz" before the tots arrived.

After three or four rounds, Vinny felt himself becoming detached from his body. He was warm and woozy all over, and he was loving it.

Here he was, a fortnight shy of his 50th birthday, the centre of attention of his work-mates, in the presence of an attractive young female. He was the gladiator in the arena and felt invincible.

The end, when it came, wasn't pretty. After Irena knocked back her umpteenth shot, and flung the glass into the fireplace with the accuracy of Brett Favre, Vinny attempted to follow suit.

He managed to force the firewater down his throat but his throwing arm was lifeless. His eyes lost focus and his legs wobbled. Worse, there was a rumbling from deep within his stomach.

Briefly, Vinny did a passable impression of the Leaning Tower of Pisa before gravity took over and he collapsed in a heap, all 16 stone of prime Dublin beef, on the restaurant floor.

"Vinny's race is run," he heard someone say before he passed out.

Some eight hours later, as he tiptoed gingerly into his tiny kitchen to put on the kettle for a cuppa, Vinny wondered if he was having a mid-life crisis.

Maybe it's time to regroup, he thought. Time to start behaving like a mature adult. He stopped for a moment to assess his priorities.

What mattered most? His job? No, steering a wheel and being polite to passengers just paid the bills. His family? Not really, as he hardly saw them.

His drinking? Don't go there, he said to himself. His gambling? "Christ, enough of this self-analysis," he muttered to himself as he gathered his coat and headed out for some air.

It was Sunday. Nine days until Christmas meant plenty of time for shopping, thought Vinny, who always left things until the last minute before dashing over to The Wise Owl in Northside Shopping Centre for a few seasonal books.

Vinny regarded books as the seat of learning, which reminded him that he must bring a present with him to Angie's for Christmas Day dinner.

Perfume, perhaps? Or maybe a basket of fancy soaps? He was sure women were into that sort of thing. He'd throw in a few scratch cards for good measure - if that didn't woo Angie, nothing would.

He was looking forward to spending the day with her on Christmas Day, now that he had his head around the whole idea, and to St Stephen's Day when he hooked up with the lads for a day at the races.

While he loved the thrill of the chase at Leopardstown, if pushed, Vinny would prefer to batten down the hatches in Boru Betting and follow the nags on the box.

There were 11 meetings on St Stephen's Day either side of the Irish Sea. With seven races per card, that was 77 races.

There were lots of English football matches too, with different kick-off times to help you spread your bets.

You could spend a wonderful day in Boru Betting of a St Stephen's Day and not notice it, thought Vinny.

As a cold Arctic blast cleared the cobwebs from his pickled brain, Vinny suddenly felt peckish. He was close to Foley's, which could always be relied upon for a doorstep sandwich and a warming bowl of soup.

Next door was Boru Betting. Vinny felt his fingertips tingle. He hadn't had the best of weeks in his efforts to lay horses in running. He could do with a successful pre-festive flutter to improve his ailing finances.

He fancied Arsenal big-time at 6 to 4 to beat Chelsea. He inspected his wallet. He had €50 and some change.

Enough for a bet, bite of lunch and a "cure".

Briefly, he checked himself. Is that what his life had become? Why didn't he do something else on his day off?

As the wind watered his eyes and a drop of cold snot fell from his veined nose, Vinny Fitzpatrick, unshaven and unkempt, shrugged his shoulders. Sure, what else was there for him to do?

With a knowing smile, he pushed open the door to Boru Betting and went inside.

• 1pt Everton to draw with Man Utd (4/1, Paddy Power)

• 1pt ew Monet's Garden in "King George" (12/1, Paddy Power)

• 2pts lay (back against) Phil Taylor to win World Darts Championship (6/4 general, liability 1pt).