AGAINST THE ODDS: BY HIS own admission, Vinny Fitzpatrick was as regular as clockwork when it came to relieving himself. For manoeuvres of a sedentary nature, post-breakfast was his preferred hour of action, preferably armed with the morning paper or, failing that, the Reader's Digestwhich was always to hand in the downstairs WC in Mount Prospect Avenue.

For standing-up duties, Vinny was your regular five-a-day man, first thing in the morning, last at night and another three bumper visits in between. Occasionally, he added a nocturnal notch to his five-a-day, usually after a lorry-load of pints but not always, which prompted Angie to wonder if his bladder was the size of a helium balloon.

Sometimes Vinny dribbled a little; occasionally his aim wasn’t arrow-like, but rarely did going to the toilet cause him any discomfort, until now.

He felt his first painful pee on Saturday morning, a second one 24 hours later but it was the third in the small hours of Monday morning which most worried him as he spied, for the first time, traces of blood.

After dropping the twins to their crèche, Ankle Biters, Vinny phoned the garage to say he’d be an hour late for his shift and then paid a call to his doctor, “Bones” Brogan. No appointment was necessary where Bones was concerned; you just turned up at his pokey rooms at the Fairview end of the Howth Road, took a seat, flicked through year-old freebie medical mags and waited for him to arrive from early surgery at Baldoyle.

The fact that Bones smoked, drank and had a tongue like barbed wire probably contributed to his dwindling number of patients. But his fees were realistic – €40 a visit – and he was readily accessible unlike most privateers on the Northside. Crucially, he was also a damned fine judge of other people’s health even if he was clearly neglecting his own.

On this muggy Monday, Vinny was the first patient in the waiting area; by the time he heard Bones’ scrunching up the gravel path at quarter to eleven, no one else had joined him. Bones was down to the bare bones. He was now in his 60s but looked older. He was stooped, with red-rimmed fish-eyes and a lined face and reminded Vinny of the actor, Peter Lorre.

“Ah, young Fitzpatrick,” he rasped. “How are those sisters of yours keeping? Just give me a few seconds will you?” he said, turning the lock of the door into his private rooms. A couple of minutes later, Vinny was beckoned in by Bones, who ushered him towards a hard-backed chair, a distinct blast of brandy off his breath.

Like a lot of men, Vinny was private about his health, and even more so about his body parts, most of which were flapping about to excess. Vinny had long ago stopped trying to hold in his stomach and had reluctantly accepted his ears were now hairier than his head. But his mind was sharp and he felt as young as the next 53-year-old. He certainly hadn’t reached the stage where if you read more you remembered less.

Even so, raising the subject about something as intensely personal as a painful wee didn’t come easy to him.

He coughed, examined his finger nails and tried to explain himself. “It’s a little awkward Bones, I’m not sure where to start. You see,” he began before Bones raised a hand and said abruptly “Stop right there Vinny.”

“Tell me if I’m wrong. You have a little difficulty relating to the waterworks section, some bleeding perhaps, or discomfort in discharge, and you’re concerned, am I right?”

Vinny did a double take. “Jaypurs, Bones how did you guess that?”

Bones sat back, reached under his table and took out a decanter and two glasses. “VSOP. Shall we? After all the sun is almost past the yard-arm.”

Silently, the two men sipped the amber nectar and then, after a bit, Bones spoke. “I may be a curmudgeon but I noticed you were reading an article on prostate cancer when I first came in. Your subsequent reluctance to talk about your symptoms hardened my suspicions. Well, am I on the ball?”

Vinny blushed, nodded, knocked back the remnants of the brandy and opened up.

Bones listened, made notes and then rattled off a few probing questions. Was Vinny having any difficulty in urinating? Was he visiting the loo at night more often than usual? Perchance, was there any erectile dysfunction?

At that, Vinny sat up straight. “Steady on, Bones, you’re sailing close to the wind there. That’s my business and my wife’s, no one else’s.”

At that, Bones got up, opened a window, pulled out a box of Carrolls from a deskside drawer and lit up, considerately exhaling the smoke away from Vinny.

“The thing about health Vinny is that most of the time it is no one else’s business but if things were always like that, then I’d be out of a job.

“The way I see it, you have two choices. You can go home and we can forget this conversation ever happened. The consequences, whatever they may be, will unfold in due course.

“Or you can let me help you get to the bottom of this; to see if that trolley bus body of yours needs a service. From what you are telling me, I suspect it does. In that case, you must leave your dignity outside the surgery door. In here, just like the confessional, nothing must be held back.

“The cemetery in Balgriffin is full of folk who ignored the catch in their throat, the phlegm in their cough, the tightness in their chest, until it was too late. Do I make myself clear?”

Vinny blinked, gulped and nodded again. “What happens now?” he said weakly.

First up, Bones asked for a urine specimen which would be sent off for analysis. Then, he would make an appointment in Beaumont Hospital for a biopsy of the prostate gland as well as a cystoscopy – “we pop in a camera and have a look inside.” When Vinny was told where the camera would be inserted, he flinched.

Puffing away non-stop, Bones asked Vinny about his family’s medical history; his dietary habits; general well-being and so on. Then he poured himself another brandy, tapped his fingers together and pushed his chair back a foot or so. “You’re a betting man, right?” he said. Vinny nodded.

“Most men who get prostate cancer survive as it’s a slow burner and can be treated; not all do however. A lot depends on how early we can catch the bugger. You support Everton don’t you? What are their chances of finishing in the top eight this season?”

Vinny paused for a moment. Man United, Chelsea and Man City were most likely to finish in the top three, then Liverpool and Arsenal after that.

That left Everton, Villa, Spurs and probably Sunderland and Newcastle to fight over the three remaining places. “I’d say slightly better than even,” he said.

“That’s where I’d rate your chances too. See you back here Friday when I’ll have the analysis of your sample. By the way, until then, refrain from getting too close to the missus, if you know what I mean.”

Vinny knew exactly what he meant.

Bets of the Week

2pt win Majestic Concorde in Galway Plate (William Hill, 10/1)

1pt each-way Mark Foster in Irish Open (50/1, Betfred)

Vinny's Bismarck

1pt lay Airtricity League XI to beat Manchester City (9/1, Bet365, liability 9pts)