AGAINST THE ODDS:An untimely visit to the dentist robs our hero of his normal ritual for one of the biggest occasions of the year – the first flag of the Cheltenham Festival

AT THE MENTION of the words “open up wide, my son”, Vinny Fitzpatrick couldn’t help thinking how young Dr TJ Sheahan was the spit of his old man.

He had the same mannerisms, same dapper dress sense, even the same grim premises halfway between Black Banks and Sutton Cross, which had earned Sheahan senior the sobriquet: “The Butcher of Bayside”.

In the less sophisticated days of dentistry in the late ’60s and early ’70s, kids regarded Doc Sheahan’s place with unbridled fear. His surgery was nicknamed “Colditz” because anyone who went in tried to escape.

The stories of blood-curdling screams, painful extractions and excruciating injections were all true as Vinny had been there; he’d seen it. Doc Sheahan had a reputation for inflicting hurt while charging plenty for the privilege. What he took out with one hand, he took in with another.

As he had been the only dentist within miles, he’d cleaned up, so much so that he’d retired to the Algarve where these days he pulled irons rather than molars.

“Dad is 70 now, but in good shape. I’ll tell him you were asking for him,” said baby Doc Sheahan, son of “The Butcher” and the current commander of camp Colditz.

As the young dentist jabbed and poked about the headstones inside Vinny’s capacious gob, the patient, lying almost horizontal in a reclining chair, looked about.

For all the advances in modern dentistry, the suction, the anaesthetics, the X-rays on the spot, Vinny spied the cracks in the ceiling by the door were still there.

He could also see right up the nostrils of Baby Doc and was fairly sure he spotted a bogey amid the hairs. “Tut, tut,” thought Vinny. “Your old man would never have been so slipshod.”

It was noon on Tuesday and Vinny’s mood was caught halfway between the ecstasy of the opening day of the Cheltenham Festival and the agony of the piercing ache on the left-side of his upper gum.

The pain had had been gnawing away for a couple of months, ever since he noticed bits of food were snagged in a tiny gap in his two back teeth.

After most meals, especially ones involving pork, Vinny found himself reaching for a phial of cocktails sticks which he used to winkle out the snagged morsels.

Increasingly, the throbbing became tender and for a fortnight Vinny had been unable to brush one side of his mouth properly while even gargling cold water was painful – gargling Guinness, on the other hand, was fine.

On Monday morning, after yet another aborted effort to scrub the fiacla, he’d given up and, on Angie’s insistence, made an appointment with the dentist, Sheahan Óg.

He’d noted the midday appointment and furrowed his brow. “This had better not take long. I’m meeting the lads in Foley’s at one,” he said. Angie had played down her husband’s concerns. “Don’t worry, love. It’s only a check-up.”

The opening day of the Cheltenham Festival was a ritual held in the highest esteem by the lads. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday were captivating, but Tuesday set the standard.

For Vinny, nothing compared to the anticipation of the Supreme Novices’ Hurdle, sitting in Foley’s with his mates, a pint of stout in one hand, and a wager in the other.

Given a choice of his three favourite sporting days of the year, Tuesday at Cheltenham was on a par with Masters Sunday at Augusta, and Everton versus Liverpool at Goodison Park – the Dubs in an All-Ireland final would be up there too, but that hadn’t happened, alas, since 1995.

As he closed his eyes while Baby Doc Sheahan tweaked and prodded, Vinny considered the day’s racing ahead.

The Champion Hurdle picture had been thrown awry by the late news of Binocular’s controversial defection. Vinny couldn’t understand why trainer Nicky Henderson or the British Horseracing Authority hadn’t flagged up the possibility earlier that Binocular might not run? Something didn’t add up and punters were entitled to have a crib, although Vinny’s sense of self-righteousness was offset by the fact he’d backed Dunguib each way at 14 to 1 – the horse was now down to 9 to 1 and Vinny was chuffed to be on.

Indeed, he had such an optimistic vibe about the week that he had to rein himself in. As Voltaire observed, “doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd”.

There were 27 races at the festival and Vinny would have bets on at least 20 of them. It was crazy, he knew, to assume his targets would hit the bull, but he couldn’t help himself. He was working out the likely number of Irish-trained winners for the week when he was jolted back to the real world by Baby Doc.

“Vinny, the bad news is you’ve a rotten tooth which needs to come out. The good news is that I can do it for you now. So lie back while I put some numbing gel in your mouth and I’ll give you an anaesthetic. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt.”

Before Vinny could protest, Baby Doc was inserting a needle into the roof of his mouth. To Vinny, it felt like a dagger being plunged deep into his flesh and he half expected a bloodied nib to re-emerge through his cheekbone.

All the nightmares of “The Butcher of Bayside” returned and Vinny felt his body stiffen, while his feet waggled with fear.

He tried to sit up, but the Butcher's son pinned him down with help from his burly assistant, an unsmiling giant who reminded Vinny of the scary Miss Trunchbull in the movie Matilda– she even had the facial hair.

After several minutes of squirming, Vinny was allowed to relax.

“There now, I said that wouldn’t hurt,” said Baby Doc, puffing hard. “Vinny, would you please sit in the waiting room until that injection kicks in? Then we can complete the job.” Groggy and grumpy, Vinny glanced at his watch as he stomped into the room where a bird-like old lady was watching a portable telly in the corner.

It was one o’clock. Time for the off at Foley’s and only half an hour before the white flag was raised in the Supreme Novices’ Hurdle Vinny was giving serious thought about breaking out from Colditz when he became aware that an unsmiling Miss Trunchbull was hovering between him and the exit.

Conscious that his prospects of getting to Foley’s for the opening race were now about as encouraging as Binocular in the Champion Hurdle, Vinny turned to the goggle box which was showing Oprah Winfrey.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Would you mind if I switched the channels?” he said.

The sparrow-like patient turned to Vinny and sniffed. "I would actually. I had an appointment for one o'clock but apparently your extraction is taking precedence. I may miss my afternoon bingo because of you. Anyway, I like Oprah. By the way I also like Ellen De Generes and she's on next," she added innocently, while wrapping a claw-like hand around the remote control.

Vinny groaned and cursed silently. Here he was, trapped in Colditz with a numb jaw and mind-numbing TV.

He wasn’t an overly religious type but at this moment, as the runners were about to leave the parade ring for the opener at Cheltenham, he was sure his sporting god had forsaken him.

Bets of the Week

1pt each-way Michael Flips in Coral Cup (33/1, Boylesports)

1pt each-way Loosen My Load in Jewson Novices Chase (10/1 Boylesports)

Vinny's Bismarck

1pt Lay Denman in Gold Cup (11/2, Paddy Power, liability 5.5pts)