AGAINST THE ODDS:Vinny's diet comrs under strain when he's reaquinted with Foley's, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE.

ELEVEN DAYS into the New Year, a new regime, a new lifestyle, Vinny Fitzpatrick cracked.

To those who knew his character, the surprise was that he took so long to tumble from the fitness wagon.

Indeed, Macker had taken bets that Vinny would be back on the sauce by Little Christmas and was a mite miffed at having had to stump up.

The fall from grace had looked as likely as the prospects of outsider Penny’s Bill in the Pierse Hurdle last Sunday morning as Vinny uncurled himself from Angie and tip-toed downstairs to plug in the kettle and prepare breakfast.

Wearing the slippers and dressing-gown Angie had bought him for Christmas, he whistled to himself as he sliced up some banana and apples to mix in with his Alpen.

Dousing his bowl with low fat milk, he munched his way through a healthy breakfast before sipping the first brew of the day, complete with sweetener.

As it was Sunday, it was time for his weekly weigh-in. This took place in private in the downstairs toilet, where Vinny had stowed away a small notebook and pencil among the basket of dried flowers on the window ledge to record the findings.

A fortnight earlier, after allowing himself a free rein over Christmas, he’d plonked himself on the scales and noted, with a grunt, that his corpulent mass was 16st 7lb.

Advised, on medical grounds, of the urgent need to lose weight, he’d embarked on a fitness kick that morning, with Angie as mentor.

The carbo-guzzling diet had been turned upside down; pub visits banned and a programme of exercise introduced. Vinny was also reacquainted with Ryvita and was amazed at how versatile the little cracker bread was.

Before work each day, Angie made Vinny a packed Ryvita lunch, all with a variety of companions: low fat cheese and tomato, tuna and sweetcorn, peanut butter and Bovril, among them.

Evening meals had consisted mostly of fish, chicken, rice and pasta; there hadn’t been a spud or knob of butter in sight, not even a small bag of King crisps.

Vinny had also agreed to cycle to and from his job as a driver in Clontarf bus depot after Angie encouraged him to follow the circuitous 130 route from her front door to the garage. “If the bus can do a loop the loop, so can you,” she said.

As a bonus, Angie allowed Vinny work up a head of steam, in an affectionate way, twice a week once it didn’t interfere with her viewing of Fair City, to which she was addicted.

After the first seven days, Vinny lost half a stone and was quietly chuffed but this Sunday, the scales had told a different tale. “16st 7lb again,” he groaned. “I’m like Sisyphus, right back at the bottom of the hill.” After recording the figures for posterity, he emerged crestfallen from the loo. “What’s the point of doing this healthy living thing if it’s not working?” he thought.

By now, Angie was up and dressed and had her shopping face on. “Vinny, after Mass I’m heading up to Newry with Debs to buy a couple of TVs, including one for your den.

“There’s no point in you being stuck in a car when you could be out getting some air. Go for a long walk. I’ll bring something organic back from Sainsburys for dinner.”

An hour later, Vinny was back in the large detached house, alone and armed with the Sunday papers. “Time for a quick cuppa and then a ramble,” he thought to himself.

Turning instantly to the sports pages, he noted the card for the races at Leopardstown and was instantly drawn in. The Pierse Hurdle, which Vinny remembered as the Sweeps’ Hurdle from childhood, was the big race of the day.

He studied the runners, felt Psycho from the Tony Martin stable was the one to be on, and thought about having a punt, setting off a recognizable tingle in his fingers and toes.

“Sure, why not? I could do with a pick-me-up,” he said to himself.

Mapping out a route which would take him past Boru Betting and out to Dollymount Strand and back, he estimated he could place a bet and be back in Mount Prospect Avenue in time for the big race at 2.20pm.

Wrapped up in more layers than an onion, for it was a wojious January day, Vinny tottered towards his old bookies’ haunt. He slipped inside, kept his head down lest he be distracted, and placed a score on Psycho to win at starting price odds.

Emerging out on the seafront, Vinny was almost knocked sideways by an arctic blast of wind.

He leaned forward boldly, determined to strike out in the direction of Dollymount, when the heavens opened.

Buffeted by the gales, his face stung by icy pellets of rain, Vinny was puffing hard when he came to rest outside a place he knew too well, Foley’s. He paused inside the doorway for shelter and considered his options.

Should he leg it, or not? Peering out into the tempest, he felt there was no point trying to combat Mother Nature.

“Sure, I’ll have a cup of tea just to get warm,” he said to himself, before pushing open the door.

Inside, he was greeted with the familiar sight of Dial-a-Smile behind the bar, doing his best to look busy even though the place was almost deserted. Wigan against Spurs was about to start on one telly, while the racing was on another.

He waddled to the bar, coughed, and said: “Er, one tea, please.” As he struggled to open a sugar sachet – he was allowing himself one indulgence – he heard a voice from a cranny to his left.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.” Vinny turned. It was Macker, settled in front of a crossword and a pint of stout. “Macker, me ol mucker. How are the balls of your feet?” he said. “Grand, grand,” replied Macker.

“What’s your poison there, a cup of Rosie Lee? Don’t tell me, you’re still off the jar.”

Vinny thought for a moment, then blurted out. “Nah, it’s brass monkeys out there and I’m freezing.”

A few minutes later, a couple of pints of Uncle Arthur’s Foley’s finest were settled in front of the old friends. With a hint of solemnity, Macker raised his glass. “To good health, Vinny,” he said.

Vinny briefly bit his lip as he contemplated the dark coloured liquid, the creamy, white-collared crown.

“Sure, one quick one won’t hurt,” he thought to himself as he clamped a meaty mitt around the tulip-shaped glass.

Bets of the Week

3pts Andy Murray to win Australian Open (5/2, Paddy Power)

2pts Pittsburgh Steelers to win the Super Bowl (13/8, Paddy Power)

Vinny's Bismarck

1pt Lay Hull to beat Newcastle in FA Cup (7/2, Ladbrokes, liability 3.5pts)