AGAINST THE ODDS:THE DAWN patrol stint on the 31 completed, Vinny Fitzpatrick was contemplating a long Saturday afternoon in the den gorging on racing, football, rugby and a surfeit of on-line wagers, when his mobile rang.

It was Angie, with her business voice on. “Vinny, two of the staff can’t get in from Blanchardstown because the roads are impassible. I need emergency cover in the office; can you give me a dig out for a couple of hours?”

Vinny paused for a moment. “Er, I suppose I could come down later and help count the takings, if that helps,” he replied.

There was a silence, before Angie spoke again. “Right, I’m not asking you anymore. I’m telling you to get that big backside of yours in gear and be here in 10 minutes.”

With that she hung up.

Briefly, Vinny considered playing the old war-wound card, how his back was acting up and he simply had to rest for a bit.

He would have done had he lived on his own, and by his own rules. Now, he was under the same roof as Angie, who didn’t just wear the trousers in their relationship, but the jacket, shirt and tie too.

While he would never admit it, he was a mite frightened of Angie, whose tongue could be as sharp as a chainsaw.

“I’m banjaxed if I don’t help her and banjaxed if I do,” he muttered to himself as he turned towards the direction of Boru Betting.

Pushing open the door to his favourite gambling lair, Vinny instinctively shuffled over to his usual corner.

The spotty youth was already in position, his acne, if anything, more inflamed than ever; so too was the silver-haired gent with the mahogany walking stick, known as The Reverend because he blessed himself before every race.

After nodding to both, Vinny felt there was just enough time for a flutter on the 12.40 at Kempton, but he had barely reached for a betting slip when a familiar voice barked out “Vincent, in here please.”

Vincent! He hadn’t been called that since his Holy Communion.

Coughing apologetically as he nudged past Spotted Dick and The Reverend, he slipped under the half-door and found himself behind the counter where Angie, arms akimbo, stood waiting. It was time for the crash course.

“Right, listen up. There are only three of us here today, me, you Vinny, and old Scobie here, who does the books but will give a dig-out at the counter.

“The good news is we’ve lost Newbury, Warwick and Naas; the bad news is that Kempton and Ayr are on, as are the two all-weather meetings.

“Ruby rides Denman in the 2.50 at Kempton so there will be plenty of action there. Remember, no pay-outs until the starting prices are returned.

“We’ve got an early Premier League kick-off, City against Boro, then Chelsea against Hull, while Liverpool are on later. We’ve got Six Nations rugby from Twickenham and Lansdowne, and there’s golf in the States.

“In this weather, punters can’t go anywhere except the pub and the bookies, so we’re going to be run off our feet. Between now and six there won’t be time to pick your nose let along pick a winner. Understand?”

Scobie nodded his snowy head.

“It will be like the good old days Ange, when your old man first ran the shop,” he said, before spluttering a gob of phlegm into a dirty hankie.

Vinny exhaled slowly and tried to engage his brain. “Ange, what if I can’t read the docket properly? There are bound to be punters with writing as poor as mine.”

Angie glared at him. “Well, you’ll have some idea what it’s like for us every other Saturday. Before registering the bet, clarify with the customer what’s on the slip, okay? Right, they’re leaving the parade ring at Kempton, let’s go.”

Vinny turned to face the floor and briefly felt a surge of power course through his veins. “This must be what dial-a-smile feels like in Foley’s,” he thought.

“Hey, you, Fitzpatrick,” snarled a ruddy-faced chap Vinny knew worked in a restaurant nearby. “Will you take this bet, or what?”

The slip read “€20 on Man City/Boro draw, 3 to 1”. Vinny grunted as he registered the bet. “No chance,” he thought.

With that, he was off and running. It was several hours later, over a pint of Uncle Arthur’s finest in Foley’s in the company of the lads, that Vinny finally began to unwind.

It had been an experience he would never forget, nor was he keen to repeat it. The first hour or so had been tough, if bearable, but then all hell broke loose with punters literally scrambling to get their bets on in time for the off as races came thick and fast.

Between 1.40 and 4.45, there had been 22 races, one every eight-and-a-half minutes. It had been chaotic, truly, madly, deeply.

It wasn’t just the frenetic pace of the racing that had taken Vinny off his feet; there was the peripheral stuff to deal with.

One punter, having placed the full €2 on Nick Watney to win the Buick Invitational, tried to initiate a conversation with Vinny.

“I think young McIlroy could be the next Tiger as he has such inner confidence, unlike Harrington, who’s a worrier. What do you think?”

Had Vinny a mashie niblick to hand he’d have been tempted to shove it where the sun didn’t shine, but then another customer came barging through to place a bet on the all-weather at Wolverhampton to distract him.

Amid the maelstrom, there had been a moment, just before 3pm, when he had plonked his size 11s right in it. A punter had called for the Setanta Ireland channel so he could watch Chelsea against Hull, but Vinny’s flabby fingers had pressed the wrong button on the remote and he only succeeded in blanking out all the Channel 4 screens.

That Madison Du Berlais was jumping the last at Kempton at the time, a country mile ahead of Denman, prompted howls from the faithful.

It was 30 seconds before a frantic Vinny finally jabbed the right button and the pictures were restored, by which time the race was over.

“Jaysus, Fitzpatrick. You, an Everton fan, should know better after what happened on ITV this week,” said one punter.

“You’re a thundering eejit,” shouted another, less charitable.

Vinny had held his head in horror while Angie, stone-faced, glared at him.

“What happened then?” asked Macker.

“Someone come in with a strong word for Lie Forrit in the 3.10 at Ayr. Everyone lumped on and it won at 9 to 2.

“One minute they were calling for my head; the next they were raising the roof. Sure that’s the thrill of the chase,” he chuckled, reaching out for his pint.

1pt Lay Denman to win Gold Cup (4/1, general, liabilities 4pts)

4pts Under 2.5 goals in Ireland v Georgia (4/5, Paddy Power)

3pts Ireland to win Six Nations (9/4, Boylesports)