AGAINST THE ODDS:Despite the best-laid plans, a romantic evening ends in acute embarrassment

'IT'S CALLED somnambulism, or sleepwalking by its more common name," intoned Macker, doing his best to conceal a smirk as he supped from his pint glass.

"Look Vinny, it could happen to a bishop. Don't worry. I'm sure Angie will soon have forgotten all about it."

As Macker suppressed a giggle, Brennie beamed and Shanghai Jimmy sniggered. Only one of the quartet clustered under the telly in Foley's on a quiet Monday night, Vinny Fitzpatrick, didn't see the funny side.

It had all begun so promisingly the previous Saturday. To celebrate their achievement on the tennis courts, Angie had invited Vinny around for supper and a sleepover.

"I'll serve up a night you won't forget, love," she'd purred when Vinny had ambled in to place his bets in Boru Betting earlier that day - a nifty fifty on Sunderland and Arsenal to draw at 11/5 had been his banker which, to his unbridled glee, had paid off.

Later, he'd emptied his sweaty and, it must be said, slightly mouldy tennis gear from his battered Gola bag and slipped in a brand new vest and underpants (nothing was too good for Angie), plus his toiletries, which consisted of a Bic disposable razor, toothbrush and soap.

"Always best to travel light," he said to himself before making the short walk from artisan Conquer Hill to aristocratic Mount Prospect Avenue.

Supper at Angie's was, for Vinny, a break from the norm. A lover of plain, wholesome food, he wasn't entirely enamoured with the fancy Italian dish Angie served up but, naturally, he didn't let on.

"It won't bite you," Angie had laughed as Vinny poked at pappardelle pasta with mushrooms, chilli, garlic and lashings of parmesan cheese.

It was all a little too rich for Vinny's tender tummy, and it was no surprise that he'd sought refuge in the excellent white wines which accompanied the meal.

By bed-time, Angie was full of ardour, but Vinnie was a little the worse for wear. He'd even struggled to stay awake through Match of the Day, which was unheard of. Mind you, with six goals in only four games it had been ponderous fare.

Reluctantly, she'd let him off the hook, and sleep, it was fair to say, had come quickly. It was some hours later that things began to go awry.

Looking back, Vinny couldn't actually recall the moment he woke, but he knew for certain that what had disturbed his reverie was an urgent call of nature.

Unsure of his bearings he had stumbled toward the small room, but became entangled in a mass of skirts, blouses and jackets. "Bloody wardrobe" he mumbled as he staggered around the landing in a daze.

The next thing he knew, he was grappling with the lock on the back door leading out from the kitchen. How he had got there he had no idea but his bladder was now bursting and time was of the essence.

After much fiddling, twiddling and cursing, the door opened and Vinny spilled out head first onto the cold, wet, grass.

"Thank God for that," he'd said, before relieving himself on one of Angie's finest fuschias.

Trembling slightly, for it was a chill October night, he returned to the back door only to find it had swung shut behind him. He shook it for a bit, shivered, then shook it a bit more. It was no use.

Clambering up on the window ledge, he tried to lever open one of the kitchen windows but had no joy. He found the doors from the conservatory were also bolted tight.

He thought of throwing pebbles up at Angie's bedroom window, and also considered a shimmy over the side entrance and pressing the front doorbell, but felt it would be prudent not to wake up his better half.

While home was only a quick jog away and he knew how to yank open the faulty front window of his modest mid-terrace dwelling, he wasn't keen on doing a Wee Willie Winkie impression, without the nightgown, through Clontarf.

There was only one thing for it: the garden shed. He knew there was a spare key under the railway sleepers and he managed to dig it out after a couple of minutes' rummaging.

Inside, he was greeted by a faint whiff of urine, which reminded him that Angie had said she'd seen a wild cat and kittens going to and fro all summer.

Making up a bed from a giant bag of mulch and a musty tarpaulin, Vinny reflected on his ill-luck and, in an effort to find some sleep, started to recount the winners of The British Open since the second World War.

He'd just got past Ken Nagle - St Andrews 1960 - and was drifting off when he was vaguely conscious of a light flashing nearby.

Turning over on the mulch, which squelched under his bulk, he resumed his bed-time trial when a beam shone through the window of the shed.

He heard voices outside, then the door was wrenched open and a man barked, "Is that him?"

"Yes, it's Vinny alright," replied a voice he knew. Angie.

Then came another voice, one he didn't recognise. "I'm sorry officer, but I was sure it was a burglar. He was acting very suspiciously, climbing up on window ledges, shaking doors. You can't be too careful nowadays you know," she said.

"That's alright Mrs Godfrey," said Angie. "You were right to take the safety first option and call the guards."

Soon, Mrs Godfrey, a spinster who lived next door to Angie, was gone, along with the two rather amused members of the local constabulary, leaving Angie and Vinny in the kitchen where they sipped a cup of tea.

Sheepishly, Vinny tried to piece together what had happened. There were bits he remembered, others he didn't. Angie looked at him with a mixture of dismay and resignation.

By now, it was almost five in the morning.

"C'mon, Vinny, no one was hurt. Let's get some shut-eye," said Angie.

Vinny burped, excused himself quietly, and got to his feet.

"Be up in a minute Ange.

"But first, can I use the bathroom?"

"Then came another voice, one he didn't recognise. "I'm sorry officer but I was sure it was a burglar. He was acting very suspiciously, climbing up on window ledges, shaking doors. You can't be too careful nowadays you know," she said.

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