AGAINST THE ODDSWHILE HE could recite backwards the timetable of every bus leaving Clontarf garage, sums were never Vinny Fitzpatrick's strong point, not since he confused Pythagoras with Archimedes and failed maths in his Leaving Cert in 1975.

But even he could calculate the number of pints likely to be consumed during an eight-hour session in Foley's. "No less than 12, and possibly as many as 14," he mused. "Lovely." The "Super Slurping Sunday", as Brennie had dubbed it, was a sporting trilogy to titillate the senses, embracing Chelsea versus Manchester United, Tyrone against Kerry and the final day of the Ryder Cup.

And Vinny had been in fine fettle as he contemplated a great day out, or rather a great day in. He'd coupled Kerry with Europe in a double and had put a nifty-50 on the Kingdom to win with a three-point handicap. As a saver, he'd put 20 on the draw at Stamford Bridge.

To prepare for the marathon, Vinny had stayed put on Friday night, happily downing half a dozens cans, a chicken chop suey with egg fried rice and a bag of prawn crackers from the Chinese takeaway, while watching the golf.

Ahead of a double Saturday stint on the 127, he was looking ahead to another quiet night in front of the telly when his phone buzzed with a text message. It was from Angie. Vinny smiled. He was smitten with Angie, the dashing, divorced manageress of Boru Betting, where Vinny had lost money but found love.

They were engaged to be married on the first Friday of December in the registry office at St Patrick Duns Hospital in Lower Grand Canal Street, with a knees-up that night in Clontarf Castle. Preparations were moving apace, with Angie in the driving seat. Vinny opened the message and his blood turned cold.

"Finals of Clontarf tennis tomorrow at 5.30. Bar-b-que to follow. See you at 5 for knock-up. XXX, Angie.'

Vinny growled and kicked out the kitchen table - which was unlike him - and sent a scattering of rice pellets and prawn-cracker crumbs all over the floor.

"Of all the bloody days," he groaned. "Cripes, what am I to do?" he said to himself as he donned his Dublin Bus blue shirt, size 17-and-a-half. It was a troubled driver who took charge of the 127 last Saturday. Wending his way through Fairview, up the Malahide Road, left at Cadbury's in Coolock and on to Darndale, the portly man behind the wheel wore a preoccupied expression.

It was a route he could drive blindfolded and there were times on Saturday when he did. He missed a stop at Northside Shopping Centre, where a woman burdened down with shopping bags let rip with both barrels as the bus trundled past.

At Darndale, he clipped one of the oblong-shaped speed ramps that cut into the road at regular intervals. "Hey, baldy, watch what you're doing," cried a spotty youth down the back.

At the Clare Hall terminus, Vinny dialled a familiar number.

"Macker, I've my heart set on tomorrow, the GAA, the golf, the gargle, the gambling. It's going to be a great day. I've no interest in the damn tennis and only did it to stay onside with Angie. How do I get out of it?" he said.

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Vinny wondered if Macker had nodded off. "Vinny," he replied finally. "What's more important here, a short-term gain or long-term loss?

"There will be other sessions in Foley's, loads of them, but there won't, ever, be another Angie for you. Think about that."

With that, Macker hung up.

The remainder of the day passed in a blur as Vinny weighed up his options. He considered feigning injury but knew Angie would suss him out straight away and find him in Foley's.

He thought about having four or five swifties with the lads before the tennis but reckoned Angie would smell the stout on his breath and give him lackery.

There was only one thing for it; turn up, play the game, lose quickly and high-tail it to Foley's. "I can be there by seven-ish, still time to catch up with the lads and see the golf," he mused.

It was 4.55 when Vinny cycled in to leafy Clontarf LTC, his Gola bag balanced precariously on the handlebars. It was so quiet he could hear the roar from Croke Park and he wondered if Kerry, who had been leading when he left his house, had won, hopefully by more than three points.

The knock-up with Angie had gone surprisingly well and Vinny felt the stiffness in his lower back ease up as he struck the ball off the middle of his ancient Wilson wooden racket.

The mixed doubles event was the last final of the day and drew an inquisitive crowd to court-side. Against a backdrop of clinking gin-and-tonics, sizzling steaks and gleaming Beemers, Mr V Fitzpatrick and Ms A Mooney took on Mr and Mrs W Farquharson, the top seeds and defending champions.

Bill and Bertha had dominated the event since the early 90s, following in the footsteps of Angie and her former husband, Big Fat Ron, the six-time winners.

Bill was wiry while "Big Bertha" was built like a Sherman tank and had a howitzer of a serve, which Vinny could soon testify to after the opening game. The first set went to the Farquharsons 6-2. They were a chummy, chortling, duo, who regularly patted each other on the bottoms with their rackets and insisted on knuckle-touching - something Vinny abhorred - after every point won.

At 2-4 in the second set, Vinny was caught in the solar plexus by a volley from Big Bertha and was left gasping. As he struggled for air, his blood began to bubble.

"If they want a fight, they can have one," he muttered.

The remainder of the set was a contrast between the serve-and-volley tactics of Bill and Bertha and the genteel court craft of Vinny and Angie. Then came the turning point.

At 5-6, Vinny played a forehand down the middle and both Bill and Bertha shouted "mine" before colliding noisily on the T. There were gasps from the gallery as the pair lay in a heap on the court. Bertha was winded but poor Bill clutched his knee in agony. It was clear he couldn't continue.

After much tut-tutting and sympathy for good ol' Bill, the umpire announced it was game, set and match to Fitzpatrick and Mooney, who celebrated with a proper kiss.

"Well done partner," smiled Angie. "I think you deserve a steak, a pint and a chance to catch up on the golf. Come on," she said linking arms with her beau and heading for theclubhouse.

In Foley's, Super Slurping Sunday was in full spate but Vinny Fitzpatrick, against the odds, wasn't missing it a bit.

Bets of the week

1pt e.w. Paul McGinley in British Masters (35/1, Stan James)

1pts e.w. Robinho to be top scorer in Premier League (33/1, Betfred)

Vinny's Bismarck

1pt Lay Munster to win Magners League (3/1, Coral, liability 3pts)