ALL WAS still in the playground in St Anne’s Park on Dublin’s northside yesterday morning. There was no children’s laughter, for it was a school day and it was too early for the buggy brigade from the nearby creche.
An elderly jogger, accompanied by a black Labrador, shuffled past, wheezing like a bellows. Otherwise, it was silent, apart from the relentless caw-caw from the adjacent rookery.
A middle-aged man, clearly overweight, squeezed his chubby frame into a kiddies’ swing and let his slightly scuffed shoes brush against the pebbles below as he rocked slowly back and forth.
The appointed meeting time was 10 o’clock, it was now a quarter-past the hour and Vinny Fitzpatrick was feeling a little anxious.
“What if The Reverend doesn’t show?” he thought. “Worse, what if he spills the beans?”
The cunning plan had been hatched on Sunday evening and explained why Vinny’s wallet was lined with three used €50 notes, and a piece of paper on which were scribbled the names of three horses running on the opening day at Cheltenham.
It explained why a part of him felt lower than a snake’s belly, and why another part was aglow with the anticipation of being on for the Festival.
Vinny had arrived at this position following a chance meeting on Sunday with a fellow punter known in Clontarf as The Reverend, because of his patrician manner and his habit of saying a quick prayer and blessing himself before every race in which he had a wager.
Not that it did him much good. Having spent many Saturday afternoons beside The Reverend in their customary corner in Boru Betting, Vinny had long ago concluded there was little divine inspiration in his selections.
As he left Foley’s after seeing his beloved Everton beat Middlesbrough 2-1 in the FA Cup, Vinny had bumped into The Reverend who was emerging from Boru Betting.
“Not seen you in the sub-office for a while Vinny,” said The Reverend.
“You haven’t been converted from your wicked ways I trust,” he said, smiling benignly.
Vinny didn’t think twice about filling The Reverend in about his solemn Lenten vow to stay off gambling and how it was making his life a misery, especially ahead of Cheltenham.
The Reverend nodded sagely, for he was a wise man, and then made a suggestion which turned Vinny’s world of self-denial upside down.
“What would you say, Vincent, if I offered to place a few Cheltenham wagers for you? That way, technically, you wouldn’t be breaching the terms of your arrangement. There would be a small handling fee, I suggest.
“And don’t worry, Vinny, I won’t say a word to a soul, not even the lost ones in Boru Betting,” he added with a mischievous wink.
At that moment Vinny crossed the Rubicon; he abandoned his pledge not to gamble for Lent and caved in to avarice.
He shook the hand of The Reverend and agreed a 10 per cent commission on all bets placed, to be settled after the last race on Friday.
After that, Vinny repaired to his den in Mount Prospect Avenue to study the Festival form and also dig out a battered old Jacob’s biscuit tin, where he kept his emergency gambling stash.
After much soul-searching, and many U-turns, he selected his three bets for day one: €50 win on Cousin Vinny in the opening Supreme Novices’ Hurdle, €25 each-way on Celestial Halo in the Champion Hurdle and €50 win on Garde Champetre in the Cross Country.
Then he looked forward to the planned rendezvous in St Anne’s.
“I know the lads would flip if they found out, but there’s only so much self-denial a man can take,” he thought as he spied The Reverend approaching the playground.
Pleasantries were exchanged, along with the required paperwork before the conspirators arranged to meet at the same place, same time, the following day.
“The game is afoot,” said The Reverend, who assured Vinny he would say a prayer of intentions for the three selections after completing the transaction.
The deed done, Vinny slipped away in the direction of home, his emotions in turmoil.
It was several hours later, when he arrived in Foley’s for the regular meeting of the Tuesday Night Club, which coincided with Liverpool against Real Madrid on the box.
Aware that he was in profit, thanks mostly to the majesty of Nina Carberry on board Garde Champetre, Vinny also had to remind himself that he couldn’t let on to the lads what he had been up to.
As far as they were concerned, he was still on a diet of cold turkey where gambling was concerned.
And, judging by their crusty demeanour, the lads were still in sacrificial mode.
“How long does this Lent gig last?” moaned Brennie. “Because I’ve been going bananas without the poker.”
Shanghai was equally morose.
“I saw an ad for Maltesers today and I threw my slippers at the telly.”
Macker was also in foul form.
“I’m getting withdrawal symptoms that not even the Nicorettes can cope with. I’m dying for a fag,” he said.
Kojak had taken up nuts instead of crisps and had discovered, to his pleasant surprise, a particular liking for the dried roasted variety, while Fran, too, was surviving, having switched to coffee which he was guzzling like there was no tomorrow.
“What about you, Vinny?” asked Macker. “How are you bearing up? It can’t be easy for someone with your gambling habit, especially with Cheltenham on this week.”
Vinny squirmed a little uneasily on his stool and felt his cheeks flush slightly.
“You know me, when push comes to shove, it’s surprising how much discomfort you can put up with,” he said.
Another round of creamy pints arrived and Macker proposed a toast.
“Here’s to the continuing struggle of the unlikely Lenten lads,” he said.
As Vinny raised his glass along with the others, he did his best to appear casual.
For now, he knew, there was no turning back.
“Kojak had taken up nuts instead of crisps and had discovered, to his pleasant surprise, a particular liking for the dried roasted variety, while Fran, too, was surviving, having switched to coffee which he was guzzling like there was no tomorrow
1pt e/w Twist Magic in Champion Chase (14/1, Paddy Power)
1pt e/w Ski Sunday in Fred Winter Juvenile Hurdle (20/1, William Hill)
1pt Lay Neptune Collonges in Gold Cup (6/1, general, liability 6pts)
