It was the sneeze that almost cost Vinny Fitzpatrick his livelihood, and his liberty. Even now, on the Bank Holiday Monday, it gave him the colly-wobbles to think how close he’d been to hanging from a Kildare yard-arm.
He was at the NCT depot near the Ballymun exit off the M50, a grisly place, close by a golf course frequented annually by the Soiled And Ancient crew from Foley’s – ‘Royal’ Sillogue, the lads labelled it.
As he waited for his aul’ jalopy to sit her test, he recalled the events of the previous Thursday with a shudder. Not for the first time, his appearance at a racecourse had coincided with trouble. Only this time, he hadn’t set out to deliberately maim or harm anyone, apart from wrenching a few euro from the bookies.
Up to the moment of the untimely nasal eruption, the day had been a blast.
Barney’s Bus had plodded along without any mishaps. The tips had yielded a fine bounty, none more so than Avant Tout at 20/1 in the three-mile handicap hurdle – the lads were tireless devotees of the Willie Mullins yard.
Such was the hefty load of Vinny’s wallet that he hadn’t flinched at stumping up €2.50 for a small cone, after polishing off a pre-packed lunch of corned beef sarnies, smothered in English Mustard.
It was after racing that the going had changed dramatically.
On the slow trek out of the grandstands, Vinny dawdled by the winners’ enclosure for a gander at the sales.
He was astonished by the huge crowd milling about, owners, trainers, jockeys, bloodstock agents and assorted buyers.
Slightest nod
There were 19 horses for sale and no one was hanging around, not least the auctioneer and his wingmen, who kept a beady eye on the throng for the slightest nod, wink, or hand gesture.
Vinny and The Reverend had tarried by the RTÉ broadcast box, close to the action. To their left was a knot of men, middle-aged like themselves, huddled in deep conversation as each horse was led in. That the first lot was called Takingrisks, seemed fitting thought Vinny.
After half an hour or so, the two friends had seen enough. “We’ll do one more and then head for the bus,” suggested The Reverend.
The next horse in was a Point to Point winner which had run promisingly at Punchestown earlier in the week. When the bidding started at €100,000, Vinny sensed antennae twitching.
In front of him, the would-be buyers nodded enthusiastically. One of them, his mobile glued to his ear, seemed to be calling the shots.
Having hit the bar a couple of times earlier, Vinny got the impression they were lumping all their eggs into this equine basket.
As the bidding reached €150,000 in jig time, the man with the phone nodded, lifting his head noticeably up, and then down again, in a deliberate motion. He had been clocked by the spotter, standing on a wee rostrum.
On the far side of the ring, someone came back with €170,000, only for Phoneman to nod again with a 10k rise.
On it went, €200k, €210k, €220k, €230k. It was rapid-fire bidding which, within minutes, was at €300k. Only then, did Phoneman pause. He cocked his ear to his mobile, and went again. €310k.
Vinny and The Reverend were awestruck by it all. “This seems to have done the trick,” whispered Vinny. At that, the auctioneer, tapped his gavel. ‘Going once at €310,000, going twice . . . for the last time, what hear I bid?’
Excited vendor
From the far side, by the spot reserved for the winning jockey and rider, a hand shot up. “I hear €320,000!” said the excited vendor.
For the lads in front of Vinny, it all seemed too much. They clustered quickly, heads locked together. As they did, Vinny felt a tickle in his nose and knew what was about to happen. His sneezes tended to be loud and messy. Instinctively, he raised his hand to his nose and tried to cut off the eruption at the pass.
He was a whisker too late as an audible “ah-choo” reverberated across the unsaddling enclosure as snot, spit and assorted expectorates shot forward like a cannonball.
As he apologised unreservedly, Vinny was faintly aware of the auctioneer calling out, “I have €330,000 from the gentleman on my right. Thank you, sir”.
Accepting a hankie from The Reverend, Vinny turned to go. “C’mon Padre,” he sniffed. “We’ve seen enough.”
The two friends were almost boarding Barney’s Bus when a man Vinny recognised earlier as one of the look-outs at the auction, arrived breathlessly. “Gentlemen, you left without settling your commitments,” he panted.
A deposit
Vinny did a double-take. “Commitments? I beg your pardon. I never bet on the slate. For your information, I finished the day comfortably in front,” he harrumphed.
The look-out guy was tall, lean and raffish-looking. His eyes narrowed as he studied Vinny. ‘If you have cash in hand sir, as you say, then you won’t mind putting a deposit down on the horse you just paid €330,000 for, will you?’
At that moment Vinny froze. His mouth dropped open, trout-like. He grabbed the door handle of the bus for support and muttered: “My God, what have I done?”
The stewards’ enquiry, for that was what it was, lasted 30 minutes as evidence was taken from Vinny, The Reverend, the auctioneer, his look-outs, and finally The Phoneman, who had borne the brunt of Vinny’s king-sized snort.
As he awaited his fate in the empty press room, Vinny sensed what it must have been like for Davy Russell and David Casey after the Gold Cup at Cheltenham last year.
He was as nervous as the night his twins were born.
He calculated if he sold the house in Causeway Avenue, he could probably raise the readies. And then what? Life as a hobo?
When the door opened, he feared the worst. It was The Reverend, smiling. “Winner alright, Vinny. Winner alright. It’s time to saddle up and get out of Dodge.”
