AGAINST THE ODDS:PUSHING OPEN the door to Bubbles On the Bull launderette on the Clontarf Road, Vinny Fitzpatrick was met by a blast of warm air and the rhythmic hubbub of the giant washing machines, all sloshing water and suds.
He was also greeted by the flashing smiles from the two Lithuanian lovelies who worked there, dark-haired Darina, now officially ensconced as Fran’s other half, and the platinum-blonde Petra, whom Vinny met at the FAI Cup final last November. Darina waved at Vinny as she shoved a bundle of soiled jerseys, knicks and socks through a gaping port-hole.
But Petra was more familiar, striding over to the counter where she reached forward, all too revealingly for such an early hour, and gave Vinny a mighty hug.
“Hello, my favourite football supporter,” she said. “You do not come here often, why? Is there something about me you not like?”
As Vinny disentangled himself from the statuesque Vilnius vixen, cheeks reddening, he knew what he liked about Petra, all five foot eleven of her with bumps in the right places, piercing blue eyes and teeth Colgate would kill for.
“Ah, Petra,” he muttered. “Good to see you again. You’re looking well. Er, I was hoping to have a word with Fran if he was about.”
Saturday mornings, Vinny knew, were busy for Fran, but it had been a while since he’d popped in for a chat. “I will get him Vinny but only if you promise to take me to another game soon. I had such fun the last time,” said Petra with a wink.
As he waited, Vinny thought of all those years ago when Fran started up Bubbles On the Bull, much to the annoyance of his parents who’d spent a small fortune sending him through Blackrock College and Trinity.
“Where’s there’s muck, there’s brass,” had been Fran’s maxim. “Think of it, Vinny. The GAA teams in the summer, the rugby and soccer ones in the winter. Clontarf is full of them and they all need their gear cleaned. I’ll be in first,” he said.
How right he had been. Fran’s 25-year business had expanded to cover Bubbles launderettes in Raheny, Malahide and Swords, where he also provided an ironing service. Until he split from his wife, Marilyn, he had lived in a fine house at the Fairview end of the Howth Road. Now, he and Darina, who was half his age, were residing contentedly in an apartment mid-way between Bubbles and Foley’s.
“Vincenzo, come in, come in,” said Fran as he welcomed Vinny into his cubby hole, where a kettle was hissing in the corner and a packet of Jacob’s fig rolls lay invitingly on the table. “Tell me, how did Arthur’s Day go? I’d say the craic in town was ninety.”
“Where to start,” thought Vinny, before recalling the events of the previous Thursday when he had ventured into town with a thirsty crew from the garage to celebrate the 250th anniversary of Uncle Arthur.
The moment of truth was 17:59, one minute to six, but an hour beforehand the city-centre pubs were jammers. Vinny and his co-drivers had descended on McDaid’s off Grafton Street where they’d found a pitch by the bar and had let rip. There were 11 in the round, all pint drinkers, all giving it loads. Every minute or so, someone would raise a glass high and shout “To Arthur”, at which the whole pub responded with a guttural roar “To Arthur” and a laugh.
Vinny had lapped it all up. In the pub associated with the hard-drinking rebel-rouser Brendan Behan he had been in his element, slurping back pints at a rate of knots.
By eight o’clock, most of the rubber-necking brigade had left the scene and the real drinkers got going. Vinny was in fine fettle as the Guinness flowed through his veins, joining in the sing-song, the yarns, the craic.
Moon-face shining, under-arms glistening, he had even been moved to recite Oliver Goldsmith by way of paying tribute to Uncle Arthur and his lasting legacy.
“Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, with grammar and nonsense and learning; Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, gives genius a better discerning,” he said, drawing an ovation.
It had been later, much later, when he’d stumbled off the last 130 bus and made it home to Mount Prospect Avenue, saturated with stout. After stumbling through the front door, he’d prayed that Angie was in bed asleep, but instead found her in the kitchen, dipping cheese and onion crisps into yoghurt.
Vinny had tried to engage in conversation, but when he opened his mouth, he uttered something that resembled Slav, which had prompted Angie to head up to bed. Starving, Vinny had set about preparing supper, which turned into a disaster.
“How come?” asked Fran.
Vinny shook his head as he recalled the chapter of horrors. How he burnt the toast, which set off the smoke alarm, which he couldn’t turn off, leading to a stony-faced Angie storming downstairs in silence and keying in the code.
How it had got worse when he’d put a load of baked beans into the microwave without a lid and then over-did them, leaving the microwave looking like it had measles. Unfortunately, he hadn’t noticed the mess at the time, leaving Angie to find it the next morning, by which time the bits of bean had hardened and were almost impossible to get off.
“Yesterday was terrible, pictures and no sound, Fran. Not even a bite of supper when I got home,” he moaned.
Fran said nothing for a bit; instead, he fingered a fig roll. Then, he lobbed in a curve ball.
“Vinny, what do you want with your life? Angie is terrific and all that, but when the kids come along, things will change.
“You’ll be chained to the house, seven days a week. The nights in Foley’s, the golf outings, the trips to the races, Croker, they will all go. It’ll be nappies and night feeds from now on.
“I had great freedom with Marilyn at the start, but when the boys came, that changed. Sure, I hardly saw you and the lads from one end of the month to another. For years, it was about putting them first, and putting you guys second. It was tough.
“Now, the boys are making plans to go to university down the country and I’ve landed on my feet with Darina.
“I’m 50, and have my life back again; you’re 51 and could be about to lose yours. Think about it, think about it real hard.”
Vinny said nothing. Instead, he looked at his watch. He was due on the 42B in 15 minutes. “Is that the time? Got to go Fran. Thanks for the tea and the, er advice.”
On his way out, Petra was at the counter, checking in a bag crammed with gear. She reached out and pressed a piece of paper into Vinny’s fleshy paw.
“Call me, anytime,” she said with a mega-watt smile.
Bets of the week
1pt each-way Graeme McDowell in Dunhill Links Championship
(25/1, Paddy Power)
2pt Wolfsburg to draw with Manchester Utd in Champions League
(4/1, Skybet)
Vinny's Bismark
2pt Lay Sea The Stars to win the Prix de L’Arc de Triomphe (4/6, general, liability 3pt)
