AGAINST THE ODDS:Vinny would exercise his constitutional right tomorrow, even though it meant getting an emergency pass out of the Bons Secours Hospital

AS AN inveterate each-way punter, Vinny Fitzpatrick always disliked seven-runner races as they only paid out the first or second place so he saw little value in the declared field for the Irish presidency, not with Michael D Higgins at 4/6 and Sean Gallagher evens.

Even so, out of curiosity more than anything else, he tuned in to RTÉ on Monday night for a pre-vote paddock inspection.

The seven runners – five colts and two brood mares – were about to be loaded into the election stalls, some stamped their hooves nervously, some sweated up; all wore shining coats.

Seven was a magical number for a lot of folk – check out the Harry Potter novels – but not for Vinny. He thought of the words and expressions associated with the number and considered what would be appropriate for the race for the Áras.

The Magnificent Seven, The Seven Samurai, The Secret Seven; The Seven Seas; The Seven Wonders of the Word, and drew a line through the lot of them.

He settled on The Seven Dwarfs, not just because Higgins and David Norris were vertically challenged but because the highest office in the land had drawn such an insignificant field. It would be like staging the Gold Cup on a wet Thursday in January in Thurles, he thought.

Maybe it was the strong antibiotics he was on which caused him to feel disoriented but Mary Davis, if he was honest, scared him.

He could imagine her head carved into a pumpkin, all shining teeth and cackles, frightening the bejaysus out of kids on Halloween.

Gallagher looked like an android whose head was bolted onto his shoulders – all that was missing were a couple of screws below his ears and he was a ringer for Frankenstein.

Senator Norris remarked to Gallagher that he had a bit of a neck identifying himself with plasterers and plumbers; if he had a neck Vinny couldn’t see it.

His answers were robot-like and stilted and Vinny found it incomprehensible that this was the person the polls were pointing towards the Áras. “Is this the best we can do?” he thought to himself.

Vinny would exercise his constitutional right on Thursday, even though it meant getting an emergency pass out of the Bons Secours Hospital, where he was recuperating from a bout of pneumonia, to do so.

Higgins came across as a decent fellah but intellectuals often lacked warmth and there was a lack of connect between him and the real world, thought Vinny.

Gay Mitchell whinnied on about not being asked about the office of the presidency and being left out of two rounds of questions. Vinny felt he should have considered himself lucky he was asked anything at all.

“Bertie was right about one thing,” thought Vinny. “Gay Mitchell is a waffler.”

Dana nodded and smiled but to have any chance, thought Vinny, she needed to command the stage and blast out All Kinds of Everything – it was the only vote-grabbing card left to play.

On the night, the outstanding performer, by some margin, was Norris, who lobbed in a few one-liners to liven up the debate and cheerily said he’d have no problem emptying bed-pans.

The Joycean scholar may sound like Terry Thomas, the English actor with the gap in his front teeth, but he would get Vinny’s number one even if it would do him a fat lot of good when the count began.

The following morning was bright and blue, after the storm which lashed, and from his hospital perch Vinny had a bird’s eye view of a cluster of the northside’s finest landmarks.

Apart from ‘Dalyer’ there was the Bots, the Woodener Church, Washerwoman’s Hill and a fine watering hole, the Botanic House, where he got sozzled after Bohs famously beat Rangers in the Uefa Cup many years ago.

The sad thought struck him that the great club of Fred Horlacher, Turlough O’Connor and Jackie Jameson, Irish football legends, was on its knees. If reports were accurate, the club was up to its oxters in debt, the ground was up for sale and there was talk of reverting to an amateur set-up which Vinny couldn’t understand given it was only two years since Bohs won the league.

As he recovered in his sick bed, Vinny reflected on a mad-cap few days. After his soaking by the Bull the previous week, he’d endured a terrible night of cramps, shivers and darts of pain.

Doc ‘Bones’ Brogan had taken one look at him and shipped him off to ‘The Bons’ quicker than a Nitelink Bus heading back to the garage. Returning to hospital was no picnic but Vinny had adjusted to life indoors; he’d even taken a shine to his jelly and ice-cream desserts, of which he got two per day as the man opposite, Denis from Drimnagh, didn’t like his.

What Denis did like was a chill blast of air in room 11 on St Joseph’s Ward and he insisted on keeping the windows open while Vinny shivered under his blankets.

“Fresh air, ye can’t beat it,” boomed Denis, a retired garda who was in for a cystoscopy and seemed far too happy about it – the thought of having a tube being inserted you-know-where gave Vinny the willies.

A reserved sort, Vinny declined to use the toilet and shower facilities in the room; instead he shuffled down the corridor to his own private den where he read the morning papers at his own pace.

He had to get his timing right as his plumbing was not quite as in synch as they should be – the day before he had darted into his haven down the hall in the nick of time.

Still, he was on the mend. The scans on his lungs first spied by Doc Hume in Beaumont, confirmed the shadow was related to the pneumonia and had nothing to do with the ‘c’ word, which was a blessed relief.

He was told to take it easy, let the drugs do their trick, and with a bit of luck, he’d be home for Halloween – he was desperate to dress up and go trick or treating with the twins, Oisin and Aoife. At the thought of his kids, he felt a well of emotion rush through him. God, he missed them and Angie too.

Suddenly, another ripple shot through his body; one he knew all to well.

Against the odds, Denis from Drimnagh was in the toilet and Vinny knew he’d never make it down the corridor in time. There was only one thing for it; with that he deftly reached under the bed for the plastic receptacle.

Soon, it would be time to press the bell for Nurse Norris.

Bets of the week

1pt each-way: Graeme McDowell in Andalucia Masters (20/1, Paddy Power)

2pt win: Time For Rupert in Charlie Hall Chase, Wetherby, Sunday (4/1, Boylesports)

Vinny’s Bismarck

2pt: Lay Manchester United to win Premier League (2/1, Betfred, liability 4pts)