Bungalow Bob suffers board game blues

AGAINST THE ODDS:Vinny can't hide his delight as his annoying brother-in-law gets his comeuppance during a 'friendly' family game, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE

AS HE fingered the dice in his fleshy fingers, Vinny knew if he rolled a seven he was goosed. He was down to his last score, had already mortgaged a couple of his properties and just stumped up €70 in rent on Ailesbury Road to Angie.

He desperately needed €200 from passing Go. If he landed on Income Tax, he might as well wave the white flag.

It was ingrained in Vinny that there were six possible combinations for the number seven; a four and three, three and four, five and two, two and five, six and one and a one and six.

He calculated the odds were 6 to 1 against him not throwing a seven. Not bad, considering. Holding that thought, he blew lightly on the dice and rolled.

“Eight. You jammy dodger,” exclaimed Bungalow Bob sitting to Vinny’s left. “If you fell into a sewer you’d come up smelling of roses.” Vinny didn’t take kindly to the analogy; but then he didn’t take kindly to much of anything his irksome brother-in-law said.

He shrugged his rounded shoulders, moved his Scottie dog to Busaras, a property he owned and said: “Er, €200 from the bank, please.” He had lived to fight another throw.

For Vinny, the Monopoly distraction was a surprisingly engrossingly alternative to Bungalow Bob’s droning and infinitely better than the prospect of watching Blackburn versus Sunderland game on the telly – he’d put a tenner on 0-0 at 7 to 1.

It was Monday night in Clontarf and Angie had extended a supper invitation to her sister Debs and to Bernie, Vinny’s sister, who lived in Bettystown. “They are godmothers to Aoife and Oisín and we don’t see enough of them.” Vinny had loads of time for Bernie, a gentle soul, but had hardly any for her intolerable husband who was arrogant, miserly and boorish.

That Bungalow – so named because Vinny felt he had nothing on top – supported Drogheda United, who were in relegation freefall cheered Vinny no end, especially as his own Bohemians were odds-on to win the league again.

After a fine dinner of salmon-en-croute, accompanied by an equally fine Pinot Grigio, Angie suggested they all play the world’s most popular board game.

“It will be a bit of gas,” she said. “We’ll play for two hours and whoever has the most money at the end, in terms of cash in hand and property, wins.

“Bob, you’re a good organiser, will you be banker?” cooed Angie, touching Bungalow lightly on the arm. Bungalow agreed readily and was soon barking orders like a drill sergeant.

“Your turn Vinny.” “Keep the dice on the table please.” “You counted wrong there.” And, worst of all, when someone landed on a property whose owner hadn’t noticed, Bob would chuckle “someone isn’t paying attention”. Vinny grimaced and got on with the game, which he hadn’t played for years. He noticed a few changes from the childhood version he’d first played with his old man, Finbarr, back in the 60s.

Kingsbridge was Heuston Station, while the three red Cork streets, Oliver Plunkett, Washington and Patrick were replaced by Dublin’s Abbey, Capel and Henry. Store Street was substituted for Westmoreland Street, which was a fair call, he felt.

The other old favourites were there, from €60 Crumlin to €400 Shrewsbury Road. ‘Community Chest’ and ‘Chance’, ‘Go To Jail’ and ‘Free Parking’, which was a space worth landing on as all fines and penalties were chucked in there.

As the game ticked along, Vinny could see Bungalow Bob was one of those people which Monopoly brought out the worst of. He wanted to grind his opponents into dust and he screeched inanely whenever an opponent landed on a space he owned. He was also fluky with the dice, noted Vinny, as Bob built up a useful property portfolio and a whack of cash.

After 50 minutes, Angie called a halt. “There are five properties unsold. I suggest we shuffle them, give out one each and then start trading among each other.” Vinny approved but his heart sank when he was dealt Kimmage, one of the least valuable properties. Bernie got Talbot Street, which gave her two of the three yellow-coded spaces, while Bungalow bagged swanky Grafton Street.

With all 28 properties gone, Bernie, Bungalow Bob and Vinny had six apiece, Angie and Debs five. It was as tight as a miser’s fist.

Haggling with Bungalow proved impossible as he was completely unreasonable.

Vinny offered Wicklow Street, which would have given Bungalow the prestigious green group, in return for Henry Street and €60, which was the difference between the price of the properties. But Bungalow insisted on a straight swap. When Angie announced there were two minutes to complete trading, Bungalow snorted and saw sense. When the game resumed, Vinny had two sets of properties, the browns and the reds, plus Busaras. He knew it wouldn’t be enough.

Bernie had the light blue roads of Rathgar, South Circular and Rathmines and the yellow streets of Talbot, North Earl and O’Connell, while Bungalow had the orange trio of Pearse, Dame and Westmoreland, as well as the greens.

Angie had the valuable indigo blue roads of Ailesbury and Shrewsbury, and the pink streets of Dawson, Kildare and Nassau. Debs had the two utilities and three transport properties, all handy earners.

“The clock is on. We’ve got three quarters of an hour. Get rolling,” she said.

For a serial gambler like Vinny, relying on a throw of a dice to establish a winning position was daft. There was no skill involved; no sifting of information like there was when betting on the nags, no allowing for ground, form, weight, distance, jockey booking, nothing.

All that was required was a random flick of the wrist. “Just as well there’s no real cash riding on this,” he said as he landed on the Electric Company and gave €28 to Debs.

With five minutes left, Vinny was almost bankrupt, his position impossible. He hadn’t a house on any property and little more than €150 in cash. Any one of a number of spaces would clean him out. Looking around him, victory lay between Bernie and Bungalow Bob. On his previous turn, Bungalow had landed on Rathmines Road, which cost him €300 as Bernie had three houses on the property. The gap between them had closed.

Bungalow had his eye on ‘Free Parking’ where there was around €800 in the kitty. He needed 11; he threw 12.

Muttering to himself, Bungalow moved his racecar around the board, coming to rest on Abbey Street. Vinny coughed. “That’ll be €40 please Bob.” Because of his double, Bungalow threw again. Eight. He was on O’Connell Street, where Bernie had just put up a hotel. “Oh dear, love,” she said apologetically. “That’s €1,200 you owe me.” Bungalow scowled as he handed over the cash. He had taken another hit and was now vulnerable.

Next up was Bernie. Her top hat rested on Community Chest in between the orange properties owned by Bungalow.

She rolled. The first dice showed one, the second spun a bit and hit Bungalow’s racecar before coming to a halt. It showed a two.

Bernie moved her piece three places and landed on Free Parking with a whoop of glee. Bungalow put his head in his hands and groaned.

Vinny couldn’t help himself. “That’s put the tin hat on it Bob, in every sense,” he grinned.

Vinny's Bismarck

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