Imminent fatherhood causing a few cracks

AGAINST THE ODDS: 'THE TWELVE Jars of Christmas' had become a popular festive institution among the Foley's regulars since initiated by Vinny Fitzpatrick's Tuesday Night Club a few years back.

It involved a 12-pub ramble on the third Monday of December and was open to all, young and old, but preferably those with hollow legs.

Over the years, Vinny and the lads had covered a lot of ground, and consumed countless vats of Guinness on such expeditions as the ‘The Gastro-pub Gargle’, ‘Drinking By DART’, ‘The Pint’s Great in Dublin 8’ and ‘Luas Lips I and II’ a homage to pubs on the two Luas lines, the Daniel-Day and the Jerry Lee.

This year, the lads had settled on the ‘Porter by the Port’, a gentle crawl along the banks of the Liffey from Sean Heuston Bridge to the East-Link, heaving-to at Ryan’s of Parkgate Street and anchoring at The Ferryman.

All that was needed on Monday night was to confirm the docking stations in between.

As the lads argued the merits of pubs on the north quays, against ones on the south, and how far away from the river could a pub be to qualify for a visit, the craic flowed as swiftly as the swollen waters of Anna Livia herself.

There was even the pleasant distraction of a race night being staged by a local junior soccer club but to Vinny the notion of backing a horse blindly by number, rather than on form, was anathema.

He sat there, silently sipping a pint, a faraway look on his eyes. Not even a debate about which was the better pub – Frank Ryan’s of Queen Street or The Brazen Head – could stir him.

Not for the first time, it was left to Macker to establish the root of his old friend’s melancholy. Beckoning Vinny out to the beer garden while he rolled a fag, he didn’t waste time. “Spit it out, Vinny,” he said.

Vinny’s rounded shoulders sagged as he looked at an imaginary spot in the distance beyond Macker. Puffing hard, he re-told the story of the weekend’s events which had challenged his love for Angie and his capacity to cope with imminent fatherhood.

It had begun promisingly on Saturday lunch-time when, after a stint on the 32B, he’d popped into Boru Betting and collected almost €900 on the back of his successful bets the previous week.

As he studied the form, and the early prices, he had made up his mind to plunge heavy each-way on Denman at 9 to 2 in the Hennessy Gold Cup when his mobile rang. (He had taken to turning it on in recent weeks at Angie’s insistence).

Sure enough, it was his better half, in the final furlong of pregnancy, who asked him to get home as soon as possible, or even sooner, as there was “much work to be done”. Miffed at having his Saturday schooling interrupted, Vinny had trundled out of Boru Betting in a fit of pique, a half-completed €100 each-way docket on Denman stuffed into his pocket.

Back home in Mount Prospect Avenue, Vinny had been instructed to oversee operations in the nursery, formerly a spare bedroom. Angie was due on December 13th, probably before, and she wanted everything ready in time.

In DIY terms, Vinny was more League of Ireland than Champions’ League. Self-assembly was not his gig and he groaned at the sight of the flat-pack Ikea cots and shelving.

What would have distracted Duncan Stewart for no more than half an hour, took Vinny three hours of blood, sweat and toil. He’d managed one break, at a quarter to three, to catch the Hennessy and had winced at the sight of Denman (below) demolishing the field at Newbury, carrying almost 12st but not Vinny’s ton.

Worse followed when, at Angie’s suggestion, he went to the tool shed in search of an Allen key, only to be censured for returning with a Yale one instead.

By the time his ordeal was finally over and the cots and shelving were in place, he’d lost his temper, a nail and, by his sweaty reckoning, a couple of pounds.

“You’ve had better Saturdays so,” mused Macker, trying hard to conceal a smirk.

“And better Sundays too,” replied Vinny as he relayed the second leg of his weekend woe. He told Macker how Angie, who wasn’t able to get out much, had drawn up a shopping list for the week, and a separate note of items she needed for the Rotunda.

While Angie always shopped at up-market Phelan’s around the corner on Vernon Avenue, a thrift-minded Vinny had skipped up to Tesco in Artaine Castle where, by his reckoning, he’d saved around €50.

“I bet that pleased Angie,” said Macker.

“Pleased her? Nothing can please her right now. It’s those blasted hormones,” said Vinny.

“She went through me for a short-cut for coming back with Tesco-branded stuff, calling me a cheapskate. She said I was a yellow-pack husband with a yellow-pack attitude.”

Macker had to turn away to suppress a giggle. “Tell me, you at least got the items she wanted for hospital,” he said.

This time, Vinny paused. “Er no, I didn’t. Let’s leave it at that, shall we Macker,” he said softly.

Macker studied his old friend, noted the lugubrious look in his eyes, the heavy jowls, the down-turned lip. He could see Vinny was hurting. “Yeah. Come on, it’s getting nippy out here anyway,” he said.

As they headed back towards the bar, Vinny’s mind returned to the embarrassing episode in the chemist in Artaine Castle.

Flushed with the success of his shopping, he’d marched brazenly up to the counter and had handed over Angie’s list to the assistant, who looked straight out of school. “Can you get me these please? As soon as possible, thank you,” he said.

It was a few minutes later, and the shop was quite full, almost entirely with women, when Vinny heard the girl call out from across the aisles.

“Hey mister, what type of nipple cream do you want? Are your tits cracked or just sore?” There was a silence but by the time a flush-of-face Vinny had reached the exit the laughing had begun.

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2pts Jim Furyk to win Chevron World Challenge (8/1, Ladbrokes)

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Vinny's Bismarck

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