Nightcap puts tin hat on Vinny's vow of sobriety

AGAINST THE ODDS: ON THE first day of the GAA season, the text message from an old bus-driver buddy based in Donnybrook Garage arrived on cue on Sunday morning.

"Championship magma spouts from the volcanic crucible of summer . . . a Nation is alive again," it read.

Vinny Fitzpatrick knew what was spouting alright: balderdash. How any self-respecting Dub could get excited about Longford and Westmeath was beyond his comprehension. It was like some anorak looking out for the result of Ebbsfleet against Torquay in the FA Trophy final on Saturday just because Liam Daish, who once played for Ireland, was managing Ebbsfleet.

"Come to think of it," thought Vinny, "I was that anorak."

With a noticeable cough and a quick check of his wing mirrors, Vinny nosed the single-decker 130 away from the terminus at Castle Avenue and prepared for his morning shift "behind the wheel".

Vinny's spirits were high and with fair reason. For starters he was on his favoured route, which took him past Angie's house on Mount Prospect Avenue, Foley's pub, Boru Betting and his alma mater, "Joey's" in Fairview.

Also, he would finish his stint at half-two, time to nip home for a quick lunch - he had an Indian meal, for two naturally, ready to be "nuked" in the microwave - before clocking in at Foley's for the umpteenth "Super Sunday" of the Premier League season.

It would be after six when Richard Keys and the sycophantic Sky boys wrapped up their interviews and inquests, just ahead of the leaders teeing off for the final round of The Players Championship in Sawgrass.

For Vinny, the decision to move the tournament from its traditional pre-Masters date was a mistake; The Players now fell between two Major stools and was no longer the eagerly-awaited appetiser for the main courses.

On the drinks front, Vinny calculated if he paced himself, he could stomach 10 of Foley's finest. "Make that 11," he said to himself. "Always better to take one club more than one less."

As the 130 pulled into the stop almost opposite Angie's "des res" on Mount Prospect, two spiky-haired teenagers embarked, both caked in make-up, with rings everywhere: on noses, on lips, even on belly buttons. With a jolt, he recognised one of them as Emma, the teenage daughter of Angie. Vinny would have associated Emma with the prim uniform of the Holy Faith School but here she was looking like an extra from the film Beetlejuice.

After Emma paid her fare, Vinny saw her nudge her friend.

"That driver's my mam's new fella," she whispered, a little too loudly for Vinny's liking, as they giggled their way to the rear.

On the 20-minute spin into the city centre, Vinny did his utmost to focus but his mind was all over the shop. Was he an object of mirth in the Mooney household? If Emma was laughing behind his back, did Angie think he was just a big joke too? He hoped not.

He spent his break in the bookies in Marlborough Street and gave his situation some serious thought. Maybe it was time to rekindle their relationship, which had threatened to ignite at Valentine's and the Cheltenham Festival only to get dampened and almost extinguished in the intervening weeks.

Angie had been up to her tonsils in the Boru Betting takeover and Vinny had been up to his in gargle. He'd tried to engage, if that was the right word, in conversation with Angie at Punchestown but the timing had been all wrong.

Timing. That was the problem. Vinny could never seem to catch Angie on her own, to see if they had any chance of getting this thing going.

"What about today?" he thought. "Angie is probably home alone now that Emma is on the town. Why not strike now?"

Emboldened, he decided to go for broke.

It was close to three o'clock when Vinny scrunched the gravel on the approach to Angie's door. Her sporty crimson Alfa Romeo was in the drive.

Taking a deep breath and straightening his creased Dublin Bus standard-issue shirt, complete with dried-in tomato ketchup, Vinny rang the doorbell. As he waited, he cringed at the thought of his last visit, at Christmas, when a cocktail of sprouts and champers led to a Vesuvian eruption from his stomach.

After a bit, Angie, clad in a white blouse, khaki shorts and sandals opened the door. "Vinny!" she exclaimed. "What brings you here unannounced? Come in, come in."

Vinny stayed put. Looking intently at his scuffed shoes, hands firmly in pockets, he blurted: "Ange, there's something I've got to get off my chest. I've been thinking a lot about you these past few months and I was wondering, well hoping, if you'd consider walking out with me."

There was silence. Vinny continued staring at his feet. Eventually, he looked up. Angie was smiling at him from under her shock of brunette curls.

"Well, well, if the mouse hasn't finally roared."

"Now, Vinny," she continued. "If I accept your offer to 'walk out', you know what it will mean, don't you? Life won't be all about Foley's, Boru Betting and late-night takeaways. I'm not saying you'll have to change completely but you'll have to find room for me. If you don't, I'm not going to be made a fool of. Do you understand?"

Vinny felt himself blush. He straightened, squared his sloping shoulders and raised himself to his full height, all five-foot-eight.

"Angie, I'm my own man," he said. "I don't rely on Foley's for survival, or Boru Betting, or the Capri for that matter. You may have that impression of me but I can assure you it's not the real Vinny Fitzpatrick. I have a life outside all those things."

Angie contemplated the middle-aged bachelor with the paunch, the bookish features, the thin strands of hair, the flaky scalp. "Alright," she said. "I think we may get to first base and go from there. Have you a pen? Take down my mobile number and call me during the week, we can arrange to go on a proper date."

Half an hour later, Vinny was back at his mid-terrace home behind the bus depot, munching happily on nan bread and tandoori chicken.

Sky Sports was on but his mind was elsewhere; he paid attention only when they gave updates on the Everton versus Newcastle game - a 3-1 home win ensured his beloved Toffees finished fifth in the Premier League and qualified for the Uefa Cup.

Vinny had decided to stay put for the evening. His tiny garden was overgrown with weeds and his home was due a spring clean.

"You see, Angie, I don't need Foley's. I can do this," he said as he enthusiastically went to work.

By half-nine, Vinny was tired, temperamental and thirsty.

"I'm getting cabin fever here," he thought. "I think I've earned a nightcap."

He fetched his jacket and scuttled around to Foley's. As he caught the barman's eye and ordered a pint, he felt a light tap on his arm.

"Vinny. Fancy seeing you here."

It was Angie. Vinny didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Bets of the Week

1pt e.w. Lee Westwood in Irish Open (12/1, Boylesports)

1pt Antrim and Cavan to draw in Ulster SFC (15/2, Paddy Power)

Vinny's Bismarck

2pt lay Rangers to win UEFA Cup (5/2, general, liability 5pts)