Siren sound signals end to juvenile chase

AGAINST THE ODDSTHE BLUE and cream livery of the bus that lumbered onto Parnell Square, its sides splashed with advertisements for Merville milk, Woodbine cigarettes and Varian brushes, was familiar to Dubliners of a certain vintage, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE

As Dublin's St Patrick's Day parade got underway, Vinny Fitzpatrick, complete with peaked cap, sat in the driver's cabin and tried to look contented.

"It could be worse," he thought. "I could be the conductor, swinging out of the bar with a smile on my face for two hours, waving at punters."

On his return from Cheltenham, Vinny had reported for work at Clontarf bus garage on Sunday to be told he'd been volunteered for parade duty the next day.

Vinny had no problem with the shift. There was double pay for the bank holiday and he didn't have to worry about timetables or passengers fumbling for change. And he'd have time to reflect on his week in the Cotswolds.

It was, without exaggeration, a trip he would never forget. Neither would the lads, and nor would Angie either, he thought.

Flanked by a battalion of giant leprechauns and a girls' marching band from New Jersey, USA, Vinny kept his pitch as his AEC Regent, with 9.6-litre engine, nudged into O'Connell Street.

Vinny's emotions were back on track after a rollercoaster ride under Cleeve Hill. From a position after the first day of the Festival where his backside was visible through his trousers, Vinny had staged an improbable comeback.

In turn, his three ante-post €100 wagers - on Ruby Walsh to be top jockey at the Festival, Inglis Drever to win the World Hurdle and Denman to win the Gold Cup - duly clicked, netting Vinny a profit in excess of €400.

As a bonus, he'd backed Master Minded in the Champion Chase and, for fun, had a modest each-way saver on Cousin Vinny - no relation - in the bumper, which won at 12 to 1. Macker was on him too, while Fran, Brennie and Kojak had rowed in with Big Eared Fran, which was nowhere.

And then there was Angie. Where to start? They had exchanged texts on Thursday, and on Friday she'd phoned to say Winstons For Winners were hosting a gig in one of the corporate boxes. "Why don't you drop in after the Gold Cup? Just ask for me," she said.

Armed with Guinness fortitude, and Macker's approval, Vinny had made his way to the Winstons shindig, just as Denman was being led from the winner's enclosure.

The box was in line with the winning post - must have cost a packet, he thought - and he could hear champagne corks popping and glasses tinkling as he told the doorman he was there to see Angie from Boru Betting.

He was kept waiting a while - it was like a stewards' inquiry. And then her nibs appeared, looking striking as usual, auburn hair flowing past shoulder length.

She was accompanied by a tall, tanned chap in a swanky suit.

"Vinny," she purred. "Come in, come in.

"Charlie, this is Vinny Fitzpatrick, one of our most loyal customers in Boru Betting. Vinny, meet Charlie Winston. He wants to buy us out."

"Alright, Vinny, pleased to meet you. Any friend of Angie's is a friend of mine. Make yourself at home," said Charlie, in an accent straight out of Eastenders.

The box was stuffed with the toffs and tweeds of the horsey set, and a sprinkling of cheery cockney tones. Vinny sought fortitude in a pint and headed to the viewing area. Prestbury Park fanned out below him. He felt a tap on the arm. It was Angie.

"Vinny, thanks for coming. It's hard to keep a permanent smile going. I'd love to get out of here and mingle but Charlie is marking me tightly. Doesn't he know I'm a non-runner?" she giggled.

They watched the next race unfold. It was the Foxhunters, won by an outsider, but to Vinny it didn't matter a whit. Here he was, a Dublin bus driver mingling with the hob-nobs at Cheltenham, with Angie on his arm and a pint in his hand. Could life get any better?

It was about to. Angie leaned closer: "Vinny, why don't you come back to the Queen's after this for a bit of dinner?

"And, eh," - her voice trailed off a little - "if you want you can stay over with me tonight, seeing as how we're all on the same flight home tomorrow . . ."

Vinny spluttered into his pint, sending froth flying. He was doing mental somersaults when Charlie reappeared: "Ah, there you are, Angie. Come back inside. There's an old china plate of mine I want you to meet." She was gone again.

When the racing was all over, Vinny had phoned Macker and brought him up to speed with the latest in the "Angie Stakes".

"Go for it, Vinny. We'll raise a glass to you in The Pen And Ink. See you at the airport."

Some hours later, after a fine steak and a few creamy pints, Vinny Fitzpatrick was in nirvana. It was room 212 in the Queen's Hotel, Cheltenham. Angie, the love of his life, was in the en-suite - "I'll just slip into something more comfortable" - and he was wrestling with his shoelaces.

"Fitzpatrick, you're a winner alright," he muttered to himself.

How had he done it? Ageing Vincent Fitzpatrick, carrying top weight, with little form over the course and distance, was about to hack up. He just prayed he would not fall at the first.

And then, alas, the fickle finger of fate, interfered.

At first, Vinny ignored the shrill of the fire alarm as it shattered the amorous mood in room 212. Angie poked her head out of the bathroom: "What's going on?"

Vinny thought it was a practice drill but the ringing continued.

Then a voice in the corridor.

"Everyone out, please. The emergency exits are at the end of the corridor. Don't use the lift and stay calm."

Vinny peered outside. A porter was urgently knocking on doors.

"Is this for real?" he asked.

"Yes sir. We need to evacuate - there's a fire in the basement."

The emergency services arrived quickly enough, but it was several hours before everything had cooled, including the ardour of both Angie and Vinny.

They had been ferried to a nearby school and offered tea and blankets. It was after 4am when they returned to the hotel, cold, tired and grumpy. With a wake-up call at 6.30 for the early flight to Birmingham, Vinny and Angie had crawled silently into bed for some shut-eye. The morning had been awkward, made even more so by the winks from Macker and the lads at the airport.

"What an end to the week," thought Vinny. By now one of the giant leprechauns had fallen over in front of him in Dame Street and was struggling to his feet. The brass band behind were getting brassed off. All was normal again in Vinny's world.

"Here he was, a bus driver from Dublin, mingling with the hob-nobs at Cheltenham, with Angie on his arm and a pint in his hand. Could life get any better?

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Vinny's Bismarck

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