Vinny welcomes back jumps' hardy annuals

AGAINST THE ODDS:Unlike his mate Brennie, Vinny preferred to go with his instincts, his own feel for a race, rather than place his trust, and hard-earned cash, on a faceless expert

FOR VINNY Fitzpatrick, the last day of the Flat marked the authentic start of the jumping season, the day when the blue-bloods, many of which barely established a public rapport before being swept off to stud, officially made way for National Hunt’s hardy annuals.

A case of out with the new, in with the old, thought Vinny, who welcomed the return of the grizzled equine chargers, who appeared on cue to light up the lives of racegoers and armchair fans through the dark winter months. In his formative gambling years, Vinny had established an affinity with two jumping veterans, Sonny Somers and Artifice, simply because they seemed to go on forever.

Sonny Somers was 18 when he won his last race in 1980, while Artifice, which ran in the colours of Denman, soldiered on well into his teens. Mostly he backed them out of affection, not form, which was a rather irresponsible attitude no serious gambler would dare deploy, but Vinny’s soft centre meant it didn’t hurt as much if a fiver went awry here or there.

On this crisp Saturday, Kauto Star, a dual Gold Cup winner, was running in Down Royal, while Comply Or Die, a Grand National hero, was at Wincanton. One was rising 11, the other 12. They owed punters nothing; the sport owed them so much.

“Sure, you can’t beat it,” thought Vinny as he pushed open the door to Boru Betting a little after midday, armed with €100 and tingling with ambition.

Vinny had set aside four hours for his favoured fix in a setting akin to a home from home, especially so as his wife, Angie, was running the shop.

On these sporting afternoons, chock-full with the nags, footie and rugger, Angie liked to be hands-on, hence the hiring of a babysitter with Vinny under instructions to head home after the 4.10pm at Doncaster. As a jump junkie, Vinny was a slave to big race Saturdays and one Rupert Walsh.

Some punters had their inside tracks, their stable whispers, but Vinny had long held the theory you were more likely to show a profit by sticking with Kildare’s finest since Christy Moore and Ernest Shackleton.

Looking around Boru Betting, Vinny spied his old partner-in-crime, The Reverend, who once covertly placed his bets after he had taken a Lenten gambling pledge.

Beside him was the gangling Simon, complete with lank hair and mournful expression – he reminded Vinny of the character Sal in Dog Day Afternoon.

Among the usual crew of rheumy codgers and coltish hopefuls all chasing the dream of a Saturday dividend, was a familiar figure glued to the Racing Post, Brennie. "Well, me ol' mucker, you don't often get a pass for this kind of mullarkey," smiled Vinny as he waddled over to his highly-strung friend.

Brennie looked up and beckoned Vinny to a quiet corner. Looking furtively about, he whispered conspiratorially: “Vinny, I have it cracked. I’ve got the golden ticket.”

Vinny raised his eyebrows a fraction and studied his friend. Always impulsive, Brennie lived in a world not always au fait with reality. For example, every time he bought a Lotto ticket, he was convinced he had the right numbers; every bet was placed with utter conviction, in any Foley’s sweep, Brennie’s opinion was as solid as the quartzite peak of Howth Head.

Yet for someone who made Mr Micawber appear downbeat – this was rarely pointed out to him because he was a sensitive soul whose reputation was besmirched slightly over ‘that’ business in the bank – Brennie lost more often than he won.

“Vinny, I’m sworn to secrecy so can you keep this to yourself?” he murmured a little loudly, causing one or two gambling grazers to lift their heads. “Go on,” said Vinny. “I’m all ears.”

Brennie continued. “For a few bob I’ve signed up to this exclusive tipping service with a guy who has a direct line to information on stables and horses running at the big meetings. I’ve seen his record and he hits the mark more often than not.

“Don’t you see, Vinny? This is the chance I’ve been waiting for, the chance to make some decent money and redeem myself at home after what went on, you know, at the job.

“Between now and Christmas, I’m going to hit the bookies for six every Saturday. I only hope that Angie doesn’t bar me from here ‘cos I’m winning too often,” he added with a cherubic grin.

Vinny looked at his slightly-built friend with his mop of crinkly curls, eyes shining with hope. He was like a Cocker Spaniel that wanted a pat. Vinny mulled over his reply. Puncturing Brennie’s balloon wasn’t his style, even if he felt that paying good money for information, most of which was freely available, seemed a waste of time.

Far better, he felt, to go with your instincts, your feel for a race, rather than place your trust, and hard-earned cash, on a faceless expert who was guaranteed to show a profit no matter the outcome. “Brennie,” he smiled. “I wish you well in your endeavours. And don’t worry, I would never compromise you by asking you to pass on any knowledge.

“Should, however, a windfall come your way, then a pint of Uncle Arthur’s finest in Foley’s would be more than sufficient by way of compensation.”

Brennie lightly punched Vinny in the arm. “Don’t worry Vinny. I’ll be racking up the pints next door before you know it. Right, let’s saddle up. There’s some paperwork to be done.” For the next four hours, emotions danced as five meetings, four over the jumps, and the Doncaster flat farewell, unfolded.

Vinny kept one eye on his talisman, Ruby Walsh, at Down Royal, and the other on the climax to become champion flat jockey between Paul Hanagan and Richard Hughes at Doncaster.

It was, in truth, a topsy-turvy day. Walsh didn’t figure in the first three at Down Royal but came up trumps with Kauto Star (4/7) and The Nightingale (3/1) to right Vinny’s ship.

After Ruby took a nasty fall on Corrick Bridge, Vinny played his ‘Get Out Of Jail Card’ at Wincanton where Ruby’s guv’nor, Paul Nicholls, sent out Meanus Dandy at 5 to 1, to win the big chase.

He placed seven €20 bets, had three winners and finished to the good by almost €50 – not a bad return, even if the news on Ruby’s injury was grim.

As the runners were loaded up for the 4.10 at Doncaster, he spied Brennie in the corner. Intrigued as to how ‘the man with the plan’ was doing, he sidled over. “Are we ahead of the posse?” he asked with a smile.

Brennie shrugged his shoulders and said nothing, his slightly drawn expression suggesting to Vinny it was best to keep schtum.

The final Flat race of 2010, a seven-furlong handicap for apprentices wasn’t exactly a Derby trial and Vinny wouldn’t have had a bet, even if it was a free one. In the event, the race was won by Perfect Silence, a 12 to 1 shot, which was greeted by the sound of hush on its return to the winner’s enclosure, which was quite appropriate, thought Vinny.

Turning to Brennie, he said: “If your expert tipped that, I’ll take my hat off to him.” But Brennie was gone, leaving the door to Boru Betting swinging ajar behind him.

Vinny's Bismarck

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