Roddy L’Estrange: Angie’s summons spoils a magical day for Vinny

When the text arrived from Angie, Vinny Fitzpatrick’s the first instinct was to ignore it.

It could only be more grim tidings, he reckoned, as his estranged wife knew how to kick a man when he was down – he was already on meagre rations regarding access to the twins.

Fearing the worst, he opened the message and was taken aback when the red and blue logo of “Winston’s For Winners” jumped out at him, emblazoned with the word “Congratulations!”

Intrigued, he scrolled down to find he was a winner in the ‘Meet The Maestro’ competition which he’d entered in Boru Betting, on a whim, a few days before the fall-out with Angie.

The "Maestro" was none other than Willie Mullins and Vinny was one of 24 lucky punters drawn out for a trip to the stables in County Carlow to see Mullins' Cheltenham string go through their paces.

He was tempted to reply to Angie a light-hearted “I’m a winner alright” but he couldn’t, not now, as too much spleen had been vented and the gap between them was wider than Un De Sceaux’s probable winning margin in the Arkle Trophy.

Once joined at the hips, and the lips, they were now at odds, exchanging steely, silent glances when the kids were being collected or dropped off.

The flame of love, which had warmed Vinny's heart like no other spark before, was extinguished. And unlike Elsa in Frozen, the cold would always bother the burly bus driver.

There was little time for reflection as the appointment with Mullins was for the next day, Friday, with two morning pick-up points, the Winston shops in Raheny and Clontarf.

As a racing fanatic, the gig was the equivalent of winning a golden ticket to Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. For the first time in weeks, Vinny felt his spirits rise.

He had already mapped out a punting strategy for Cheltenham which revolved stapling his hard-earned cash reserves on Mullins’ runners at the Festival, and especially the pink and green silks of Rich Ricci’s horses.

He had a feeling, shaped by experience and a concerted study of the formbook, that the dapper Yank, complete with trilby and dark sunglasses, was the owner to follow at this year’s Festival.

He put his theory to his punting pal, The Reverend, as they boarded the luxury coach on Friday morning, noting with relief that Angie had left the escort duties to her callow assistant, Simon Plumtree, known as SP to the regulars.

The 90-minute journey passed in a contented blur. Vinny found himself at ease with the rest of the crew, all male, and mostly on the back nine of life, just like he was.

They were not only martyrs to Cheltenham, but also disciples of Mullins, who was regarded as the “finest team manager of all time, greater even than Fergie” according to one devotee, a white-haired old-timer of many punting battles.

“Put Mullins in charge of the country; he’d sort the bloody mess out,” shrilled the salty veteran.

Motley crew

On arrival at Mullins’ yard, down a narrow road just past Leighlinbridge, two dogs bounded out to greet them, followed by the man who would be king of Cheltenham.

Vinny was taken aback as he didn’t think Mullins would have much time for a gang of Dubs whose regular bet was a €20 double or a fifty-pence each way Lucky 15. There were no Rich Ricci’s among them, rather Poor Peter’s.

Mullins greeted the motley crew warmly, shook hands with SP, told the visitors not to mind his dogs, Lara and Reilly, and invited everyone to follow him to his gallops, which were across the road.

On the way, he spoke about his ambitions for Cheltenham, the strength in depth of his team, and how he was targeting handicaps with his novices for the first time.

Not a word was wasted and every one uttered made sense.

After passing a fleet of green lorries emblazoned with the name “Mullins”, they ducked through a hedge and emerged on a wee rise overlooking the gallops. It was a like a scene from the ‘Wild West’ as horses trotted too and forth.

Without silks, Vinny didn’t know one gee-gee from another but Mullins put everyone right, as he called out the horses, from Hurricane Fly “working on his own, as he likes to do”, to Annie Power “with the hood” and Bordini “with the white marks on his tail”. On it went.

Vinny felt like a child in a sweet shop as the stars of the turf trotted past, at arm’s length. He was in the presence of equine greatness past, present and future.

Heartfelt thanks

Douvan, Tell Us More, Un De Sceaux, Faugheen, Champagne Fever, Djakadam, Boston Bob, On His Own, Nichols Canyon, Outlander, Valseur Lido, Vautour, Don Poli. On it went and still Vinny’s wonder grew.

At one point, Vinny caught The Reverend’s eye and gave him a wink.

Even the Everton dressing room before a derby with Liverpool at Goodison wouldn’t match this, Vinny reckoned.

After SP passed on the group’s heartfelt thanks to Mullins for his time, patience and knowledge, the happy campers saddled up for home, convinced they held the keys to betting paradise.

On the way back, there was a sweep for a tenner a man on how many races Mullins would win at the Festival and Vinny felt he was on the money with seven.

As they alighted outside Boru Betting, armed with a thirst tailor-made for Foley’s, Vinny heard a voice he knew well. “Vincent, have you a moment?” It was Angie. “Oh, hi,” he said tamely.

“Could you come inside?” said his wife. “This won’t take long.”

As The Reverend raised a quizzical eyebrow, Vinny’s shoulders visibly slumped. He knew not to expect tidings of comfort or joy.