AGAINST THE ODDS:AS THE gathering of golfing gals in Mount Prospect Avenue became increasingly riotous and bottles were emptied at a ferocious lick, Vinny Fitzpatrick felt the Solheim Cup should be rebranded the Vina Solheim Cup.

At one point, when Suzann Pettersen nailed a long birdie putt, there was an outbreak of drunken doggerel: “We’re blue, with stars; the Solheim Cup is ours, here we go, here we go.”

Leading the half-shot cabal of Northsiders, cheeks aglow, fists pumping, was Vinny’s missus Angie, who wasn’t being backward about coming forward to support the European team on this wine-soused Sunday.

There were two fourballs, all Angie’s friends from the nearby St Anne’s golf club, who had arrived at noon, clad in yellow and blue, for brunch, bonhomie, and maybe more.

They were in their 40s, some older, and by mid-afternoon were fluthured and flirty, none more so than Jackie, a long-time adversary of Vinny, who seemed to have more “drive” than any woman Vinny had ever met.

Each time a European golfer sank a putt, or won a hole, blonde bombshell Jackie was on her feet, doing a bum shuffle with whoever was nearest. Tall, tanned and armed with a Colgate smile, Jackie was ageing gracefully, if behaving far less so.

For Vinny, the sight of women, some of whom it had to be said were less than svelte, banging their wobbly bits off one another wasn’t his cup of Barry’s finest but he wasn’t going to let on. This was Angie’s day, her way of marking the stay of execution for Boru Betting with her allies from St Anne’s, who met each Tuesday morning for golf and gossip.

They were a motley crew, most of whom Vinny knew to be civilised and restrained; on this afternoon they were anything but.

Vinny was on bar duty and by his calculations, the girls had already downed a dozen bottles of wine, eight white and four red. There were six bottles left; after that it was on to the reserves of gin and tonic – he reckoned there was just about enough in the tank as long as the weather held in Killeen Castle.

So far, there had been three interruptions, two for rain, one for thunder and lightning; another would mean the Vina Solheim Cup tip-toeing into an anti-climactic fourth day. And that wouldn’t do.

With three matches left on the course, Europe’s position seemed impossible as they trailed in two and were level in the other, but inspired by Pettersen – a rather pretty platinum blonde, noted Vinny approvingly – they snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.

In turn, Angie’s army snatched wine from the glass as if it was going out of fashion. When Ryann O’Toole – yet another American with one of those annoying neutral monikers applicable as either a Christian name or surname – played the 18th like Peter O’Toole, it was all over. The Vina Solheim Cup was coming home.

Soon the wine supply was exhausted and Vinny’s suggestion of a Vera Lynn for the road home was greeted by cheers and another bloothered blast of “We’re blue, with stars; the Solheim Cup is ours, here we go, here we go”.

In the kitchen, Vinny set out eight glasses, a chilled bottle of Bombay finest and a couple of lemons. He was on his knees, rooting out ice in the freezer in the utility room, when he felt a tap on his roundy shoulders.

“Well, my little pantry pal, have you found what you’re looking for?”

Vinny looked up to see Jackie, all legs and gleaming smile, gazing at him with a suggestively sensual grin as she leaned on the doorway. It could easily have been Lauren Bacall asking Humphrey Bogart for a cigarette light in the movie To Have And Have Not.

“Just getting the ice sorted, Jackie. Do you take one cube or two?” he said, feeling a reddening rush to his cheeks as soon as the words left him.

“I think you know how I take it,” said Jackie, leaning forward to pluck a cube from the bag which Vinny had rummaged out of the freezer.

Fixing her brown eyes firmly on Vinny, she deliberately dropped the cube down her blouse, flinching slightly as she did.

“Oh fiddle sticks,” she said in a mocking tone. “Vinny, would you be a good boy and rescue that cube for me. I don’t trust my fingers after all that wine.”

Vinny didn’t trust Jackie an inch and he knew she was playing a dangerous game. If he placed one pudgy finger on her, she’d call foul and he’d be up to his oxters in trouble with Angie. Yet if he did nothing, Jackie would claim dominance and probably make a withering remark about his spinelessness. Either way, he was on a sticky wicket.

From his pitch on his knees, Vinny was almost parallel with Jackie’s skimpy blouse, he could see the spreading water stain close to her right breast; could hear her breathing quicken. Slowly, Jackie placed a bronzed arm across the doorway. “Well, what’s it to be, Vinny?” she said huskily

“Will you play it as it lies or take a penalty drop? By the way, just to let you know, you’re on the clock.”

Unlike some of the ageing crones in the front room, Jackie wasn’t ground under repair; she was a birdie with a shot, a four-pointer and she knew it. Rising to his feet, Vinny half-stumbled and flung his bag of ice upwards. “You want ice, you got ice,” he thought to himself.

Instantly, Jackie was showered with stinging freezing shrapnel. She arced back instinctively but couldn’t escape as the cubes pelted down – one even caught her squarely in the eye.

“I’m so sorry, Jackie,” gushed Vinny. “I lost my grip. Are you alright? Here, let me get you a towel,” he said, brushing back the stricken Jackie and into the safety of the kitchen.

Cursing, Jackie bent down to flick shards of ice from her blouse, revealing more cleavage than was necessary.

Unperturbed, Vinny regrouped and set about his responsibilities as attendant-in-chief. He went heavy on the tonic and lemon to cover for the shortage of ice and carefully placed the drinks on a tray.

“Jackie,” he said cheerfully before heading for the front room. “I’ve left you a couple of slices of lemon. Be careful, they can leave a sour taste. And we wouldn’t want that, not after such a memorable afternoon.”

As he left, Jackie thought she heard Vinny murmur “We’re blue, with stars; the Solheim Cup is ours, here we go, here we go” but she couldn’t be sure.

Bets of the Week

2pt win:Rory McIlroy in Alfred Dunhill Championship (11/1, Unibet)

1pt each-way:Snow Fairy in Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe (16/1, Ladbrokes)

Vinny's Bismark

1pt: lay Italy to beat Ireland in Rugby World Cup (6/1, Boylesports, liability 6pts)