AGAINST THE ODDS:Tormented by his dark secret, our hero opts for a full and frank confession

AS HE sat in a pew in St Gabriel’s Church, Dollymount, on Monday evening, Vinny Fitzpatrick reckoned it must been over 35 years since his last confession.

In that time he had committed a number of sinful acts but there had been none so grave to have influenced him to get down on bended knee and plea for absolution.

Right now he was in a dark place tormented by guilt, his restless soul a halting place for demons. And all because he didn’t have the spleen to tell his mates that when it came to abstaining from gambling for Lent he was a busted flush, a loser.

Instead, he’d bluffed them into believing that he was still on the wagon, just so he might rise a little in their estimation. “How pathetic can you get,” he thought to himself. Given the choice of sticking it out for Lent and keeping his cash in his pocket, or twisting his cards on the table and telling the lads he was a beaten docket, Vinny had gone off on a solo run which required a third party, known as The Reverend, to place his bets for him.

During Cheltenham week, they had met daily, so Vinny could get his daily fix of bets.

In that time, he had twice spent an afternoon in Foley’s, swilling pints with the lads and taking pats on the back as they marvelled at his capacity to stay away from the perils of punting.

Vinny had smiled sheepishly, raised a glass in appreciation, and followed the racing with a keen eye for the simple reason that it mattered more when there’s money on it.

He invested €600 over the four days, hitting high with Garde Champetre, Cooldine and Dunguib on Tuesday and Wednesday before faltering on the final two days, when Voy Por Estedes, Kasbah Bliss and Exotic Dancer proved expensive.

Still, when he settled with The Reverend on Saturday morning, he was up a little over €150, which was a return he would have settled for from any Cheltenham.

And then, the little devils began to prick his uneasy conscience.

At first, he batted them off, a trying run on the 27 route was sufficient for that; but on Saturday night, when he proved disengaging company for Angie over supper at home, the gremlins returned apace.

By the end of the night he was a louser, a charlatan, and a fraud. It was bad enough that he bottled the gambling embargo, but it was criminal that he carried on the pretence in front of his best mates, salty old Dubs who had stood by him for donkey’s years.

On Sunday, he had taken the decision to explain his actions to a local priest. Then, he would tell the lads in Foley’s what a wretch he was and plead for mercy.

The confessional on Monday was manned by a Fr Lavelle, noted Vinny as he moved up in line. Soon it would be his turn.

As he waited, nerves got the better of him; his breathing quickened and he felt sweat forming on his hands – he dreaded to think what was happening to the Dublin Bus standard issue shirt on his back.

At last, the door opened and a little ol’ lady slipped out clutching rosary beads, deep in prayer. “She must have been bold; she’s saying her prayers already,” thought Vinny with a hint of gallows humour as he entered the dark, silent world of the confessional.

Aware that Fr Lavelle was working from both sides, Vinny had a few final moments to gather his thoughts and take in his surroundings.

It was almost pitch black, save for a light around the edges of a grill which was close to Vinny’s face. He could hear voices, one soft, the other raised.

He focused on what he was about to say. As a kid, he’d been warned that mortal sins where far worse than venial sins, and carried a greater penance.

“If this was a court of law, I’d expect to go down for this,” he thought to himself.

Suddenly, there was a scratching noise. A panel was slid back and Vinny could make out the shape of a man’s face behind the grid. It was Fr Lavelle.

“Yes, my son, what have you to tell me?” he said.

“Bless me father for I have sinned, it’s been about, em, 35 years since my last confession and I have to get something off my chest,” he began.

“I’m sorry, my son, but did you say 35 years since your last confession?” interrupted Fr Lavelle, who sounded like Peter O’Sullevan, the voice of racing.

“Yes Father, I did,” said Vinny.

“Well,” replied Fr Lavelle with a chuckle which relaxed Vinny no end, “I take it you’re not here to run down your life history. If so I’ll have to ask the parishioners outside to go home and come back next week.” “Ah, no Father,” said Vinny. “This shouldn’t take long. Tell me, do you like a bet?” he said.

When Fr Lavelle replied that he was related to racing stock from north Cork where steeple chasing had begun, Vinny chilled out completely. Blowing hard, he told his tale.

It was 24 hours later when Vinny hooked up with his friends in Foley’s, calling them to attention halfway through the first pint. Standing upright, he looked at them all in the eye and spoke from the heart how he had fallen off the path of righteousness, and how he had lacked the guts to tell the truth.

He asked for their pardon and said, as a gesture, he had put his €150 winnings from Cheltenham behind the bar. Then, he sat down heavily, reached for his pint and waited.

It was Brennie who spoke first. “Lads, Vinny wasn’t alone. I cracked as well. When I said I kept away from on-line poker I was only telling half the story. For the past fortnight I’ve been playing pontoon on-line, and it’s cost me a packet. I’m sorry too.”

There was a stunned silence then Macker coughed. “Guilty,” he said. “It’s not that I’ve returned to the fags; instead I’m on those little tipped cigars. You didn’t catch on as I’ve been brushing the teeth big-time, chomping on mints and changing my shirt before coming in here,” he said.

Shanghai Jimmy was next. “Someone left a bar of Cadbury’s whole nut on a 42b last week and that did it for me,” he said “It was gone all mushy and soft but I couldn’t leave it there. After the run, I went straight to the shops, bought three giant-sized bars and ate the lot,” he added.

Fran then admitted that his coffee conversion had been a failure. Initially he had tried green tea which lasted a week before he caved in. He was back on 10 cups of Barry’s finest a day and it was rising.

Kojak looked around and grinned, which was something he rarely did, before producing a pub-sized bag of King cheese and onion crisps. “These have been burning a hole in my pocket all day,” he said ripping them open.

Vinny lifted his pint to his lips, shook his head softly and smiled. Confession after all, had been good for the soul.

Bets of the Week

3pts Newcastle United to be relegated from Premier League (15/8, Paddy Power)

1pt e.w. Garde Champetre in Grand National (25/1, Totesport)

Vinny's Bismarck

1pt Lay Manchester City to win UEFA Cup (4/1 general, liability 4pts)