Against the Odds: As Padraig Harrington, complete with bright red shirt, sized up his approach to the 18th hole at the Riviera Club in Los Angeles on Sunday night, Vinny Fitzpatrick was thinking what a fine role-model the Dubliner was, on and off the course.

Unflappable, dignified, unfailingly courteous. "If I come back in another life, I'd happily be Padraig Harrington," Vinny mused as Harrington's arrowed approach to the final green ensured third place and a bunch of useful Ryder Cup points.

Around him in Foley's the hubbub was starting to get out of hand. The lads were putting the final touches to their Cheltenham pilgrimage next month and things were heated.

Brennie, in particular, was in the firing line. Why? Because he'd left it late to book the flights and all he could manage was a red-eye to Birmingham on Monday morning.

"Birmingham?" queried Fran. "We're staying in Bristol and you have us flying in an out of Birmingham? We'd be quicker going by boat."

Kojak was raging too. "Brennie, Monday morning's a killer. I swore to the missus we were heading over on Monday night and she's intends to burn the credit card in Ikea that day. I'll be divorced if she can't go."

Vinny, as was his wont, took a back seat in such matters. There was, after all, no point in lobbing in his tu'penny worth as it would only inflame the situation. All five lads had a job to do for Cheltenham and only Brennie had come up short, by a roll or two.

Fran had booked the accommodation and found an olde worlde pub near Bristol; Macker had nailed down a 2.0 litre Mondeo Estate from Hertz, and Kojak had secured four-day passes to the Festival at a reduced rate.

As the master navigator, Vinny didn't actually do anything until they touched down, but his track record as regards finding the right road, restaurant and, crucially, boozer was second to none.

As Fran protested his innocence, citing a rogue email, Vinny noticed Macker trying to catch his eye. He knew why, but Vinny wasn't biting. Not in front of the other lads.

It was hard to believe three days had passed since his Valentine's tryst with Angie. To Vinny, every moment of their time together was vivid.

The night had begun well. After finishing work, Vinny had a haircut - a number two, to keep the bald spot tidy - and ran a bath when he got home, a rare enough occurrence. He thought about clipping his toe-nails but contented himself with running his old Remington around his nostrils and ear lobes.

It was just after eight when Vinny rang Angie's bell on Mount Prospect Avenue, wincing slightly as he recalled his previous experience on Christmas Day when his stomach fought a losing battle with a combination of alcohol and Brussels sprouts.

The door opened and Angie stepped out. Vinny gasped. She wore what Vinny could only describe as a clingy black number: it was off the shoulder and almost off everywhere else. "Hi Vinny," she said. "Well, don't you look handsome?"

Angie's intoxicating perfume accompanied them in the taxi to the Grand Hotel in Malahide, where over a couple of gin and tonics they chatted cosily about the Cheltenham Festival, the Grand National weights and the coronation of Giovanni Trapattoni.

Angie was chuffed at the flowers and chocolates with adorned their corner table and gave Vinny a peck on the cheek as they sat down to order.

By now, Vinny had likened the pursuit of Angie to the Grand National; it was crucial to hunt around the first circuit, avoid trouble, then ride your race.

With that in mind, Vinny played safe with soup for starters while Angie was more adventurous, crab claws dipped in garlic butter, one of which she proffered to Vinny's lips with a beguiling smile.

For the mains, Vinny went for the sirloin whereas Angie ordered lamb. A safe Australian red loosened tongues and Vinny felt he was boldly going where he had never dared go before.

But desert, never a strong point, proved his undoing. While Angie dawdled over her tiramisu, Vinny used the whip for the first time. "Ange, shall we skip coffee and head for the bar?"

Angie looked him straight in the eye. "What's the rush, Vinny?"

Angie duly ordered a double espresso and asked for the cheese board, prompting Vinny to wonder where she put it all as there wasn't a pick on her.

By half eleven Vinny was gasping. He called the waiter over and ordered three pints of Guinness, before inquiring if Angie would like a nightcap.

"A large brandy would be lovely Vinny, thanks."

Some 45 minutes later, the hum of a Hoover was a signal for Vinny it was time to go. He paid the bill - flinching only slightly - and ordered a taxi.

It was chilly outside the Grand as Angie nestled in the crook of Vinny's shoulder, swaying slightly.

"Vinny, thanks for a lovely evening. You know, I kind of had you down for the sort of fellow who'd have booked a room tonight and chanced his arm."

"Not my style," said Vinny straight-faced.

"Pity," replied Angie. "Because you never know what might have happened."

Vinny turned to Angie, aghast. He wanted to say something, do something, but before he could a taxi pulled up alongside.

"Two for Clontarf?" said the driver. It was Macker, smiling. "Hi, Vinny, Angie. Don't worry, I'll get you two straight home to your beds."

Bets of the week:

2pts Manchester Utd to win Champions League (11/2 Paddy Power)

1pt e/w Geoff Ogilvy (right) to win WGC World Matchplay (66/1 Boylesport)

Vinny's Bismarck:

1pt Lay Scotland to beat Ireland (4/1, Paddy Power, liability 4pts)