AGAINST THE ODDS: After the Scotland game, Vinny and his friends venture further afield than is their wont.

EMERGING FROM Croke Park on Saturday evening, it was odds on that Vinny Fitzpatrick and his mates Macker, Fran and Brennie would saunter down to Fairview and catch a 130 to their customary bolt-hole in Foley's for a serious dissertation on the state of Irish rugby.

But Fran, the most adventurous of the fourball - he had sent his son to a fee-paying school on the southside - lobbed up a Garryowen at the bottom of Clonliffe Road: "Will we hit town for the craic?"

There was a pause, as the others digested this radical suggestion. Vinny looked at Macker, who looked at Brennie, who looked at Vinny.

"Sure, why not?" said Macker. "Look there's a 123. Shift it, lads."

Half an hour later, the lads were in a pub off Grafton Street and Vinny, for one, wasn't exactly whistling Dixie. The pint had cost almost a fiver, it was decidedly inferior to Foley's and, worse, the pub was jammers with kilts and sporrans.

Now, Vinny had nothing against his Celtic cousins. But it was their accent he had a problem with - it was utterly indecipherable, particularly when the jar was flowing.

As he ordered the second round - four pints of stout, naturally - Vinny was flanked at the counter by a pair of bearded Tartan giants who sounded as if they were conversing in fluent Slav. What was needed, he felt, was a touch of Bill McLaren's lucid, perfectly pitched, Borders prose.

McLaren had been synonymous with rugby on TV in Vinny's formative years. As he swayed in the throng pinned against the bar, Vinny could almost hear one of the great man's commentaries from yesteryear.

"Deans throws long, Leslie taps, Calder tidies and Jeffries sets up the rolling maul, the great white shark of Boroughmuir, all 16 stones on the hoof. He feeds Laidlaw, Laidlaw to Rutherford, out to Johnston, out to Robertson, they skip out Pollock, there's an overlap on here.

"Robertson gives the ball out to Baird, who throws a shimmy and he's over in the corner for a tremendous try . . . and I wouldn't mind but it's the wee lad's birthday today.

"But hold on, referee Clive Norling's attention has been drawn to a wee bit of argy-bargy in the lineout, but I'm sure that'll all be sorted out in the camaraderie of the dressingroom, or the local intensive-care unit.

"Now Rutherford with the conversion . . . it's a wee bit inebriated, but it's over."

McLaren was masterful, but the doyen, thought Vinny, by a short head, was Peter O'Sullevan. Vinny had grown up with O'Sullevan, from the grainy black and white images of Arkle and Mill House in the 1964 Gold Cup until his retirement after the 1997 Grand National.

No one called the horses better than the mellifluous Voice of Racing, about to turn 90 and still going strong.

By now, the lads had congregated outside the pub, where you could at least hear yourself talk and it didn't feel like you were packing down in the front row.

As Brennie and Fran discussed the likely number of Irish-trained winners at the Cheltenham Festival - Brennie was adamant there would be five or fewer and that Paul Nicholls would clean up the big prizes - Macker sidled up to Vinny: "Well, what's the latest with Angie?"

What was there to say? After their Valentine's excursion, Vinny had suffered a touch of cold-feet-itis.

He had given Boru Betting a wide berth, unsure of his ground. He thought it would have been "a bit previous" to have barged in like the cock o' the walk, only to be met by a stony stare from the glamorous assistant manager.

While he had strong feelings for Angie, his lack of confidence meant he found it difficult to express them. Only when he was knee deep in porter did Vinny possess any sort of self-assurance.

In his more reflective moments, Vinny knew he had to clamber down from his fence of uncertainty and seize the initiative. It was something that had to be done in a cold, sober light. As he knocked back his pint, the problem, he knew, was finding the right moment and the right words.

Angie had certainly given Vinny plenty of encouraging signs. He smiled as he recollected the way she had leaned into him while waiting for a taxi after their night in the Grand Hotel. And there had been more than a lingering hint about the hug on her doorstep later as Macker mischievously beeped the horn outside.

Vinny had a terrific sense of the intuitive when it came to sport; he could tell before anyone when a horse's race was run, and had an uncanny knack for predicting when a golfer was about to twitch a short putt. But his experience of romance was limited and it was holding him back with Angie.

As Macker offered encouragement to his old friend, there was a giggle from behind. Vinny turned. Brennie and Fran were among a gaggle of ladies, more brood mares than flying fillies, thought Vinny as he mooched over. "Meet the Loch Nessies, they're over for the match," grinned Brennie.

Vinny soon found himself in the beery company of Jessie from Leith, although initially he thought she said she was Juicy from Leeds. A travel agent, Jessie was jovial, jolly and mad about Ronan O'Gara - "sex on legs," she said, although Vinny misheard it as "sick on leeks".

The next hour or two was passed in a froth of harmless fun. Excluding Vinny, the lads were married - in Macker's case, both married and going steady - so the Loch Nessies were as safe as they wanted to be.

Approaching midnight, Jessie from Leith was a "locked" rather than a "Loch Nessie" and Vinny could barely fathom a word she was saying. Soon, the Nessies were poured into a taxi while Vinny and the lads merrily ambled down to D'Olier Street for the Nitelink. "Takeaway in the Capri, anyone?" asked Vinny.

Bets of the Week

1pt Portsmouth to finish in top four of Premiership (21/1, Betfair)

1pt e.w. Hedgehunter in Aintree Grand National (33/1 Stan James)

Vinny's Bismarck

2pts Lay Wales to win Six Nations (Evens Paddy Power, Liability 2pts)