AGAINST THE ODDSVinny goes trainspotting in Peschiera del Garda as Angie takes in a bit of sun worshipping on their first full day of the Italian holiday

LIKE A runaway roller-coaster, the Milan-Venice express whistled through the station at breakneck speed. The platform shuddered and a blast of warm air fanned over Vinny Fitzpatrick, who stood a safe distance back from the tracks, enthralled.

Then, as quickly as the silver bullet had come, it was gone, snaking eastward towards Verona, leaving the station silent in its wake.

The next train, a commuter from Brescia, was due in Peschiera del Garda in 18 minutes, leaving Vinny with time for a double espresso.

Planting his ample backside on a plastic seat in the station cafe, Vinny felt as content as the proverbial porker with his snout in the trough.

Here he was, on holiday, with the love of his life, Angie, in an unspoilt corner of northern Italy which just happened to be slap bang on the primary railway route across Lombardy, allowing Vinny to indulge in one of his favourites pastimes - trainspotting.

Since his first train ride, as a snotty five-year-old when his old man, Finbarr, had taken him from Killester to Malahide for a beach outing, he'd been smitten by the "iron horse".

As he sipped his espresso, Vinny smiled as he recalled the summer days he spent on his own at Killester when he diligently noted the times of the trains in a copybook as they came through.

Armed with a sandwich made up by his mam, Bridie, and a bottle of milk, he'd cycle up from Clontarf and take his pitch at the top end of the platform.

He particularly loved the Belfast express which hurtled past in a blur. Sometimes, the driver would toot the horn and wave which added to Vinny's sense of wonder and joy.

Looking at his watch, he noted the 15.24 from Brescia was due so, unsticking himself from his seat, he waddled out to the platform for his next "fix" where he observed the incoming train had 12 carriages, arrived bang on time, and left after a 67-second wait.

"Mussolini would have claimed credit for that if he was still around," thought Vinny as he plonked down on a platform seat ahead of the 15.41 from Verona.

Thinking of Mussolini set Vinny off on other famous Italians who'd left their mark on the canvass of life. Julius Caesar, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Sophia Loren, Marconi, Rossini, the Agnellis and Dean Martin - born Dino Crocetti in Ohio but who only spoke Italian until he was five.

With time to spare, Vinny scrunched his brow and contemplated his top 10 Italian sportsmen of all time.

The Juventus side which buttressed the Italian World Cup winning side of 1982 sparkled with such diamonds as our own Marco Tardelli, Antonio Cabrini, Dino Zoff and the late, great Gaetano Scirea.

He felt it would be impossible to leave out Franco Baresi, the wily sweeper of the AC Milan side of the 90s, or dashing full back Paolo Maldini, still going strong in his 40th year.

Another cert, thought Vinny, was spindly-legged Fausto Coppi, who ruled cycling in the late 40s and early 50s, while further back there was boxer Primo Carnera, the "Ambling Alp".

From the world of athletics, sprinter Pietro Mennea was a champion, while the exploits of Valentino Rossi had even brought motorcyling to Vinny's attention.

By now, the Verona "rattler" had rolled to a halt and Vinny snapped out of his daydream.

He was due back at the villa on Lake Garda by half four, by which time Angie would have returned from her poolside berth. He trusted he would be greeted with a grin rather than a grimace but couldn't be sure, especially after the way he'd behaved on the trip over from Dublin the day before.

A nervy flyer, Vinny stocked up with half a dozen pints at the bar in the departures' lounge and continued drinking on the flight where he'd polished off several small bottles of red wine.

He'd then fallen asleep on the car journey from Milan to Lake Garda, during which Angie got lost near Bergamo and there was a stony silence when they finally arrived at their villa, a two-bed he noted with some concern, late in the evening.

"Vinny, I'm shattered and need sleep. You're in there. I'm in here. See you in the morning," Angie had said, without so much as a peck on his chubby cheek.

Thankfully, Angie had been a bit like her old self that next morning when she'd dragged Vinny to mass in a local 15th century church before paying worship to a different god, of the sun variety, in the afternoon.

Vinny had plonked down beside her but had only survived half an hour before retreating with his book The Damned United to a shady corner - his wobbly nougat contours contrasting sharply with Angie's svelte honeycomb shape.

As he made his way along the promenade towards the villa, Vinny stopped for an icecream, his second of the day. He didn't know what it was called but it had broken bits of chocolate running through and was gorgeous.

Slurping happily, Vinny looked out at Lake Garda, flanked by mountains rising steeply skywards to the heavens and thought to himself what a fine country Italy was. With that, he continued on his way whistling That's Amore to himself.

Bets of the Week

1pt ew Graeme McDowell in Scottish Open (40/1 Corals, William Hill)

2pts Limerick to beat Meath in All-Ireland SFC qualifiers (4/1 Paddy Power)

Vinny's Bismarck

1pt Lay Wexford to beat Dublin in Leinster SFC final (3/1 general, liability 3pts)