AGAINST THE ODDS:The taxman wants a cut of cash long gone so our betting bus driver has to make a few well-chosen punts, sit tight and just pray Sligo come through, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE

FROM HIS padded seat in the Lower West Stand, Vinny Fitzpatrick could make out the unmistakable snowy head of Giovanni Trapattoni, and his assistant, Marco Tardelli, seated a couple of rows in front of him.

There was a queue of punters getting their match programmes autographed by the Italian duo but Vinny was in no mood to join the hangers-on. His lips were dry, his arm-pits wet; his fingers and toes all a tingle.

They said it mattered more when there was money on it and this sharp November afternoon he had more riding on the outcome of the FAI Cup final than Macker beside him, or anyone else, could imagine.

As the players of Sligo Rovers and Shamrock Rovers emerged on to the pitch and the Aviva Stadium erupted with noise, Vinny reflected on the morning’s unexpected events which had forced him to boldly go where he’d rarely gone before.

It had all come about through his appointment with accountant Archie “Nibbler” Noonan, which had been put off long enough.

With Tuesday’s deadline for filing tax returns approaching faster than an IMF bailout, he’d reluctantly agreed to see Nibbler, an old school colleague in “Joey’s”, after breakfast in Mount Prospect Avenue.

As far as Vinny was concerned, the meeting was a mere formality. After all, he had nothing to hide, nothing to declare. He had been a loyal PAYE contributor for 32 years and prided himself that his taxes, in a little way, had kept the country’s finances on an even keel. But Nibbler, a dry sort and a stickler for rules, had delivered a googly which knocked Vinny’s middle stump half-way to Dollymount Strand.

“It’s about your old family home in Causeway Avenue, Vinny. As I see it, the Khan family rented it off you in 2009. Based on bank records, you were paid €12,000 in rent. Mr Taxman, I’m afraid, wants his cut.”

Vinny blinked and swallowed hard. He hadn’t seen this coming, specifically because he only ever gave his bank statement a cursory glance.

Everything was done on-line now, which meant he received a statement in the post twice a year. He’d checked it once to see if the rent was coming through – which it was – and had left it at that.

He had no idea what was “resting” in his account but suspected whatever it was wouldn’t be there for much longer.

“What are we looking at, Nibbler? I’m sure there are ways of writing things off; there always is, isn’t there?” he said, his voice quavering a little.

Nibbler looked at Vinny over his black-rimmed glasses. “It’s not that simple, Vinny. You see this is your primary residence now, not Causeway Avenue, so that creates a bit of a problem.

“Look, I’ll cut to the chase. You have to pay tax on income from property. You made €12,000 in rent last year so you owe – at the top rate of 41 per cent – a little under five grand, not including, er, the matter of my fee.

“Judging from your most recent on-line bank account, you seem a little shy, with most of your money going on hospital bills, I see. Have you anything put by for a rainy day? Or perhaps Angie could help out?

“Failing that, I have a friend who can arrange a loan at 15 per cent interest, high, I know, but better than nothing. What do you say?”

Vinny had sat quite still, stirring sugar into his tea for an age. Five grand. Jeepers, where was he going to find that sort of dough?

“What’s the alternative, Nibbler?” he croaked. His friend pushed back his chair, tapped his spindly fingers together and said: “Not good. If you don’t settle, Revenue will come down on you like a ton of bricks. They are desperate for cash and everyone is being crucified. Any one who defaults will be hit with a hefty penalty, or possibly imprisonment.”

Prison! Vinny hadn’t been in trouble since he stole a packet of Quenchers from The Gem on the seafront as an eight-year-old and was given a right caning by his old man, Finbarr.

“This can’t be happening to me,” he thought. There was only one course of action – a bet, and a bloody big one too. He had ushered Nibbler out the door, assuring him he would be in a position to settle by Tuesday, and immediately turned to the Sunday papers to scan the race programmes.

Cheltenham and Punchestown were the chief meetings and Vinny needed a sure-fire winner, maybe two. He made a pot of tea, opened a packet of Jaffas, and got to work.

Quickly, he identified Solwhit, at evens, as the stand-out selection in the 2.15 at Punchestown. Nothing at Cheltenham caught his eye so he switched to the FAI Cup final instead where he felt Sligo, also at evens to win, irrespective of extra-time and penalties, made most sense. With that, he shuffled upstairs, and dug out the old Jacobs biscuit tin he kept behind the TV in the spare bedroom. He counted out his savings– he had €1,261.

He gathered up €1,000, blessed himself and repaired downstairs where he scribbled out three bets: a €250 double on Solwhit and Sligo to win; €500 on Solwhit to win and €500 on Sligo to win. Not wanting to alert Angie, he had placed the wagers at a bookies in town and had said nothing when he joined Macker for a pre-final pint in Slattery’s.

By the time the game kicked off, Vinny knew Solwhit had delivered and the first leg was up. He was covered for the day and there were two bets still running; it all rested on Sligo.

For the next 120 minutes, Vinny had lived for every ball, every tackle, every pass. He’d sworn loudly when Sligo’s Romauld Boco hit the crossbar and blessed himself when Rovers had two late chances to win it.

Through extra-time, he sat with his potato head in his fleshy hands, only glancing up when the Sligo fans around him got excited. When it came to the penalties, he had had enough.

“Macker, I’ve off to the toilet. See you in a bit,” he said. Only he skipped the gents, went down a flight of steps, under the railway tunnel and emerged in a car-park.

As he paced up and down, he spied two lads to one side, both wearing Sligo gear, one of them smoking. One of them looked like the Sligo manager but it couldn’t be him, he thought.

He wondered what they were doing and then thought again of what was unfolding inside. For the first time in a while, he prayed like he meant it. He thought of his old man, his Mam, Angie, and his twin kids. “C’mon on, Sligo. Hold your nerve,” he said.

After several agonising minutes, there was a muffled roar from within, a gate opened and someone shouted over at the two lads, “Sligo have won. Sligo have bloody won.”

The duo hugged and raced back in to the stadium but Vinny couldn’t join them. He felt his legs buckle and he collapsed down on the cold tarmac. Against the odds, he had just made a profit of €1,750.

“And you wouldn’t have put your house on that,” he said with a smile.

Bets of the week

2ptsRepublic of Ireland to draw with Norway (9/4, Paddy Power).

2ptsIreland (+15 pts) to beat New Zealand (10/11, Boylesports).

Vinny's Bismark

1ptLay What A Friend to win Betfair Chase (3/1, general, liability 3pts).