SHOULDERS stooped, listing slightly, it was a grimacing Vinny Fitzpatrick who eased his way slowly into Foley's on Monday evening for the customary October Bank Holiday brew with the lads, writes Roddy L'Estrange

This drinking ritual had, like so many others, started by accident, but it gradually evolved whereby to miss it was as an act of grand folly. Men have been black-balled for less.

Where the young bucks of Clontarf raced into the pubs on Friday evenings and were goosed by Monday morning, the old bulls grazed patiently before ambling down to their favourite watering hole to sup at their leisure.

There would be the usual quick banter about life at home, before the serious business of sport and stout took over - after all, nothing made the lads twitchy more than having to talk about the goings-on behind their own front doors.

Fran, for example, was going through a messy and expensive divorce after finding love with a Polish girl half his age, while Macker was scared sick about losing his job at Clontarf Cabs, where drivers had been told to expect redundancies after Christmas.

The other lads had personal demons, too, which they all parked outside.

Vinny shuffled towards the customary perch under the telly in the lounge.

"Not like you to be last in Vinny, considering you live closest. What's up?" asked Macker.

Vinny groaned as he hauled himself up on to his stool, leaning heavily on a wooden ledge for support.

"I feel like I've been run over by a tank," he said, before culling a pint of stout in three pelican-like swallows.

With a replacement pint in one hand, Vinny told his story.

He had woken that morning in good spirits, reflecting on a weekend of work and, for him, some moderately successful gambling.

He'd broken even on Henrythenavigator in the Breeders' Cup, made a few bob on Spurs to beat Bolton - trusting the Harry Redknapp Factor to kick in right away - and had then doubled his winnings by laying Portsmouth to beat Fulham on Betfair.

With so many drivers looking for time off, he'd done a double shift on the 32 on both Friday and Saturday and had worked late on the 27B on Sunday, prompting the controller to thank him for his willingness to go the extra mile. "We could do with more like you Vinny," he'd said.

And then, that morning, as he lay snoozing in the only bed he'd ever known, looking forward hugely to the evening's get-together with the lads, Angie had rung.

"Pack your swimming togs, a cap and towel and get around here in an hour. My sister Debs is bringing her two girls to the Aquatic Centre in Blanch. C'mon, it'll be fun," she'd said.

Some time later, Vinny dipped a hairy toe, complete with hardened, yellow-tinted nail, into the warm waters of the Aquatic Centre.

Slowly, for he was a man who did little at pace except knock back pints, he immersed his considerable bulk into the pool, wondering how much water was being displaced elsewhere by his 16st frame.

Bearing a passing resemblance to a half-submerged hippopotamus - wide head, small ears and snorting noises - he was lolling about contentedly when he heard Angie call out.

"Vinny, Debs and I are going to the Lazy River. Watch the girls for a bit, thanks."

Now Vinny would have much preferred to watch Angie's shapely curves, or Debs' for that matter, but instead, found himself in charge of 12-year-old Kerry and 10-year-old Clare.

"I don't suppose your ol' man's called Derry," he said with a smile, but the girls blanked him.

"We're going on the slides, you coming?" asked Kerry.

Reluctantly, Vinny hauled himself out of the pool and began climbing up innumerable steps before reaching a platform high in the gods.

"C'mon, there's no queue for the Dark Hole," said Clare excitedly.

What followed was sheer torture for Vinny. Uncomfortable both in enclosed spaces and in the dark, he soon found himself hurtling down a pitch-black tunnel of water at a scary speed.

Eyes closed, screaming - although no one could hear - he eventually came to a shuddering, spluttering halt in a chute at the bottom, sending great plumes of water skywards as he bottomed out.

The girls giggled and helped him to his feet. "See, that was easy. Now, it's Master Blaster next."

A groggy Vinny looked around for Angie and Debs but there was no escape. For the next slide, Vinny was given a canary-yellow ring which he studied with suspicion.

"Just sit on it and hold both handles to make sure you don't fall off," explained Kerry.

When it came to Vinny's turn, it took some time before he could lower himself into the ring to the satisfaction of the slide attendant, who eventually gave Vinny a gentle nudge into the roaring abyss.

"This must be how Moriarty met his death in the Reichenbach Falls," thought Vinny as he careered downhill at a sickening pace.

Tossing and twirling, Vinny felt the ring spin around in the tunnel. Suddenly, he was facing the wrong way.

Around the final bend, the ring briefly went airborne before pitching drunkenly into the chute at the bottom.

Vinny hadn't braced himself for the last drop and felt a dagger-like pain sear his upper back as he landed heavily in a heap. Gasping for air, unable to stand, he lay atop the ring like a beached whale, in agony.

He didn't know if his togs had stayed in place, and, while he was a modest man, for once he didn't care.

After a bit, he heard an alarm going off and then strong arms helped him to his feet. Then, he felt different limbs either side of him, less muscular, more malleable. It was Angie and Debs.

"You alright Vinny, love?" said Angie. "C'mon, let's get you out of here."

It had taken nearly an hour to get Vinny dressed and back to Debs' house in Castleknock where, after innumerable hot cups of tea, two toasted ham-and- cheese sandwiches and several pain-killers later, he'd begun to feel normal again.

"You need rest now Vinny," said Angie. "No slipping out with the lads tonight, do you hear me?"

Vinny emptied his glass and smiled as he finished his story.

"Sure, lads what's a cure for, if not to numb the pain? Now, whose round is it?"

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