AGAINST THE ODDS:Saturday night with Serbia on the telly is rescued from utter disaster only by late intervention.

FOLEY'S OFF licence was doing a brisk trade on Saturday afternoon when Vinny Fitzpatrick, not an unfamiliar visitor over the years, popped in following a shift on the 42B. "Six cans of stout, one of those multi-packs of crisps and a bottle of chardonnay, please," was his cheery order.

Vinny was in fine fettle and with fair reason. Only two days earlier, while nursing a jumbo hangover in the wake of Manchester United's epic Champions' League win, he'd plucked up the courage to ring Angie with a view to a date.

It was a call that brought glad tidings to his lonely heart; Angie joked about how she had been about to ring and invite him over for supper and drinks on Saturday evening. "You know what's on the telly and I thought we'd watch it together. See you at a quarter to eight," she'd said.

The thought of snuggling up to Angie while Ireland and Serbia went head to head at Croker had filled Vinny with joy. "If this is nirvana, mine's a double," he said happily to himself.

As a still-smiling Vinny paid for his purchases in the off-licence, he glanced at his watch. It was almost 10 to five, which presented a dilemma. Should he pop in next door for a couple of "swifties" and watch the Heineken Cup final? Or should he go home, follow the action on the box and get himself ready for an evening of soccer, supper and smooching at Angie's?

He decided to mull over things the only way he knew - with a pint in his meaty paw. "I'll compromise. Two pints and home at half-time," he said to himself.

Some three hours later, Vinny presented himself, showered and shaved, at Angie's des res on Mount Prospect Avenue. He'd dug out a faded Ireland jersey from Italia '90, which he thought was appropriate to the occasion, and trusted he hadn't splashed too much Old Spice.

Noting, with mild disquiet, an extra couple of cars in Angie's spacious drive, he pressed the doorbell. Inside, he could hear laughter, which added to his trepidation. Had Angie invited half of Clontarf over for the match?

The door was opened by Emma, Angie's teenage daughter, who was going through her Goth phase. "Hi," she said. "Come in. They're all in the front room."

Vinny's antennae were on full alert. Gingerly, he went inside. He was aghast. There were about a dozen people there, none of whom he knew and none wearing replica jerseys. He was standing in the doorway blinking when Angie appeared from the throng.

"Vinny. Come in, come in," she said, planting a kiss on his ruddy cheek and taking him by the arm. "Let me introduce you to everyone."

A few minutes later, Vinny had met, and forgotten the names of, two Amandas, Sandra, Rachel, Mary B and Mary C, Conor, Seán, Ken, and Fintan - the girls were a motley crew of old school friends of Angie from Santa Sabina in Sutton and they'd brought along a variety of partners including, as far as Vinny could judge, a toy boy or two.

Soon, Vinny was sitting on a sofa with a glass of wine in his hand. He was watching Serbia on the TV alright only it wasn't Serbia in Croke Park.

"You can't beat Eurovision party nights," gushed Angie as she nuzzled up beside him.

"Yeah, Angie, you're not wrong there," he replied sardonically.

This wasn't what Vinny had been expecting. Instead of Trapattoni's turkeys at Croker, he was listening to turkeys from all over Europe, excluding the Irish one who hadn't made it to the finals. What followed was over two hours of absolute terror.

Now, Vinny had feelings for the Eurovision Song Contest. It wasn't widely known he could, when pressed, recite Ceol An Ghráor All Kinds Of Everything, having as a kid sat through umpteen Eurovisions in the company of his parents and sisters at home in the late 1960s and 1970s. But Vinny felt the contest had lost its soul and he no longer tuned in even to catch the voting, which he knew was biased anyway as the former Soviet states, the Balkans and the Baltics all voted for each other.

But it wasn't the dodgy ballot that appalled Vinny most. What made it unbearable were the acts, which had become increasingly tacky and weird. He'd stumbled on the Eurovision a couple of years ago in Foley's and was appalled to see a Klingon-like crew strutting about the stage. Apparently, they'd actually won. It wasn't about the song any more, he thought. It was about being outrageous and obscene.

For him, the backside had been torn out of what was once a fine night's entertainment. Bring back Cliff Richard, Lulu and Abba, he thought. Now, they were worth staying in for of a Saturday night in May.

Before the voting, Angie called everyone into the dining-room for supper. There was a huge, fresh salmon on the table, surrounded by various salads, breads and dips.

Vinny excused himself and moseyed into the kitchen, where he wolfed down two packs of crisps and poured himself a can of stout.

"This isn't what I had in mind for tonight," he muttered grimly.

His mind drifted to the soccer at Croke Park and he wondered how it had gone - he had put a nifty on Serbia at 2 to 1 and was sure he'd collect.

As he looked out at the large back garden, thinking to himself it would make a decent wicket for a Taverners cricket match, Vinny felt an arm slide around his stomach, well not quite all the way around. It was Angie.

"You okay, Vinny? Listen, thanks for coming around and sorry for springing the Eurovision party on you like that. The girls have been at me for ages about being on my own and I told them to expect a surprise tonight - I think they got one," she giggled.

"I know this isn't your scene so why don't you pop up to Emma's study. There's a TV in there and I noticed earlier the highlights of the match are on RTÉ around now. Leave the excuses to me and I'll see you for a nightcap later."

With that, Angie gave Vinny a squeeze and a peck on the cheek and returned to attend her guests, leaving behind her familiar bouquet of perfume and a somewhat startled Vinny.

Before you could say "douze points" Vinny had gathered some bags of crisps, a couple of cans and a glass. As he headed upstairs, he found himself whistling the air of It's Nice to Be in Loveagain.

He stopped for a moment and creased his brow.

"The Swarbriggs, 1977. Fitzpatrick, you never lost it," he grinned.

Vinny's Bismarck

2pts Novak Djokovic to win French Open (7/1, Betfair)

1pt e.w. Colin Montgomerie in Wales Open (100/1, Totesport)

Vinny's Bismarck

2pts Lay Colombia to beat Ireland (2/1, Liability 4pts, Boylesports)