AGAINST THE ODDS:THE TROUSER belt was the first to go; followed by the insoles, watch, mobile 'phone and, finally, wallet. They were shoved haphazardly into a battered Gola bag, which Vinny Fitzpatrick slung over a rounded shoulder.

To anyone passing the Parochial Hall in Clontarf on Monday lunchtime, the covert actions of the middle-aged man standing in the porch may have seemed bizarre.

They weren’t half as peculiar as the goings-on a little earlier at home in Mount Prospect Avenue where Vinny had requested his wife, Angie, to clip his nails, fingers and toes, and to run the razor over his pink, fairly threadbare, scalp. Not only that, he’d asked her to trim the hairs sprouting from his ears and the tip of his fleshy nose.

Only then, did Vinny feel ready for combat, for that’s what it was, a duel to the end with an unsmiling opponent, the weighing scales.

Vinny had been a reluctant recruit to Weight Watchers but on the insistence of his doctor, Billy “Bones” Brogan and Angie, his better half, he had signed up “for a healthier way to a better you”. He had been fighting a losing battle with his well-being since suffering a stroke in March and was only back on his flat feet when hit by a mid-summer jolt, brought on by his scary Tiger-style kidnapping that led to an unscheduled stay in Beaumont Hospital.

Approaching 53, with high blood pressure, a turbulent medical history and an excess girth, “Bones” had put it to him gently that at 16st and 7lb, or 104.5 kilograms in today’s language, remedial action was required.

“If not, old friend, the next bang you get, might be your last,” he’d warned.

It had led to Vinny’s Weight Watchers debut a week earlier where he had been assigned a leader, Julia, a tall, predictably slender, 40-something who’d clucked at Vinny like a broody hen as he signed on for a 12-week course. “Well, well, what have we got here, a thorn among a bunch of roses, if I’m not mistaken? We want to see a lot less of you in the coming weeks, don’t we?”

Vinny was the only fellah in a class of 20 females of all shapes and sizes. Actually, that wasn’t quite true. They were mostly one shape: large.

Now Vinny had a thing for oversized women, not that he let on to Angie who had an hourglass figure.

At Weight Watchers, the mostly wobbly recruits ignored Vinny as they listened to their slimline leader, Julia, explain why the broad bean was better for you than the baked variety which Vinny loved on two slices of buttery batch toast.

Then, they all queued up for the weigh-in, dutifully recorded by the diligent Julia, who announced the week’s winners and tut-tutted those who “could do better”. For those who lost half a stone, Julia gleefully affixed a “silver star” to their Weight Watchers card. If you shed a stone in weight, you were given a small polished stone, like a shiny pebble, as a badge of honour.

For week one, Vinny had sat at the back of the hall and observed the goings-on with mild discomfort. This wasn’t where he wanted to be on the back nine of life, holed up in a crummy room listening to the benefits of broccoli.

He was permitted 28 Weight Watcher points per week, which was a score he’d take most days in a Foley’s Society outing, certainly in the upcoming Captain’s Prize, and he had to record each day what he ate.

All foods had a point value. Chocolate biscuits, crisps, peanuts and pints, the things he adored, were high but fruit, vegetables, chicken, crisp breads and slim line yoghurts, which he rarely touched, were low.

By Vinny’s reckoning, he’d regularly put away 28 points most Sundays alone on the back of Angie’s roast beef and spuds, smothered in butter and gravy, a gallon of porter and a bag of vinegary chips.

The past seven days had been grim but Angie, riding shotgun, had kept him on a tight rein – orange juice, ryvita and tea for breakfast; tuna salad on crisp bread for lunch; chicken pasta and fruit for dinner. Snacking was verboten.

At Angie’s insistence, Vinny had also been pressed into walking twice a day, for 45 minutes every morning, and evening. “The twins and I want you around this Christmas, and for a few more besides. Now, shake a leg,” cautioned his wife.

The seven days had been made even tougher by losses for Bohemians on Friday night, Everton on Saturday in the Premier League opener, and, jarringly, Pádraig Harrington’s missed cut in the US PGA.

Vinny had wagered a tenner each-way on Harrington at 33 to 1 and when he dozed off late on Friday content, the Dubliner was lying level par for the tournament six holes into his second round.

To wake up and find “Pod” was in dire straits, rather than Whistling Straits had shaken him to such an extent that he had applied a blob of butter on his soft-boiled egg without noticing.

Thankfully, Rory McIlroy’s pursuit of the Wanamaker Trophy had made Sunday night bearable for Vinny, who’d “broken out” and allowed himself a pint glass of lime cordial in iced water and a bag of popcorn lite – both had been vile.

But now, this Monday lunchtime, was the acid test of his week’s labours. He’d showered and shaved; and was dressed in the lightest clothes he possessed as he presented himself for inspection, with his fellow inmates as he called them. Suddenly, he was confronted by Julia, who suggestively tapped a pencil against her shiny teeth as she assessed the bulky, slightly sweating figure, in front of her.

"Well, Vinny, I trust you've been behaving yourself. We don't like naughty boys do we? Naughty boys get spanked," she said in a husky voice which reminded Vinny of Lauren Bacall in To Have And Have Not. Vinny shuffled forward, and placed one sandal on the scales, then the other. He closed his eyes and blew out all the air in his lungs, believing it might somehow reduce his bulk. He had done all he could; now was the moment of truth.

“One hundred and two kilos, not bad, not bad at all,” said Julia, reaching out to pat Vinny gently on his stomach.

As someone raised on stones, pounds and ounces, the information didn’t instantly register with Vinny. “Er, how did I do?” he asked sheepishly. “In your language, you’ve lost five and a half pounds. Congratulations. Keep this up and I’ll be pinning a silver star on that fine chest of yours next week,” said Julia.

Leaning forward, she whispered. “It’s a date I intend to keep. Don’t let me down.”

Vinny blushed red, reached out for a leaflet extolling the virtues of colon cleansing and shuffled off to the back of the hall.

Vinny's Bismarck

1pt Lay Sven Goran Eriksson to be next manager of Aston Villa (7/2, general, liability 3.5pts)

Bets of the week

3pts Cork to be leading at half-time and full-time in All-Ireland SFC semi-final (6/4, Paddy Power)

2pts Edoardo Molinari to get Ryder Cup wild card (5/1, Boylesports)