return of a man called horse i mean heelers

The phone call came at midday.
It was my brother Doctor Barn.
The man known in gambling circles as The Lock.
Because he's never wrong.
"Can you get money?" he demanded.
"I could borrow some," I replied.
"Get everything you can get your hands on and put it on Wales to beat the Irish tomorrow in the rugby international," he advised dramatically.
I spent the afternoon fighting my gambling urges.
Not since I bet two thousand quid more than a year ago on John McCain to beat Barack Obama for the American Presidency have I ventured to gamble.
I thought McCain had cured me for life.
Now all bets are off.
Or on, as the case may be.
As the day warmed up, I drove to Naas.
Tea at Alice's Restaurant.
Alice's Restaurant is rather hilariously owned by someone called Eileen.
It's one of the few places in County Kildare where you can hear the ancient Irish language spoken.
I sat amid the cultural burble arguing with myself.
Thoughts like these...
I've spent the last twelve months paying off debts and reestablishing myself.
It makes no sense to risk it all.
There are no happy endings in gambling stories.
Cad a dheanfaimid feasta gan money, ta deireadh na Heelers ar lear?
Even if I won, I'd just go and risk the lot on something else.
I'd be caving in to an addiction.
It would be just like clapping chains of slavery on my ankles and on my wrists and on my wallet.
...Presently I realised that there was no way I could stop myself gambling using my rational mind.
As near as I can make out, my rational mind is already genuinely convinced I shouldn't gamble.
But some other part of me makes the decision.
Gotta fight this battle in the soul.
I phoned Rowena Baines on the mobile.
She's the Newbridge woman who some half lahs believe receives messages from the Almighty.
"Rowena," I said. "I'm thinking of having a bet on Wales tomorrow against Ireland. Any chance you'd ask the Blessed Mother whether it's a good idea."
"No," said Rowena.
"I'm trying to give up gambling but I figure I owe myself one last throw of the dice," I wheedled.
"James," said she. "It's a false god."
I wandered from Alice's Eileen's Restaurant up the main street.
And lo!
Caitriona Byrne, an old friend from childhood, approached.
"Are you coming for coffee?" I suggested.
"I'm going for a hair do," quoth she.
She really did.
"I'm wrestling with my conscience about a big gamble," I told her small talkily.
"I thought you gave up gambling," quoth she.
"Up until a few hours ago, so did I," said me.
"Who are you betting on?" wondered she.
"I'm thinking of backing the Welsh in the rugby," said I.
"Traitor," quoth she.
"My financial adviser thinks it's a good bet," I explained.
"Hmmm," said Caitriona, "Maybe you could back Wales but still root for Ireland. You know, it's only money."
"Heresy!" I cried hurrying away.
I really did.
Wandered into the Costa Cafe above Barkers Bookshop.
Quaffed a hot chocolate and consumed a hang sangidge.
Wandered up to Allied Irish Banks.
Considered withdrawing a thousand quid on the credit card.
Stood in the queue before the cash machine.
Mind cleared.
Walked away.
Wheeeew.
The sense of liberation was exhilerating.
Back to Kilcullen for family dinner in Fallons restaurant.
Doctor Barn is present.
He tells me Snells Bookmakers wouldn't take his bet on Wales.
Thank heavens.
Snells is next door to Fallons restaurant.
If they're refusing bets on Wales, then I needn't worry about my own lack of will power.
The Doc then tells me that Ladbrokes Bookmakers just up the road will take any amount of money I care to lay down.
I care to lay down a thousand.
While the nearest and dearest are eating hakes and steaks, I slip outside and strike the bet.
Five hundred quid on Wales at three to one.
Plus another five hundred quid on Wales at even money with a nine point starting advantage.
"You're mad," says the bloke behind the counter in Ladbrokes.
"Just have my three thousand pounds ready by five o'clock tomorrow," I tell him.
Bet struck, I phone text Doctor Barn.
My message reads: "In the best sense of an old fashioned phrase, Mission Garutska is go."
This is a reference to a practice I had in earlier years of giving my massive gambling operations senselessly exotic code names.
In the street outside the bookie office, I run into Vivian Clarke.
Mr Clarke is Director of the Easter pageant in Kilcullen.
The one where I'm playing Saint Peter.
Wait till you see the anguish of Saint Peter after the crucifixion.
I reckon by Easter Sunday, I'll be able to play anguish like Laurence Olivier, William Shatner, and Johnny Gielgud rolled into one.
Particularly if my bet has gone down.
"Are you coming for a pint?" says Vivian.
We repair to a pub called O'Connells which is owned by a man called Charlie Dowling.
Truly my country is a surrealistic place.
No one names their businesses after themselves.
In Charlie Dowling's O'Connell's Pup, I confess to El Director that I've put a wodge of cash on the Welsh in Saturday's rugby international.
Vivian looks a tad appalled.
"Don't worry Clarke," sez me. "If this bet comes up I'll be in to you on Monday to buy ten jumpers."
Mr Clarke, as well as directing Easter pageants, is co-proprietor with his brother Brian of a business called Clarkes Menswear Newbridge.
The Clarke brothers, rather unusually for this neck of the woods, have actually named their business after themselves.
"Ten jumpers," said Mein Director. "Heelers I'll hold you to that."
Outside the night sky had filled up with stars.
As I strolled home alone, the ghost of Frankie Stallone appeared beside me.
Frankie Stallone was singing thusly with strange high enthusiasm:

"We're back in the race.
They beat you up but that don't mean it's over.
Thrill of the chase.
I know I'm down but I am far from over.
I'm far from over.
Hoo yeah."

I've no idea what he was talking about.