Don't get too happy

The night before in Belfast, he’d won £600 on a nag called War of The Jonnys in the 6.55 at Clonmel. Having missed the race talking to a man in the back bar at Lavery’s, he excused himself to go inside to the nook by the telly, where he asked the small crowd there who’d won the last race.

‘War a da something,’ a woman said.

‘War a da Jonnys, it was,’ a man said.

Jonny couldn’t keep his pleasure at bay and vomited the joys of randomly subjective thought at the mystified lot.

They laughed, and then the woman said, ‘Don’t get too happy. Some people might not like it,’ so he bid them farewell and walked out to the bookies next door, where he grabbed at his winnings. On an indestructible high, he couldn’t help placing a few more bets, one on a virtual horse called Tara (because a friend had told him about the hill) and a real one called There For The Craic in the 7.10 at Kempton.

As he watched Tara cruise home, the woman from Lavery’s came in and asked if he minded her telling his story to a stocky man with a red face. She didn’t wait for an answer.

‘He only put it on because he’s called Jonny and he’s at war with himself!’

The stocky chap peered over at Jonny without expression and Jonny caught his eye against his will, just as There For The Craic romped past the winning post at 18/1.

Unable to reveal his pleasure, he walked out feigning disconsolate loss and took a hearty meal at Holohan’s Pantry before going back to his cruddy guesthouse.

The next morning, he grabbed his winnings at the Europa branch and caught the train to Dublin, wiling away time with haughty ideas of extracting yet more wealth from their betting establishments.

He wasted no time, stepping straight into a Ladbrokes next to a Madigan’s, where he’d find intermittent relief between races. The first race he lost, and the second, but the third came in third on an each way, cancelling the loss. The fourth bet was a 20 euro accumulator on two dogs, a horse, a virtual horse and a virtual dog.

The Irish lad behind the counter had taken a strong disliking to Jonny, who would flit back and forth with his weighty, whimsical bets without so much as a thank you for his trouble. Looking at his slip before putting it through for processing, he noticed how similar Jonny’s writing was to his own. The way he scribbled ‘Acca’ and underlined the word was identical to that of his own Saturday bets, paltry 2 euro things that always went in the bin. As angry resentment grew for the Englishman, an idea came upon him.

Seven hasty bets later (two accumulators and five straights), Jonny had lost all but 200 euro. The Irish lad chuckled to himself as he watched Jonny fingering the notes in his wallet with a downcast expression.

He had to keep a hundred for his lodgings and fifty for a skinful so he placed a 50 euro straight bet on five horses running throughout the day. Folding up his slip and placing it carefully in his wallet, he bid the lad farewell and walked out to find himself a pub in nearby Temple Bar.

Many a tasty Guinness was had and then hunger came so he went in search of food, deciding on a falafel takeaway to save money for more pints should he be a complete loser.

By the time he got back to the bookies to see how he’d done, Dublin’s main manager had been waiting two hours. A freelance photographer was there, too, as was the Irish lad, who wore a face full of death.

‘That’s him,’ he said resignedly to his boss as Jonny waltzed in.

The manager clicked his fingers at the photographer and strode up to Jonny, holding out his hand to greet him.

‘So you’re the man, are ya?’ he said accusingly.

‘What man’s that?’ asked Jonny.

‘Come now, it’s not every day you win a quarter of a million euro!’ said the manager, handing him the fat cheque with the photographer clicking away. Only then did he realise that Jonny had no clue of his miraculous windfall. Having just given him the cheque, his masterful slyness couldn’t bear the thought that he'd missed an opportunity not to pay him out as he feigned happiness for the drunken Englishman.

Jonny picked out the slip from his wallet and saw the magic word, ‘Acca’ underlined at the top right corner of the slip.

Looking up and across to the lad behind the counter, who couldn’t avert his gaze for love nor money, Jonny twitched a wee wink and it was then that he knew he had the luck of the Irish.