AGAINST THE ODDS:Just as the election campaign hits the finishing straight, Vinny gets an ominous call from the local Garda sergeant
EVERY POLITICAL machine has a kitchen cabinet, a cluster of egg-heads who get to the nub of issues over pots of tea and packets of ginger nut biscuits. These guys keep a profile lower than a Samba dancer but are waffle-free and call things straight up; they are usually on the money too.
In Vinny Fitzpatrick’s case, the cabinet was meeting in the furthest recesses of Foley’s lounge in Clontarf, where their pleasure was Uncle Arthur’s finest and a surfeit of King crisps. On Monday night, Foley’s was as still as a church as Vinny’s election campaign crew took a breather, which was as enjoyable as it was unexpected.
To the few other pub regulars, the occasion of the gathering seemed strange. As an independent candidate in Dublin North Central, Vinny should have been out on the stump, pressing flesh and looking the electorate in the eye. Local polls showed the 53-year-old bus driver was the second most popular candidate in the Clontarf area and had an outside chance of claiming the third seat. As punters swung towards unfettered candidates in protest at the way the country had gone to the dogs, this was a time for a big heave, a final thrust for the tape.
But the only thrust in Vinny’s mind was the one involving his meaty right-hand as it wrapped itself around a perfectly formed pint.
His campaign race was, to all and intents and purposes, run, or rather walked.
Not that he was conceding the fight, far from it, but rather his ability to canvass support, to get his message across to the electorate in the flesh had been compromised by an old foe – ill-health.
That afternoon, in Donnycarney North, where he had been warmly received as the only candidate to knock on doors and actually ask for a vote, Vinny’s walkabout had ground to a painful halt. The discomfort in his shins had been building up and it finally came to a head outside The Ramble Inn pub.
As Vinny tried to put one chubby trotter in front of another, he cried out in agony to Macker and Fran, who were with him. “Lads, I can’t go on. I’m banjaxed.” Despite a quick reviver inside the pub, Vinny was withdrawn from the canvass, under orders from his doctor, Bones Brogan, to put his feet up. “You’ve shin splints, old friend, and you’re walking nowhere for the rest of the week.”
It was an untimely setback in the final countdown to polling day as Vinny had been making the most of the clear run on the streets while his political adversaries stayed indoors, wary of courting public disaffection.
“It was like driving a bus on Sunday mornings, not a soul in sight. We have to get back out there, lads. We have momentum.
“If our hurlers can beat Tipp, if Everton can beat Chelsea at Stamford Bridge anything is possible. This cause is not lost, not by a long chalk,” he said, reaching for a fresh creamy.
The lads nodded in agreement; Vinny’s lameness was a setback, nothing more.
Macker had lined up an old London taxi cab for the following morning and Brennie had commandeered his old man’s wheelchair to push Vinny around the streets. “He won’t mind; he’s brown bread,” he joked.
The mood was upbeat even if the odds against Vinny’s election were high.
“Sure Nelson won Trafalgar with a hole in his back; Brian Boru lost his head but won the Battle of Clontarf. A hobble won’t put us off our stride now. Here’s to our peg leg politician,” said Shanghai Jimmy, raising a glass. Fran got in on the act too.
“Just wait till ol’ Ironside here rolls into Edenmore tomorrow. The aul wans will be all over you like a rash. You’ll have the sympathy vote in the bag. No one can say for sure how this vote will turn out, Vinny. Remember, the only man who knows what’s in front of him is the man pushing a wheelbarrow.”
Vinny smiled. He had good men with him; a good team. Deep down, he’d probably have agreed to raise a white flag had the lads indicated the canvass was no longer worth fighting for but they remained supportive, just as they had been over the past three weeks.
All had given up their free time, in some cases annual leave, to put in the hours on the hustings for their friend of long standing.
As pints were sculled and the slagging increased, Vinny had a sense of what Scott and Shackleton must have felt a century ago when polar exploration was at its height and the value of camaraderie was profound.
Neither explorer got what they coveted most, to be the first to the South Pole, but the men who served with them were unswervingly loyal, even in the most extreme circumstances.
“If I ever win the Lotto, I’m bringing the lads to Vegas,” he thought to himself. “We might not all come back, but we’d all go over.”
After a hectic canvass, the blow-out was needed as it made a welcome change from analysing the likely voting patterns in the constituency, from estimating the breakdown of transfers from runaway poll-topper Richard Bruton, who would be first past the post.
By now, the hard yards had been grafted, doorbells pinged, hands shaken. All was in place, including Vinny’s €100 bet with Sportspread that Fianna Fáil would win less than 26 seats on Friday.
Polling day was approaching like a tsunami and Vinny had done his bit. He’d gimp around for another day or two but by now Joe and Josie Public had made up their minds.
A bit like the stricken Scott in his snowbound tented tomb on the Ross Ice Shelf glacier 100 years ago, Vinny did not think he could do “any more”. At that, his mobile rang.
“Is that Vinny Fitzpatrick?” said a firm voice with provincial undertones. “Yes, who is this?” said Vinny cheerily, thinking it may have been NEAR FM or the local newspaper seeking an interview.
“It’s Sgt Duggan here from Clontarf Garda Station. Sorry to trouble you at this time of night, Mr Fitzpatrick, but am I right in saying you are the owner of 3, Causeway Terrace?”
Vinny felt a chill course through his veins.
“Yes, I am. I have it rented it out. Is everything alright? There’s hasn’t been a fire, has there?” “No, there hasn’t but there is a problem which you, as owner, must be made aware of. Can you come down to the station so we can explain things to you?
“Oh, and another thing, Mr Fitzpatrick. We have arrested a man called Spud Murphy, whom we believe is the tenant in your house. He says you are his friend and will post bail for him. Does that sense?” As Vinny disconnected, his little grey cells flickered into life. It was all beginning to make sense, alright.
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