AGAINST THE ODDS:AS COMMUNICATIONS Minister Eamon Ryan wrestled with his controversial free-to-air proposals for Irish rugby, Vinny Fitzpatrick knew what event he'd pickle and preserve for eternity: the Sunday Bank Holiday session, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE

Slurping on the Sabbath had long been a favourite for Vinny. It was a chance to wind down, to chew the fat with the lads over matters of national importance, chiefly sport, the greatest of all distractions.

That these high-brow matters of debate should take place in the dark welcoming chambers of Foley’s public house in Clontarf, accompanied by exceptional pints of stout, made Sunday evenings all the more companionable.

But the best bit was the Bank Holiday opening hours which allowed an extra 90 minutes of drinking, an opportunity simply too good to pass up. In that time, six middle-aged men from north Dublin with capacious gullets could comfortably polish off half a gallon of the finest dark stuff.

On cue, the seasoned friends gathered in Foley’s on Sunday last for an old-fashioned knees-up. Because of Vinny’s major health scare, this was the first time the lads had gargled together in over three months but they slipped into conversation, and a steady drinking pace, as if they’d never been parted.

There was much to discuss, not least the fact that Brennie, the youngest and most impulsive member, had been given four €20 vouchers from Boru Betting on the World Cup.

It led to a fiery debate as to who the lads should be on in South Africa.

Macker was insistent Argentina were a certainty at 7 to 1 but Brennie countered that Maradona was a liability and said he wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole, even an Argy-Bargy barge-pole. Fran felt England were terrific value, especially as the draw gave them a clear run to the semi-finals. “They’ll probably play Brazil but won’t 8 to 1 look good about them then?”

Shanghai Jimmy, his gnarled hands shaking almost non-stop, made a case for Holland at 12 to 1, on the basis there hadn’t been a row in the camp yet. “Van Persie’s flying and if Robben is fit, they’ll score more goals than anyone.” Kojak, as crabby as ever, thumped his pint down on the table and declared; “Get a grip, lads. Either Brazil or Spain will win so that’s two of the four selections. Yez can toss for the other two while I’m getting the pints in.”

Sitting in his customary high chair, just by the telly, but not so close that he couldn’t keep an eye on the golf from America where he noted Ricky Fowler was dressed in hideous orange garb, Vinny observed in silence.

It was nights like these, he felt, that made life so worthwhile. Being married and being a Dad was hugely fulfilling; being a Dublin Bus driver offered professional satisfaction, even if his days behind the wheel were over.

But knocking back the pints with the lads in Foley’s had an enduring appeal that was hard to define.

Recalling the dark days of his illness, it was the thought of seeing his friends again that had helped Vinny through, almost as much as the smiles in the eyes of his infant twins, who had brought him such joy on the back nine of life. After seeing Fowler dump his ball in the water on a par three on the back nine at Muirfield Village and dismissing him as a potential winner, Vinny felt it was time to dip his oar into the World Cup debate.

“Lads, remember these bets aren’t costing us a penny,” he said. “It’s not like we stand to lose, so go easy on the fire and brimstone. Why don’t we all write down our four preferences and whichever countries get the most votes, we put the money on them.”

Macker supported the idea and went off to the bar to get some paper and a pen but, as he did, Vinny noticed a short, grey-haired man come through the lounge doors, carrying what appeared to be music speakers under each oxter.

Behind him was a blonde, lugging a keyboard. What was going on? He saw them stop briefly at the bar, where Dial-A-Smile pointed them in the direction of the lads’ pitch near the telly. By now, Vinny’s antennae were on red alert.

He watched in astonishment as the two visitors hooked up their equipment and began a blast of testing, one, two, one, two into a microphone. There was a buzz around the lounge from the Foley’s locals.

The dapper visitor, who looked like Gene Pitney, then cleared his throat. “Welcome everyone to Foley’s Karaoke night. Feel free to let me know your requests. In the meantime, here’s a little easy listening to set the mood.” With that, the Gene Pitney look-a-like began to warble The Summer Wind right under the noses of Vinny and his gobsmacked cohorts.

“Mother of all that’s holy, what do we do?” hissed Brennie.

“If yer man doesn’t stop, I’ll shove that mike where the sun don’t shine,” snorted Kojak.

“It’s the end of civilisation as we know it,” wailed Shanghai.

Vinny was aghast. Unsticking himself from his stool – for it was a warm evening – he waddled over to the bar where Dial-A-Smile was wearing a sneaky grin.

“What’s the story?” he asked, as politely as he could.

Dial-A-Smile leaned across and said. “Sorry, can’t hear you Vinny, it’s the music. You’ll have to speak up a bit?”

It was the cue for Vinny’s blood to simmer. “I’ll speak up alright, on behalf of the regulars. Whose dumb-ass idea was this? You’ve got 10 minutes to tell Barry Manilow here to catch the next cab to Copacabana, or we’re out of here. And it won’t be the six of us either. There’ll be a mass walk-out too, straight to the Dollymount Inn. Get it sorted.”

The smirk vanished from Dial-A-Smile’s face. “Look, it’s only a bit of fun, to liven up Sunday nights by trying something different, you know,” he said defensively.

Vinny leaned across the bar, so close to Dial-A-Smile he could see the barman had missed bits while shaving that morning.

“If I want some fun, I’ll watch a DVD of Fawlty Towers, he said coldly.

“Don’t you get it? People don’t come here to be entertained. They come here to drink, either with their friends, or on their own. None of them want Frank Sinatra, Roy Orbison, even Luke Kelly, for a buddy. If you value your job, you’ll do what’s best, right now.”

It was some time later when a round of creamy pints arrived in front of Vinny and the lads, on the house. The lounge was silent, save for the usual Sunday evening hubbub. Justin Rose was about to win the US golf and the four free bets on the World Cup were going on Spain, Brazil, Holland and, against the odds, Italy.

As they sipped quietly, Brennie piped up: “How did we come up with Italy? What about a redraw?” Kojak cut in. “You can’t move the goalposts.” Brennie wouldn’t let up. “Yes we can. It’s our bet. What do you say lads?” From his perch, Vinny smiled. Order in his humdrum life had been restored.

Bets of the week

2pts Robin van Persie to be top scorer at the World Cup (12/1, Boylesports)

1pt each-way Padraig Harrington in St Jude Classic (20/1, Ladbrokes)

Vinny’s Bismarck

2pts Lay Cork to beat Kerry in Munster SFC replay (4/6, Paddy Power, liability 3pts)