AGAINST THE ODDS:As Dublin Bus was grinding to a halt due to the bad weather Vinny decides to act on the company's slogan and serve the community

IN MORE than 30 years’ service at Clontarf depot, Vinny Fitzpatrick had never seen so many buses lying idle in the forecourt. With their engines running, he likened them to a string of tethered racehorses, breathing hard, impatient to get going.

The numbers and destinations were all too familiar; the 42 to Malahide, 27 to Clare Hall, 31 to Howth and, his old partner, the 130 to Castle Avenue. By now, they should be out on the gallops, not stuck in the stables.

“I knew it was going to be hard for lads to get in to work but I didn’t think it would be like this, Shanghai,” observed Vinny.

Due to the arctic conditions, the two friends had bunked down the night before in Vinny’s old family home on Causeway Avenue.

They felt it made sense to be within 50 yards of their workplace – never mind the 200 yards from Foley’s where a few quiet tipples had been lowered.

As they scrunched across the forecourt for a Friday slog on the computer, fine-tuning the new real-time timetables, they spied a clearly exasperated controller, Socket Twomey.

“We are having a ’mare this morning. We’ve only got a quarter of the fleet operating and head office is on my case,” he moaned.

As Socket headed back towards his office, Vinny suddenly experienced a tingle surge through his fingers and toes, like the feeling he had when placing a bet.

He stopped and looked at Shanghai with a Lee Van Cleef-like glint in his eye. “You with me, ol’ mucker?” By the time the penny dropped with Shanghai, Vinny was already striding towards a 130. “Vinny. Are you mad? You’re off the road. Socket will go through you for a short-cut,” cried Shanghai.

Vinny half-turned. “I’ll take my chances, Shanghai. Anyway, what’s more important, a bloody computer programme or getting passengers in and out of town? You take that 29A and shift gear. See you later.”

As he hauled himself to the cabin and got behind the wheel for the first time in nine months, Vinny felt adrenalin course through his hardening arteries. He didn’t notice the lack of power in his right arm – a legacy of the stroke which nearly killed him in March – he just pressed the starter button, flicked on the heater and nosed the bus out on the Clontarf Road ice rink.

He saw a bus pull out behind him and knew Shanghai was up for the gig. He thought he saw Socket Twomey emerge from the office, arms waving, but there was no going back: the die was cast.

Back behind the wheel, Vinny’s euphoria was brief as he felt the bus slither underneath him. He duly approached the first stop, opposite the sailing club, at a steady, sensible, canter. As the passengers piled on, Vinny offered a ready smile and an apology for the delay.

He recognised Myles Dorgan, known as The Commodore as he always wore a navy uniform, complete with peak cap, whatever the weather. “Morning, Commodore,” said Vinny brightly. The Commodore twirled his handlebar moustache. “Ah, ensign Fitzpatrick. Not seen you at the helm for a bit. Keeping well, I trust,” he said.

At the Foley’s stop, a huge crowd huddled under the shelter. As they got on, Vinny knew lots of names, even more faces; these were his people. One of them, Gertie Gorman, an old crone with the voice of angel, poked him on the shoulder. “Where have you been hiding Vinny?” she hissed. Vinny nodded his appreciation. “What’s the story, Gertie? Not like you to be heading into town in this weather.” Gertie gave a near-toothless smile. “Has to be done, Vinny. It’s our annual fund-raiser for the Simon Community. We’ve a slot on O’Connell Bridge for carols and you can’t let the team down.”

The team were the Clontarf Crooners, a local choir with an average age of around 70.

At The Yacht stop, where The Crooners met on Sundays for sherries and whiskies, a gaggle climbed aboard, all wrapped up to the gills. Soon Vinny could hear the comforting strains of Silent Nightfrom the rear as throats were cleared.

By 10.30 Vinny had deposited his party safely in Abbey Street and watched, paternal-like, as the cluster of aged warblers crossed the LUAS line and made for the wintry outpost of O’Connell Bridge. Tom Crean would have been proud of them.

“We’re in Wynne’s for lunch. Will the buses still be running at four?” Gertie, the last to get off, had asked him. Vinny nodded. “Don’t worry, Gertie, I’ll be waiting for you.”

For the next five hours, without a break, he ferried passengers to and from Clontarf, as quick as was safe. In doing so, he defied Dublin Bus regulations and the orders of Socket who demanded his return to the garage. Vinny even switched off the intercom in his cabin so he couldn’t hear his boss – another mortal sin.

At one point, Socket appeared at a stop on the Clontarf Road. When the doors opened, he pressed his flushed face against the glass of the cabin. “See me at the garage when you’re finished, Fitzpatrick,” he rasped.

Vinny nodded and then asked Socket politely to make way as he was blocking people getting on the bus.

Vinny knew he was done for but he had no regrets, not after being so long off the road. It was better to live one hour like a lion than the rest of his working life as a lamb. Serving the community was the Dublin Bus slogan and Vinny felt on days like this it applied more than ever. If buses were grounded and folk were freezing, what service was that? It was 3.50pm when Vinny pulled in at the 130 terminus, opposite the Peacock Theatre. In his wing mirror he could see the front door of Wynne’s Hotel. Soon, a body emerged, complete with peak cap. It was The Commodore.

“Fitzpatrick, the crew are just finishing their rations. I’ll have them piped on board in five minutes.” Vinny waited patiently, requesting his other passengers to leave some seats free on the back of the bus, if possible, for the singing troupe. As The Crooners got on, some giddier than others for the sherry had flowed freely, Vinny waved them on when they tried to pay him. By rights their free travel passes were not to be used after four o’clock, but playing Scrooge wasn’t Vinny’s way. Last one on was Gertie, who shoved a brown wrapper towards Vinny. “Made you up a turkey and ham sandwich, love. Hope you like cranberry sauce,” she cackled.

As the 130 rolled northwards, The Commodore, a fine baritone, got the hairs standing on the back of Vinny's neck with a moving rendition of Oh Come all Ye Faithful.

Blue-haired Vera from Vernon Avenue then lightened the mood with a cheery blast of Ding Dong Merrily On High– and high she certainly was.

Approaching Foley's, Gertie took centre stage with her party piece, Oh Holy Nightwhich brought tears of joy to Vinny's eyes

Minutes later, as he nudged the bus into the depot where Socket Twomey was waiting, arms akimbo, an unpleasant thought crossed Vinny’s mind, one that rhymed with Oh Holy Night.

Bets of the Week

1pt each-way Pigeon Island in December Gold Cup (40/1, Stan James)

1pt each-way Michael Hoey in Alfred Dunhill Championship (100/1, Boylesports)

Vinny's Bismarck

1pt Lay Australia to win The Ashes (6/1, general, liability 6pts)