AGAINST THE ODDS:As the first storm of winter gripped Dublin in a wretched embrace, Vinny was remembering the events of the day before on the Clontarf seafront

AS THE white-capped waves battered the low sea wall and plumes of salty spray carried on to Clontarf Road, the irony of Monday’s tempest wasn’t lost on Vinny Fitzpatrick.

From the canteen in the bus garage, where he sipped a mug of sugary hot tea, Vinny witnessed a forbidding scene as the first storm of winter gripped Dublin in a wretched embrace.

“There but for the grace of God,” he thought to himself.

Only the day before, Vinny had been part of a cast of thousands protesting against the decision of Dublin City Council to erect a nine-foot flood plan wall along the Clontarf seafront.

It meant replacing the current scutty-sized wall and removing a sea view of more than two miles, which Clontarf folk had long found uplifting.

He’d mingled with his own people, many of whom he recognised as passengers from the 130 route, and punters from Foley’s.

Vinny was no blow-in to Brian Boru’s backyard; he was born there, reared there, worked there and, if he had a choice, he’d pop his clogs there too. (Only that subject was a bit close to the bone right now as his health, he feared, was failing).

On this golden October Sunday afternoon, Vinny felt enveloped by a glow of comfort. These were his people and he was of them.

As sandwiches, bars of chocolate and flasks of tea were shared at the turn-off for the Bull Road where the small sea wall began its journey towards town, Vinny had a sense of what it must have been like to attend open Mass in times past.

There was order, respect, community pride and a wonderful sense of camaraderie.

There were journalists milling around with notebooks and recorders, radio stations too; he’d even spied a RTÉ camera crew. This was a local event, attracting national coverage.

That Roddy Doyle, as close to royalty in these parts as you’d get, was lending his support to the cause, gave the gathering an air of credibility.

Vinny was just building himself up to ask Roddy whatever happened to George ‘Bleedin’ Burgess from The Snapper when he felt a tug on his arm.

It was Fran, his oldest friend, and fellow Clontarf lifer. “Vinny, I think you may be up next.”

Vinny did a double-take. He wasn’t known for oratory and was completely unprepared to say a cúpla focail when he heard Bridie Boylan, one of the organisers and stalwart of the Clontarf Choristers, calling out his name via megaphone

“Let’s hear it for the man who should have been elected to serve Clontarf in Dáil Éireann in the last general election, if only he’d been given the chance. It’s our good deeds bus driver, Vinny Fitzpatrick.”

There was a ripple of applause as Vinny gingerly mounted the makeshift rostrum. He was facing the slanting sun which was just as well as it meant he couldn’t see the sea of expectant faces looking at him. Otherwise, he’d have bricked himself.

“Howya,” he said nervously. “Jaypurs, I wasn’t expecting this, you caught me on the hop.”

Public speaking wasn’t Vinny’s thing; it had terrified him on the hustings but he knew he couldn’t show weakness, not if he was ever to dare run again for any form of office.

“More than 30 years ago an English football club, West Brom, went on a ground-breaking tour to China,” he said.

“They were taken to the Great Wall where a player called John Trewick, was asked by a reporter what he thought about one of the greatest wonders of the modern world.

“He just shrugged and said ‘when you’ve seen one wall, you’ve seen them all’.

“I think it’s safe to say there are no John Trewicks amongst us today.”

The applause was generous; it was followed by a few ‘hear hear’s and one “fair play to ye Vinny”.

“This wall here,” he said pointing to the stubby grey partition separating Dublin Bay from the Clontarf Road “is one wall that we always want to see, today, tomorrow, every day.

“It’s not just about protecting a view which our forefathers fought the Vikings tooth and nail for; it’s about saving our umbilical cord with the city.

“This is Clontarf and we will not be moved, nor will our wall,” he thundered.

As the crowd rose to the burly driver with the potato-shaped head, Vinny, by now carried away on a wave of emotion, let rip with a big finish.

“Remember Jim Larkin, who has a road named after him just behind us?

“Big Jim said: ‘We make mistakes, we have our faults, and God knows some of us have more than our share, but when danger threatens and duty calls, we go smiling to our own funeral’.

“Let any spalpeen from the Corpo dare lift a single brick from our wall and Clontarf will rise again, just as we did under Brian Boru a thousand years ago. To the ‘Tarf’ he thundered, pointing a meaty fist high skywards.

“To the Tarf,” echoed 5,000 pikemen, women and children of the parish.

It was stirring stuff and Vinny and Fran had supped splendidly in Foley’s afterwards – it made up for missing Bohs in the FAI Cup, although his favourite team had lost.

Vinny had even been interviewed by a spotty youth from the Clontarf Gazetteer – a weekly freesheet – who promised him a front page splash but knew deep down, that his fiery rhetoric was no more than hot air.

If the JCBs rolled in under Fairview Bridge in the morning, people power wouldn’t save the little old wall from a grave of rubble.

Not that there was any chance of the Corpo doing diddly squat on this day, thought Vinny as the rain sluiced down and the stormy winds shook the city to the core.

Vinny could just about see Sunday’s meeting point by the Bull Road from his perch; it was empty, save for the pool of sea water gathering in its green bosom.

At several points opposite the bus garage, the low-lying sea wall, small and imperfectly formed, was being breached. The battle wasn’t over but Vinny knew already the war was ebbing away.

On a day like this, even Canute would have stayed indoors.

Finishing his tea, Vinny went downstairs and emerged on the forecourt wearing nothing more than his Dublin Bus driver’s uniform.

As he crossed the main road, he noted the flooding that had already reduced traffic to one lane.

At the turn off for the Bull Island, where the huge throng had assembled 24 hours before, he clambered precariously on to the low wall just where it began its two-mile journey into Fairview.

The wind buffeted him hard, the spray stung his eyes and he was already soaking wet. Lifting his large head to the slate-grey skies, he roared “To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield. Never, never, never.’

No one, not even the gulls, heard him fall.

Vinny's Bismarck

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