As he was wheeled in to Foley's on Sunday afternoon, Vinny Fitzpatrick felt a lump rise in his throat. He couldn't miss the large banner draped from the bar, which read 'Vinny, Vidi, Vici – Even A Haymaker Can't Keep A Good Man Down.'

The hostelry was jammers and everyone was on their feet, unlike the burly busman discharged from the Mater the day before with a warning from Nurse Chisholm to "go easy" for a few days. (In Vinny's mind, going easy meant drawing stumps after a gallon of porter and snuggling up in bed with a large fish supper in his belly before Outlook)

As the applause rang out, Vinny raised his mitts. “Would youse ever hould your whisht,” he pleaded before turning to Fran, his pusher. “Fran, hack on to our corner, hack on!”

By the time every dog and devil in the pub had wished him well, after his spat with Lugs O’Leary, Vinny was half-way down his second pint.

Health-wise, he was on the mend, even if his hooter, which resembled a clothes-hanger, required further surgery. His vital signs were strong but he had been advised to stay in a wheelchair for a few days. The legal side of things was out of his hands as the DPP had received a file from the gardai recommending that Lugs be charged with assault and put on trial. Lugs had also been warned to keep his distance from Vinny’s house, his place of work, and Foley’s.

As for Jenny, the key witness, Vinny was keeping his own distance, until it all settled down. His life was far too raw right now to consider a romantic path. For the minute, he surrounded himself with the key pillars of life: pints, punting and pals.

Fun in the sun

To ensure an interest in the final round of matches in the Premier League, the lads had thrown a tenner a head on the total number of goals scored. If there was no winner, there was no bet. With players already thinking of their fun in the sun, Vinny reckoned there would be a goal-rush and had opted for 30.

By half-time, 16 goals had been scored, and Vinny felt he might have under-clubbed. As it turned out, he missed by one as the goals dried up at 29 – even his beloved Everton couldn’t rescue him.

“You left it on the lip Vinny, story of your life,” grinned Macker.

The chat turned from footie to the golf at Wentworth and then, after the Angelus, to the news which had everyone gabbing – the successful vote on same-sex marriage.

Vinny felt a reluctance to engage with his customary passion as he had been unable to vote, due to his hospitalisation. That said, he’d have voted in favour of the amendment although he suspected his father, Finbarr, would be spinning in his grave at the outcome.

As the telly beamed out pictures of the throng gathered in Dublin Castle, Vinny felt a sense of pride in the steps taken by the ordinary folk of little ol’ Ireland. It was a result for democracy that had been heard loud and clear across the world. That so many people, especially the young guns, had made it their business to vote showed how much they cared.

The high turnout also verified a privately held theory of Vinny’s that there were far more gay people in Ireland than people thought. Right now, in this pub, he reckoned there were fellas who looked and sounded straight, but were anything but.

He had nothing against anyone who felt that way and suspected the outcome of the vote would encourage them to emerge from the shadows and be themselves.

As the cameras scanned the joyous crew in the courtyard of Dublin Castle, where men, young and old, held hands with men, and women, young and old, hugged women, Vinny considered the enormity of the day.

He had seen a lot in his 57 years but this took the Marietta. He was shaken from his reverie by the arrival of Dial-A-Smile and a tray of porter, upon which were seven perfectly pulled pints of Uncle Arthur’s finest, and a large bowl of salted nuts.

Nuts are on me

“The nuts are on me,” said Dial-A-Smile, whose generosity knew so many bounds that Vinny’s jaw dropped. “You feeling okay Dialler?” he quipped.

At that, the sulky barman, pulled up a stool and wriggled a gap around the barrel which served as a table.

“Actually, I’ve never felt better. I was keeping an eye on youse, like I always do. When the telly showed the reaction to the referendum, youse seemed okay with it and I thought, why not?”

Vinny raised his unibrow. “You mean, you thought you’d throw us monkeys a few nuts for not changing the channel? We’re not complete bird-brains, Dialler. We were just thinking how far Ireland has come in the past few years, for the better.”

Dial-A-Smile nodded.

“That’s what I thought too, so I decided to follow those who’ve had the courage to come out, the Varadkars, the Halligans who’ve paved the way, so to speak.”

With that, Dial-A-Smile placed his arm around the shoulder of the man on his right, leaned over and planted a smacker on the lips of Charlie St John Vernon.

As the two middle-aged men embraced, a stunned silence fell across Foley’s, broken by the sound of a fat man pushing back his wheelchair, clambering unsteadily to his feet, and raising a glass.

“To Dial-A-Smile and Charlie,” called out Vinny. “And the Rainbow Revolution!”