AGAINST THE ODDS:It's blue skies on a blue day in Loughshinny as Vinny and his crew see off their old friend. Even Dial-A-Smile comes good as he produces the whisky at the grave, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE
AS A final resting place for James Ignatius Gilligan, Baldungan Church, perched high on Fingal soil, took some beating thought Vinny Fitzpatrick. The 14th century stone building stood, sentry-like, on the outskirts of Loughshinny village, close by the Dublin-Belfast railway line.
“Shanghai always liked his trains, it’s probably why he picked this place,” observed Vinny as he spied an express hurtling north.
“You know, Macker, some fierce battles were fought on this terrain over the years, not just the Cromwellian siege of Baldungan Castle which led to 200 deaths. I’m thinking of the Banana Cups and the cricket evenings against Man O’War Taverners; Jimmy thrived in those scraps, even though we lost most of them.”
Macker said nothing. He just pulled on a spliff and sucked hard, eyes glistening.
Squinting, Vinny could see Lambay Island to his left and, in the distance, Howth, from where the funeral cortege of the late Shanghai Jimmy had left an hour earlier.
The funeral Mass in St Fintan’s, Sutton, had, as expected, been emotional.
The Dublin Bus community thronged the pews to salute their long-serving clippie and driver, along with regulars from Foley’s, Boru Betting and other Clontarf hostelries. Even Giorgio, owner of The Capri, was there to pay respects to a loyal, if often messy, customer.
Shanghai hadn’t an enemy in the world, apart from the demon gargle which, in the end, did for the oldest member of Foley’s Wrecking Crew.
“It was chronic heart disease which brought him down, not Parkinson’s,” according to Bones Brogan, who had been urging Shanghai to change his lifestyle for years.
A framed colour photo was atop the coffin. It showed Shanghai, grinning puckishly, with Vinny, Fran, Macker, Brennie and Kojak all gathered in their usual spot in Foley’s, pints of stout to hand.
Shanghai was also holding up a glass containing a handful of fivers which Vinny recognised from the night he’d won the Eurovision sweep with Azerbaijan. “Shanghai, you had a jammy record in sweeps,” he thought to himself.
Reminders of Shanghai’s life and times were brought up and placed on the coffin during the service; a bus timetable from 1977, the year he signed on as a clippie; a snooker cue, three darts and a putter.
The latter brought a giggle from Brennie as Shanghai was, by some margin, the worst putter to grace the soiled and ancient membership of Foley’s Golf Society. “He couldn’t hole it in a bucket. Imagine him at Augusta.”
After Msgr Dermot Devereux wished Shanghai a successful journey on the next stage of his life, taking care to overlook Shanghai’s appalling attendance record in church, Vinny was startled when Shanghai’s son James beckoned him over.
“Could you say a quick few words, please, Vinny? You knew Dad best, better than me. We kind of grew apart since I moved to London. I’m sorry about that now,” said James,
Vinny had been caught unawares but he wasn’t going to let his old friend down. He cleared his throat and took to the pulpit. “I don’t have any notes so I’m going to wing this,” he said. “There’s many stories I could tell about Shanghai but I suspect he’d appreciate it, as would Msgr Devereux, if we kept them for the pub afterwards – young James and the extended Gilligan family have very kindly invited us all back to Foley’s for sandwiches and, er tea, later.
“I’ll just say this. When my old man died, my Ma quoted a line from the Book of Proverbs which I’ve never forgotten. I may just amend it slightly. “When you lie down, Shanghai, you will not be afraid. When you lie down, your sleep will be sweet.”
“Right, let’s move on. I know one thing; Shanghai would have enjoyed the ride to the graveyard.”
The “hearse” was a modified single-decker bus, resplendent in a fancy plum and cream livery. Fitted with toilets and upholstered seats, it was only wheeled out for those Dublin Bus employees held in high esteem, and Vinny had twisted the ear of Socket Twomey, the Clontarf depot controller, to ensure Shanghai had a fitting a send-off.
“Forget his recent health problems, Shanghai turned up for more than 30 years without missing a day. He was an uncomplaining foot soldier, one of the finest. You could do with more of his like now,” he said. There was room on the bus for about 25 bodies; and Vinny knew most of them.
Apart from the Foley’s gang, which included a tearful Charlie St John Vernon, there was Socket Twomey and droopy-eyed Sid, an ex-clippie, from Clontarf garage. Lofty Peak and Sundance Ellis, sound heads and Banana Cup rivals, represented Donnybrook.
He also recognised Baldy Hogan and Gumshoe Gerry, two old gin-slinging pals of Shanghai’s from The Schooner; The Reverend from Boru Betting was there, even Dial-A-Smile, the morose barman from Foley’s, had snaked on board.
From the church, the bus went through Baldoyle, past Shanghai’s apartment, where it stopped and the driver – one Vincent Finbarr Fitzpatrick – dutifully peeped the horn.
Some 40 minutes later, the bus was carefully parked on the narrow road adjacent to Baldungan Church, from where Shanghai’s coffin was carried by five middle-aged men, and his only son, the 50 or so yards into the tiny graveyard.
There, it was carefully placed down and Msgr Devereux said a few appropriate words against a backdrop of cawing rooks and sobbing. Under the bluest of skies, Shanghai Jimmy, aged 64 – he had always been coy about his real age – was laid to rest.
The silence was broken from an unlikely source: Dial-A-Smile. “I’ve a couple of bottles of single malt,” he said opening his trench coat wide to reveal two of Glenfiddich’s finest. “If youse would all like to raise a toast to Shanghai,” he said. A second invitation wasn’t needed as the bottles were passed around and quickly drained. “To James Ignatius Gilligan,” said Vinny, lifting the bottle to his fleshy lips. “James Ignatius Gilligan,” he repeated to himself.
“J, I, G. The jigs. Well, you certainly had them old friend, and how you’d love to still have them now,” he said softly. So soft, that no one could hear.
Vinny's Bismarck
1pt: Lay Tiger Woods to win The Masters (5/1, general, liability 5pts)
Bets of the week
1pt each-way: Bubba Watson in The Masters (50/1, Paddy Power)
1pt each-way: Prince Erik in Irish Grand National (25/1, Corals)
