AGAINST THE ODDS:An All-Ireland weekend visit from cousin Con from Cork leaves Vinny fuming

CLOSE TO last orders on Sunday night in Foley’s, Vinny Fitzpatrick flipped. Turning to the slightly built figure by his side, he bellowed: “Con, will you get your backside in gear to the ATM machine outside and buy a round before I lose it.”

There was a silence. Macker and Fran looked across at one another, with half-concealed smirks and raised eyebrows; Brennie excused himself and went to the toilet, while Shanghai Jimmy actually stopped shaking.

All eyes were on the curious figure of Con, or Cousin Con, as he had been introduced to the lads earlier by Vinny.

Bird-like, with an ill-fitting suit, unkempt hair and two-day-old stubble, Con had been regaling the lads with stories of his life and times working on the right side of the desk in the dole office in Bantry.

He was doing so, while keeping his hands firmly in his pockets. Not that the lads minded as Con’s value as a yarn-spinner was worth the price of a few pints.

But for Vinny, it was the final straw of a weekend that had gone horribly wrong, and for which he felt Con, his not-so-beloved cousin, was to blame.

It explained his eruption which led to a shrug and a resigned smile from Con as he made for the ‘drink-link’ machine at the door.

It had all begun the previous Thursday night at Clontarf Bus Garage, where Vinny, newly-crowned as a crime-busting hero after last week’s dramatic events on Howth Summit, found a message in his cubbyhole from the bould Cornelius Fitzpatrick.

They had been close as teenagers when Vinny travelled south to spend summers on his cousin’s farm near Dripsey, in Co Cork.

Con was a tearaway, always up to no good, and Vinny had enjoyed being around him. But they had grown apart, as cousins invariably did, and contact now was infrequent, unless Con was on the mooch for something, which he was.

“I need an All-Ireland ticket for Sunday. How are ye fixed Vinny boy?” asked Con when Vinny rang him the next morning. “I’ve been let down by a lad here in Bantry Blues and you’re the only one I can turn too,” he shrilled.

“And sure, while you’re at it, would there be a bit of supper and a roof over me head for the weekend? Look got to go, there’s a fellow here claiming the dole who’s working part-time in my local. Imagine that. See you Saturday night.”

With that, Con hung up and Vinny’s heart sank. Where was he going to lay his hands on a ticket, or two, for Sunday’s final, at this late hour? Worse, how was he going to break it to Angie, about providing bed, breakfast and dinner for Con? There was a time when Vinny was guaranteed two tickets for the All-Ireland final through his connection with Dollymount Gaels, the club founded by his Da, Finbarr.

But not since 1995, when the Dubs last appeared in a final, had he pulled in a favour. It was time to beg, which he did. His luck, against the odds, was in.

Incredibly, two tickets had been returned to the club by a member who was too infirm to stand his ground on Hill 16.

Things got better when Angie, heavily pregnant, said she would be more than pleased to welcome Con to Mount Prospect Avenue for Saturday night.

“It will be lovely to meet your extended family. I’ll make up the spare room and put him in the pot for dinner,” she said.

Feeling the vibes were all positive, Vinny went one step further and took an almighty punt on Cork to win, placing a €100 bet at evens in Boru Betting. ‘That’ll cover the drinks for the weekend,’ he thought to himself.

Alas, act one on Saturday night didn’t go as planned after Con had presented himself at the hall door, complete with toothbrush and a lop-sided smile. “Up for the match,” he grinned as he pecked Angie on the cheek and gave Vinny a beery hug.

“It’s like the old days, eh Vinny boy? You and me getting together. Do ye remember the crack we had in ’83 when ye were down in Cork for the replay? Those two fine wans we met from Cloyne couldn’t keep their hands off us. You went out for a fag and were gone ages. What did happen, eh?”

Angie looked disapprovingly at Vinny, who blushed like a vine-ripe tomato. “Er, Con, you must be hungry after coming all this way. You’ll join us for a bite to eat, won’t you?” he blurted out.

“Sure, I will. What are we having? Angie, you look like a woman who’d be fond of a bit of hairy bacon and some flowery spuds,” grinned Con. Angie flinched but said nothing.

Supper was a Thai green chicken curry, Naan bread, and a green salad, almost all of which Con left untouched, much to Angie’s annoyance.

Instead, he knocked back several cans of stout and a couple of large whiskies before rolling upstairs.

Vinny was fuming, his mood not helped when Angie curled into a foetal ball and turned from him in bed that night.

Act two started in a similar vein the next morning when Con slept it out for Mass and then complained there was no cooked breakfast waiting for him when he came down.

“I can’t be having with all this muesli and fruit? Where’s the full Irish?” he moaned.

Angie glared at the house guest with undisguised contempt, mouthing silently at Vinny “get him out of here”.

On the way to Croker, they had stopped in Gaffney’s in Fairview for a few throat-openers where Con had borrowed a €20 from Vinny. “Sure, if I go outside, I’ll never get back in,” he said by way of explanation.

Vinny’s mood was darkening as he took his pitch on Hill 16. He needed Cork to apply balm but Kerry plunged the dagger into the heart of his bleeding wallet.

Down a ton, he was ‘touched’ by Con for another score in Meagher’s after the game, which cheesed him off even further.

By the time they got to Foley’s and hooked up with the lads, Con was in flying form, telling yarns about chancers who were milking thousands off the state in benefit, while doing nixers on the QT.

After every story, more outrageous than the one before, a fresh pint would be placed in front of Con, who accepted the gift with thinly-veiled magnanimity.

As the lads chortled at the tall tales of state swindling in west Cork, Vinny couldn’t contain himself any longer and unleashed his verbal outburst.

“He’s more con-man than Con the man,” he thought to himself as his cousin finally stirred himself and headed outside for the ATM.

On his return, Con seemed indignant. “What sort of a contraption do you call that? It only gives out €50 notes. Sure, who needs that much for a few pints?’

Vinny smirked. “You do, Con. I’ve just ordered two rounds and you’re paying.”

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