From a distance, the rotund figure perched on a makeshift throne on Castle Avenue looked authentically medieval, albeit closer to Friar Tuck in shape than Little John.

Under his velvet cap, Vinny Fitzpatrick wore woollen under garments, which were starting to chafe his nether regions, chainmail, a cloak and sandals.

Four days of stubble gave the busman the air of Grizzly Adams ,while the German hunting sabre in his scabbard was genuine, not that he had any great reason to swirl it in anger.

It was for show, as was everything else about Foley’s contribution to National Heritage Week.

The gig had come about a couple of nights earlier in Foley’s when Charlie St John Vernon remarked how the Raheny Heritage Society had arranged tours of the many follies of St Anne’s .

“From two until four on Sunday, there will be tourist busses buzzing past Foley’s front door on their way to the Red Stables.

“We need to give those buses a reason to stop in Clontarf. We’re steeped in history, after all,” observed Charlie.

After mature reflection over a few sumptuous pints, the game was afoot.

Brian Boru’s Well on Castle Avenue was the anointed place, with a reluctant Vinny cast as a knight of the times, guarding bould Brian’s watering hole.

When Vinny had protested at his nomination, it was pointed out how he'd played Brian Boru in the millennium reproduction of the 1014 Battle of Clontarf on Bull Island the summer before.

(At that, Vinny winced, as he recalled wading into the briny, frothing at the mouth, only to get stuck fast by the weight of his clothing. He was rescued by two sturdy lifeguards and the guy playing King Sitric.)

First bus

“It’s only two hours, Vinny. All you got to do is sit there and spin a yarn about the well’s magic powers. It’ll be a doddle.”

Vinny was in position early, which was just as well, as the first bus turned off the seafront at precisely two bells.

“Here we have Brian’s Well,” announced the lippy driver on the bus PA, “where local lore has it that Brian Boru and his armies sipped on the eve of battle, on Good Friday in 1014.

“It’s a place of legend and mystery. Just ask our friend here.”

The tourists alighted the bus, umbrellas raised, and came over for a gawk.

They were a mix of polite Orientals, who bowed, reserved Europeans who stood back, and gung-ho Americans, who plunged right in.

“Are you really a Viking?”’ asked a kid with a Mid-West accent.

“I am,” quipped Vinny. “I’m a Minnesota Viking and we’ve no chance of getting out of our division, never mind the Super Bowl this year.”

The kid was made up and thrust a handful of coins towards Vinny, who was caught unawares.

“Erm, if you’d like to make a contribution towards the upkeep of the well, please drop what you can into the font behind me.”

For the next 90 minutes, Vinny talked the talk. The well, he whispered to his visitors, was blessed with spiritual powers and if you said a prayer to Brian Boru, you’d enjoy rude health.

“Sure, wasn’t the bould Brian in his mid-70s and fit as a fiddle when he lost his head at the end of battle? But for that, he’d have broken 100.”

Emboldened, Vinny indulged in some historic licence.

He told how Brian had single-handedly driven the Viking invaders back into the sea, even though Brian, a devout Christian, had stayed in his tent for most of the battle praying, for it was Good Friday.

“King Brian would have made a legendary Samurai,” purred a Japanese gent, bowing in front of the well, before placing a crisp tenner inside.

Vinny struck fool’s gold with his yarn about Brian’s symbol, the harp.

“Imagine if Brian had patented his harp before Uncle Arthur and his stout came along, he’d be worth billions,” he said.

“Even so, it’s just as well Brian won, otherwise we’d all be on Carlsberg,” he joked.

Bus by bus, the contributions kept coming, forcing Vinny to scoop up the coins, and notes, and shove them under his throne in his Gola bag for safe keeping before the next arrival.

He was drenched through but it didn’t matter, for time passed quickly and he enjoyed the banter.

A shower

At four o’clock, it was time to leave the life of Brian behind and waddle home for a shower before dashing to Foley’s to catch the second half of Everton against Manchester City.

He’d a score on at 4/1 that his beloved boys in blue could skittle the City slickers.

Out of curiosity, Vinny emptied the contents of his Gola bag on to the throne, and did a quick tally of the day’s takings.

Against the odds, the gig had raised nearly €500, not counting a few loose coins.

He was stuffing the loot back into the bag wondering what the lads would make of all the booty, when he heard a voice behind him.

“So then, did you back a winner or two today?”

Vinny froze. He knew the voice, like he knew the back of his hand.

He turned, and there she was, the love of his life, Angie, looking a million dollars in a natty suit and designer brolly.

“Ange”’ he cried aloud.

He made to grab his wife but held back, only for Angie to step forward and reach out for her fat, wet, husband in his ridiculous garb.

As they embraced, Vinny shuddered with joy while salty tears trickled down his jowls. Angie was crying too.

“I wish I could make it all better,” she said, after they disentangled.

“You can,” said Vinny impishly. “Put a tenner in the well.”