Vinny’s chirpy new tenant in Causeway Avenue is holding court in Foley’s and fast becoming a firm favourite

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SCARCELY HAD he uttered the cry of “six to four Liverpool to win”, than Spud Murphy was almost trampled underfoot in Foley’s bar as fivers, tenners and scores were thrust in his direction.

“You keeping a record of this, Vinny?” grinned Murphy as the regulars, all keen punters, availed of the generous half-time price offered against a Liverpool victory over Everton by the crop-haired, tattooed, newcomer from Merseyside.

By the time referee Phil Dowd blew for the re-start at Anfield, Vinny had a pint glass stuffed with notes while spidery scribbles decorated a number of beer mats.

“There must be nearly two ton here, Spud. You good for this?” asked Vinny of Spud, a fellow Evertonian and Vinny’s chirpy new tenant in Causeway Avenue.

“Don’t worry, wack. We’ll be made-up ’cos our boys in blue won’t let us down,” grinned Spud as he polished off a pint and called another round from Dial-A-Smile.

Vinny didn’t share his new companion’s optimism but at least his wallet wasn’t exposed to a potentially heavy loss.

It was Sunday, a little after three o’clock, and Everton were a goal down and fortunate not to be more after a half dominated by the evil enemy. Even Fernando Torres had looked a half-decent player again.

Everton, in contrast, were sluggish and toothless in attack without their talisman, Tim Cahill. By Vinny’s calculations, Liverpool were odds-on to win, not odds-against. What was Spud up to, he wondered?

Within a minute of the second half, Sylvain Distin had equalised for Everton and Spud and Vinny were up off their feet, howling like demented wolves.

Barely had their heartbeats slowed down to something approaching normal when the improbable happened and Everton scored again, this time through Jermaine Beckford.

It was the cue for an outbreak of fervour rarely witnessed in Foley’s as Spud initiated a conga-walk around the bar, with a beaming Vinny in tow.

By the time they had completed a full circle, they had a 20-strong tail in their wake, including a few joyous Manchester United heads, always eager to do anything to spite Liverpool.

At 2-1, Spud was on his feet again, offering three to one against a Liverpool win, which was greeted with silence and even one or two infra-red glares.

Quickly, Vinny tugged at the muscular forearm of the Scouser. “Spud, I wouldn’t if I were you. The lads don’t like having their noses rubbed in it. Quit while you’re ahead,” he whispered.

Spud grinned. “Sure, it was only a wind-up. Come on, let’s get another bevy in.”

The next round was Vinny’s and as he wobbled towards the bar, he thought of the extraordinary impact made by Spud, who had only arrived in Vinny’s world a week earlier after answering an ad to rent out the old Fitzpatrick family home.

After signing a 12-month lease and pushing an extra month’s rent into Vinny’s paw as a gesture of thanks, Spud had insisted on dragging Vinny to Foley to celebrate the occasion – which hadn’t been too difficult.

Now, here he was, the centre of attention and the lads in Foley’s, a wary crew, were around him like files to a magnet. Not since Jose Maria Olazabal in the 1987 Ryder Cup had any rookie made such an impact, thought Vinny.

As he loaded up half a dozen pints of Uncle Arthur’s finest on a tray, Vinny felt a nudge in his midriff. It was the reedy figure of Macker, even more squinty-eyed than usual. “Your new VBF is making some impression,” he said sardonically.

“Me what?” asked a puzzled Vinny.

“VBF,” replied Macker. “Very Best Friend. He’s turning heads with his spiel and you’re sitting there beside him as happy as a sand boy,” said Macker, sarcasm dripping from his pencil-thin lips.

Vinny did a double-take on his old friend. “Macker, if I didn’t know you better. I’d swear you were jealous,” he said.

“Isn’t there an ounce of céad míle fáilte in that cold heart of yours? Spud is a showman, I’ll give you that, but what’s wrong with someone shining a little light into our dull lives? God knows, it can be like a graveyard around here most Sundays.”

As Vinny returned towards the nook by the TV, carrying a tray of creamies, Everton conceded a penalty. He groaned as the Liverpool fans erupted, along with all the others who had punted on a Reds win.

When Dirk Kuyt converted to make it 2-2, Vinny shook his head while Spud bounced out of his seat and made for the rear door of the bar. “Time do to a runner,” he grinned.

Instantly, Brennie, who had €20 on Liverpool to win, looked over at Vinny. “Is he serious?”

“It’s a wind-up, Brennie,” said Vinny. In truth, he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t but he daren’t let on.

When Spud re-appeared with minutes remaining at Anfield, the knot in Vinny’s stomach untied itself and he breathed easily again, even more so when the final whistle blew.

For Vinny, an away draw at Anfield was always acceptable, especially on this day with all the ballyhoo surrounding the return of Kenny Dalglish.

As he contemplated, with a certain degree of smugness, a bleak future for the Reds, a couple of glasses were clinked together noisily. It caught his attention, and everyone else’s too.

Spud was holding court. “Alright, lads, listen up a bit. As a gesture of my appreciation for the way you’ve made me feel so welcome, and me only a wet day in Clontarf, I’m putting all the stake money behind the bar. Get the beers in,” he bellowed.

There was a huge cheer and a flotilla of punters, including one or two chancers who hadn’t had a wager, swarmed to the counter where a grimacing Dial-A-Smile was waiting.

Vinny turned to Spud. “Fair play, you certainly know the way to the lads’ hearts,” he said.

Spud smiled but didn’t say a word. His blue eyes, slightly glassy, noticed Vinny, seemed distant. “Is anybody home?” asked Vinny tenderly.

“You what, mate?” said Spud. “Sorry, was miles away there. Must be the leaving of Liverpool; it does that to you.”

“Look, I’ve gotta go. You make sure everyone gets a pint or two,” he said, shoving a nifty-fifty into Vinny’s mitt. “I’ll catch up during the week, right? You might show me how that old damned telly of yours works. It keeps going on the blink.”

With that, Spud did a few high fives with a couple of bar flies and bounded out of Foley’s, leaving a bemused Vinny in his wake. “What a guy,” he thought.

Outside, it was getting dusk but Macker, from the sheltered doorway of Brian Boru betting next door, could easily make out the jean-clad Spud as he crossed Clontarf Road and stood at the city-bound bus stop.

Macker saw Spud make a call on his mobile, then roll a cigarette. A 130 rolled by but Spud didn’t get on.

Instead, he waited, hopping about from foot to foot, as if bursting for a pee. Then, a chauffeur-driven jet-black Mercedes pulled up, an S320, by Macker’s reckoning. A nice motor, he thought, with a nice cargo too. Although he was around 30 yards away, in the half-light, Macker spied three classy-looking dolls sitting in the rear.

As Spud got in and the Merc gunned off towards town, Macker’s little grey cells began to throb. Something was afoot, but what?

“Alright lads, listen up a bit. As a gesture of my appreciation for the way you’ve made me feel so welcome, and me only a wet day in Clontarf, I’m putting all the stake money behind the bar. Get the beers in.”