While thousands tuned into TV3 to watch a talent show on Saturday night, the real talent was in the front door in Galway and they were putting on some show.
Feeney was the first competitor on the scene. As he walked into the pub and to the bar you could see he was nervous. He tentatively asked for a pint of soup and with it drew first blood. A large crowd followed the man, his entourage, and with their support behind him he quickly got into stride. The first few gulps were slow, measured, you could see there was mutual respect between him and his soup. He proceeded in knocking back the pint with consulate ease and went 1-0 up before his competitor was even confirmed to be coming.
Feeney, ignoring the rumours was taking no chances on a "no show". Without delay he sprung from his seat and to the bar again before gravity could take his empty pint to its final resting place on the table upon Feeeneys release. That pints torture had ended and another's had just begun. The man was on fire, he had devoured his second pint before his arse could warm the seat back up. 2-0 to Feeney. A third pint was placed in front of him, he looked at the pint and it looked back, it knew its fate as soon as Feeney raised his right hand towards it. With one gulp it had magically turned into a half pint. Feeney was in his comfort zone, for mere mortals would feel like a warzone. His odds of winning were tumbling as each second passed. He had the cut of a confident man.
At this point there was talk of a walkover, rumours came flooding in that Moriseey would not show and conditions were too poor. Who could blame him, other events had fallen victim to the weather, premier league soccer fixtures, the complete SPL, horse racing meetings had been abandoned. Those events are chicken feed compared to this and Morissey knew this. A no show was not an option. To the roars of the crowd he sauntered into the pub and took his seat and with it his place in soupathon 2010 and history. Tensions were rising as Feeney's and Morissey's glaze crossed paths. One could have forgiven Morissey for downing his first pint in one go. He has been known to do it in the past when required. He knew better this time though, he had respect for his competitor and knew tricks like that would lead to his downfall in the highly competitive soupathon scene. Feeney soon finished his pint. 3-0. Morissey responded 3-1 and game on.
Feeneys game plan of starting early and going a steady pace meant he had stolen a march on his arch rival but Morissey upped his soup rate. Feeney knocked back 2 more, Morissey with a cheeky grin doing the same. 5-3 on paper but in reality there was little over a pint between the two. Morissey was closing the gap. Feeney knew he had to respond and with that declared 'I'm going to the top shelf'. Morisseys mind games of a potential no show and turning up late were now being matched by Feeneys signal of intent. Feeney turned the screw, finishing off his pint and knocking back 3 more vodkas in the next hour and a half. The change in drink had not changed Morisseys drink rate and as he annihilated his last Vodka Morrisey had tied the soupathon at 9-9. To make things worse it was Feeneys round.
The seconds passed, seconds turned to minutes and minutes to what felt like weeks to Morissey. Feeney was struggling, he came back from the bar stating it was too crowded, I cant get a drink he proclaimed. Morissey was having none of it, he knew the title was within his grasp and offered to get the next round. He decided to go bombing, a masterstroke. Feeney called his bluff but as Morissey ordered the round Feeney could take no more. It was game over for Feeney and the end of a brave fight. The question no longer was if Morissey would win but by how much. The bailer made hay in Feeneys absence and added a couple of more pints to his impressive tally.
Celebrations were in full swing as roars of champione, champione ole ole ole were shouted from the rafters. Morissey picked up his cup, a Galway crystal (plastic) waterbottle and lifted it high above his head to the cheers of the fans. It was a great night, Simon Cowell would had been blown away with the talent, Cheryl surely would not have been able to resist the power of the bailer. The night had everything, two gladiators, dozens of pints, spilt soup and even a wedgie thrown in for good measure. My hat goes off to the two men, Alan Feeney and Kevin Morissey. There can only ever be one winner and this time its Kevin 'the bailer' Morissey who put in the perfect rounds of drinking to take the coveted prize. Congratulations Batman.