Born Shaunoguestown, Ireland into an infamous family of publicans and cockfighters, Alphonse O'Willie was the seventh son of a seventh son in a family of fourteen. Like his father before him, Alphonse was never referred to except by his surname, and was accredited as per Irish folklore with all the mystic powers attributed to the "fortunate ones," ie. the seventh son of a seventh son. "The appointed ones," as they were also known, were often visited by people who would travel great distances to avail themselves of their healing powers - or the good luck that it was thought would be brought to their families, marriages and business ventures. O'Willie, however, seemed to take his duties far less seriously than the norm and managed to impregnate five prospective brides who were brought to him; and it was strongly rumoured that he was charging a stud fee for his services.

O'Willie had acquired a taste for liquor and horse racing; and it would seem that the former was having a distinct adverse effect on the predictive powers applied to the latter; and he went two entire years without predicting a single winner - which did little to commend him to the public and, more significantly, to his local priest. His final ignominy was when he was banished from his parish for introducing a poorly-disguised goose into a cockfight and, the same day, for being caught in a highly compromising position with a "not unattractive" heifer at a wake.

In his disgrace, he emigrated to America in 1905 where he suddenly found himself integrated into America's finest, serving as a police officer in the infamous Bronx area of New York.

O'Willie's misfortune had not followed him across the Atlantic, and he found himself immediately able to relish in his seventh-son-of-seventh-son status amongst the Irish community. Strangely, too, O'Willie at the age of twenty five had developed a late work ethic, and in addition to his normal police duties took on the role of station blacksmith at highly lucrative overtime rates. This, combined with "payola" and backhanders from all and sundry, enabled O'Willie to become a figure of wealth amongst the Irish community.

His love of liquor, however, persisted, and his reputaition as a drinker was surpassed only by his reputation for non-payment for the same - combined with a growing reputation as a lover and fine boxer - who did not always abide by the Queensbury rules.

O'Willie had also developed a "sleight of hand" technique which combined with his boxing skills gave him a distinct advantage in the local game of "crap," at which he was able to excel. His opponents had either the opportunity of losing gracefully or having the game's appelation knocked out of them!

During the bootlegging era, O'Willie was at his prime, and by the time prohibition was repealed he was reputed to be a dollar millionaire and was often seen in the company of the leading local gangsters of the time.

At this point he moved into the newly-legitimate "speakeasy" business and was said to be a silent partner in over two dozen such establishments.

Despite his wealth, however, he did not move out of his modest digs, and throughout his career he never trusted his funds to a bank, keeping them in a safe under his bed.

On his retirement in 1945 at the age of sixty-five, he received a gold watch and returned to his native Shaunoguestown in Ireland for what was his first holiday since leaving there forty years before.

On his first night at their family-owned pub, on being reminded of the dubious incidents involving the goose and the heifer, he is reputed to have "beat the crap" out of nineteen fellow drinkers - including eight of his own brothers.

He cut his holiday short and decided to return to America via Belfast and Liverpool.

Upon arriving at the war-weary Mooneys bar in the Belfast Corn Market, he single-handedly started Ireland's first race riot when he encountered a platoon of black American marines from Georgia.

On return to the States, he set out to enjoy his retirement in his own stomping-ground of the Bronx where he brawled his way through life and became the first local Irish icon - a publican amongst publicans.

The demon drink, however, got him in the end. He was run over and killed by a Budweisser three-wheeler delivery truck at 5:30 am. on the 1st April, 1959 in East Forty-Third Street. His penultimate words are reputed to have been "That f***ing goose was a winner I tell ye!"

When asked by a bystander who witnessed the tragic event if he required the services of a priest, he vociferously declined, explaining that sex was the furthest thing from his mind at that moment!

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