Jimmy, the Sea Dog
From rivers of whiskey on the deep blue sea, to amphetamines in London’s underground of the swinging sixties.
I had the choice to emigrate to America, when I was young. I’d an uncle out there. And at that time, they could claim you [sponsor immigrants], out there. I always had the idea, that I didn’t want to live in Ireland, …whether I had a chip on my shoulder …or something. I always had that implanted.
I remember, one time, when I was going to secondary school, when I was waiting to do my intermediate, I rebelled, and was going to take the money out of the Post Office, one Friday. Because, they got the money for the old age pension on a Friday, Family Allowances the first of every month. And I threatened, a couple of times, that I’d actually steal the money out of the Post Office.
I wanted to come over and start working in Fords, of Dagenham, at that time. And [laughs] years afterwards, I did work there. As a boy I often thought of going there, because I had heard about the high wages.
There was a few neighbours of ours, and they used to come home from England and y’know, blow about what a great job they had. They always seemed to have this great big pay slip. I’d say it was holiday money, the lot combined.
“ You see this,” he’d say [showing off his payslip]… And we’d think what are we doing here in this country, working here for nothing?
So, I never really wanted to stay in Ireland, like. Although my HEART was there, I wanted to be AWAY from it.
I couldn’t see any future in it.
At the age of 16 I left home. I had been going to school, had been going to secondary school — I was supposed to do my intermediate [exam].
And, I decided, it was time to pack it in. Decided to start NOT going to school.
My parents realised. They took me away from school. So, I had the choice of staying at home and working the land, or emigrating over here. But, anyway, my mother had contacts in Dublin: a cousin who had a pub. So, they got me a start, in a five year apprenticeship as a barman.
I was there for a matter of three or four months and I didn’t like it. My mother’s first cousin — I didn’t like him. So, I decided to sign up with the Merchant Navy. There was a good few seamen used to use the pub, and I was lucky, as one of the guys was the head-man, the personnel manager of Irish Shipping. At that time, they had about 24 deep sea ships. So, he said to me, “if you ever want to go to sea…”
I was listening to seamen, all the time, telling me all about the great times they had, in Japan, all over the world. And to me, it was all just like reading a novel. I thought this is fictitious, it can’t REALLY happen.
I decided to join the Merchant Navy, as the personnel manager had already told me I could get a job. I had one day off work, and I went up, and asked if they had any openings.
And he said, “ all you want,” he said, “ is to get a couple of references, and I’ll give you a letter to go to the Maritime Marine Office and you’ll get a seaman’s discharge book,”.
Which I did.
They sent me to sign on in a ship in Newcastle. I was in the Merchant Navy then. I got barred from Irish Shipping, after. Nearly five years — four and a half years — later, they flew me home from Montreal, as being a bad case; that I wouldn’t be able to go to sea again, until I seek medical advice, regarding the fact that I was next door to [almost] an alcoholic.
Y’see at that time, you could get a bottle of spirits for the equivalent of 20p, nowadays. You were getting it, at one fifth of what it would cost you ashore. It was duty free. And Irish shipping was very generous — as long as you could hold it, and not take time off work. So, every night, you’d go down at 6pm and get a bottle of whiskey and 24 cans of Tenants. You didn’t pay actual cash. You just signed a form, as you don’t be paid weekly, when you’re deep sea. So, I was at that for 3-4 years. They paid me off, around the time President Kennedy got shot — that’d be 1963, I think. They flew me back to Shannon [airport], anyway. Not a penny in my pocket. I had money on the ship, but the captain was just so fed up with me, he just… [shrugs shoulders].
Every time we went into port, I’d just go missing. If we were in port for 14 days, I’d decide to go looking for the ship on the 15th. I’d meet them a day after the ship sailed. You’d hand yourself up to immigration, within 24 hours after the ship sailed. And you didn’t get arrested, as long as you handed yourself up, in America or Canada. Irish Shipping used to have a good few ships chartered by the States Marine, at that time. Anyhow, they flew me home. Flew me to Shannon.
I went to Dublin to get my pay-off. It was in the region of something like 90 quid. It was a lot of money, like, in 1963.
So, I decided to come over here [England]. I got on the “ pool “ over here, and I was on British ships then, till the year of the strike, 1966. I got into various bits of trouble, when I was on British ships. I was locked up in New Zealand. Did nearly 18 months in New Zealand, at that time. All through drink, like.
Stupid.
My favourite part of the world is New Zealand. I jumped ship in New Zealand. I was working ashore there for nine months. [However] Like everything else, I got arrested. All down to drink, drink and fucking dope.
The Hells Angels were just coming around into New Zealand, around that time. This mob [biker gang] were after coming over, from Australia. That’d be around 1965. I joined up with a group of them. And I got arrested in a house, having an all-night party, after the pubs were closed.
I was an illegal immigrant, and, they found stolen gear inside the house. So, they pulled us all in, anyway. I got 18 months in prison, over that. I did about 4 or 5 months, something like that. Then, they put me on board a ship, on condition that I’d be brought back to the UK. That was the ship that I refused to work on.
New Zealand was the country to be in, that time, in the middle sixties. It was booming. It was the only country where I’ve ever worked ashore, and SAVED money. I look back on it now, and it was the only country where I had actual pay-packages UNOPENED. Like, you got your pay-packet, and you stuck it in your room. You might get another two or three, before you’d decide to open the first one. In this country [England] I earned a lot more money, but I still couldn’t save. Drink got a grip of me then, when I came over here. Before I hit shore here, drink got a grip of me.
New Zealand would have been my country that time. After that, Australia. They’d have been the two countries I actually would have stayed in.
When I look back on it now, it was a stupid thing. You’re young and you’re wild. And smoke [cannabis] was just coming on the scene around that time, as well, like. Maybe not so much ashore, but in the Merchant Navy you always met a ship in some port, somewhere, that, if you hadn’t a smoke on your ship, you’d meet somebody — “ have you got a half ounce? “ and you’d get half a plastic bag of grass.
This is serious now… When I think of the sacks of grass you’d get !….
You’d get a plastic bag, and it’d be filled up, and you might give a guy a couple of bottles of whiskey, or something else, that they didn’t have on their ship. There’d be no money exchanged anyway, I guarantee you.
It was an easy life at sea.
Those were the good years. You wouldn’t get away with the same things, nowadays. In my time, if the Captain took a shine to you, you knew you could play him up to a point. You could always tell him to “ fuck off “, like, on the ship, and get away with it. When I was with Irish shipping, some o’ the things I did, were really ridiculous. I seen Captains coming up and they’re bailing me out… And literally, they’d go up in port, and bail me out and he [the captain] said to me,
“ You go back to the ship, now “.
This was about eleven in the morning.
“ Go back to the ship, now “, he said.
And I said, “ yeah, yeah, yeah…”.
And you’d ask him for a sub [advance on your wages] and you’d walk into the port. He might give you $20, and you’d go on the piss. And he’d be back up again, the next morning, to bail you out. And warn you -
“ Next time this happens, I WON’T do it !”.
And it happened me, twice. Silly ‘oul things, drunkenness, and all this.
They were the good years. Well, I thought they were. I suppose, as you get older, everybody looks back and says about their “ good years “. But they WERE the good years. And I got away with it, at that time. Pulled some strokes to get away with it [grins].
Used to go down the hatches. We used to carry whisky. From Glasgow. We were chartered by Cunard. We were chartered by the States’ Marine, but they had us cross-chartered to Cunard. And we used to carry whisky from Glasgow, to America.
The Captain of the ship, sat us down, one night and said,
“ Why do yis have to be so stupid and nick the cases ?… “ — Because he knew we were going down the hatches every night — “ Why don’t you break the bottoms of the bottle in the corner of the case, and drain it into a bucket, through a muslin cloth ?…” .
Like, he was giving us the licence to do it. And there wouldn’t be a night in the week, that you wouldn’t go down with a plastic bucket, and bring it up to the cabin. There might be four or five of you.
[More sombrely] They were really things — at the end of the day — to put a man down. I’m not saying everybody fell for the same temptation. But, you just thought, I’ll jump on the bandwagon, while the going is good, and do this, like.
Oh no, it wasn’t a hard life. It was too fucking easy. I never had the same time in my life, ashore, as I did in the Merchant Navy. You could get away with anything, bar murder. But then, if the Captain took a DISLIKE to you… It was just like being in prison, if a governor took a dislike to you. Prison, and the Merchant Navy, they always ran hand in hand, to me, like. They’re all based the same: a good captain, or a good governor, can make life easy if they see eye to eye with you. If they don’t, they can make life HARD.
I was on one Blue Star ship, when I was in the Merchant Navy over here [on British ships] and the Captain was, literally, ridiculous. I refused to work, just decided to go [down the hatch] every day. We were carrying Australian white wine, from Australia across to here. Big wooden barrels of it. And I used to go down at night-time, and just drive the point of a pick [axe] through the barrel, and fill maybe two buckets, and let the other 42 gallons run all over the hatch.
Just couldn’t care less.
That Captain, as far as he was concerned, I was “ a dead loss “. He told me that, at one stage, when I told him that I wasn’t going to work any more.
“ You won’t be called to go to work,” he said, “ because you won’t be getting PAID “.
And I did about 30 days as we came back from Aussie, and I never did a stroke of work.
So, we arrived in Hull, anyway, and I got the union. I had a bit of an argy-bargy with the union, and the Captain of the ship. And a couple of the guys from the Shipping Federation decided, that they’d have to pay me, that I was entitled to get paid. So, like all the ‘oul things you used to get away with at that time, I got paid up. Got paid off, as good as the people who were working, although I hadn’t worked for 30-odd days on the way home. The Merchant Navy, nowadays, has tightened up a lot. It’s changed.
Then, came the day when I couldn’t ship out. I was as good as couldn’t ship out [ no Captain would take him on board]. The only thing I could ship out on, before I packed up the Navy, was tankers. Tankers were classed as the bottom of the ladder, just like say, if you want to go road-sweeping. It was classed way down, tankers. There were two type of people who shipped out on tankers: there were people who were desperate for money; and people who were desperate for a job. For people who were desperate for money, it was a great way to save; for people, say, who were getting married. Because you were in port for only 24 hours, one day. So, if you went on tankers, you wouldn’t be long enough ashore, to get locked up, or to get drunk, y’see. And there’d be no shore leave in Kuwait and places like that; you’d only get shore leave when you came back to the UK. You might get 24 hours shore leave. So, there wasn’t much danger of you doing anything mad, y’see. They’d only give you two cans of beer a day, on some of the ships.
I spent a year and a half with Shell. We were carrying back gas from North Africa, to Canvey Island. That was methane gas; we used to get an extra fifteen quid a month, danger money. We weren’t allowed to drink on the ship, but we’d still go ashore in North Africa and buy lots of Ouzo. That time, Pernod, was something like 4 francs. And it was about 10 francs to the pound, then. So, it was something like 8 bob a bottle. You’d get a couple of bottles and that would do you. You’d get to Canvey Island and you’d get your sub [an advance on your wages], go ashore there, and buy a couple of bottles of spirits. So really, you always had drink. You were beating the system; you were getting alcohol that way, like.
I enjoyed travelling around.
I tell you, if I had the same choice now today, if I had my life to live over,… I’d join the Merchant Navy, but I’d join with a different frame of mind.
But I thought at that time, because I’d never really worked ashore that I would be better off, working on land… It’s kind of like if you go in the pub, tonight, and somebody will tell you,
“ Aw, there’s another pub that’s far better than this “.
You’ll meet a seaman on a ship, and he’ll tell you,
“ Sure, I could be earning three times as much money ashore “.
But he wouldn’t tell you the dark side of it. They would just tell you the bright side of it, like.
In 1966, I started working on the Victoria [London Underground] line. The seaman’s strike was on at that time. We got £4 a week strike pay to live on, but being single people, we were expected to give that £4 [to the men with families]. Although you signed for it with one hand, you were expected to put it in the donation box, with the other hand, for the married people, and the hard-up people. [But] WE were more hard-up than the married people: we had no accommodation over here, and we had to fend for ourselves. Married people might be living down in flats in town, or whatever. As far as I was concerned, they were reaping the benefits of those doing the picketing every day, just to get the £4.
That [the strike] was the reason [I left the navy]. I remember, we were walking around in 1966, and we started to do a picket, three days a week, I think, outside the King George’s Dock in Canning Town. And I walked around with this guy, and he said to me one day,
“ We’re fucking MAD “, he said, “ we could get work, building the new Victoria Line, and we’d be getting THREE TIMES as much money [as the wages in the Merchant Navy] ! “. Which there was, like. But, he never realised, you had to pay digs [for accommodation], and you had to pay everything, your food… Because everything in the Merchant Navy is all found [paid for]. You don’t get paid weekly, you get paid at the end of a trip. You get a sub when you get into port, and the most you can sub is two thirds of your wages. That’s the maximum. If you’re a bad boy, you might only get one-tenth of your fucking wages. You might only get a tenner sub, and you might have a couple of pound on the ship. So, when you pay off, after six or nine months, you’re always guaranteed, regardless, that you’d have a minimum of £100. That was if you did six or nine months, [but] you always did that. That was big money, like, in the early sixties. And I used to send a tenner a week home, at that time, in the early sixties. That was a lot of money, sent over. A LOT of money, like.
They called it “ allotment “. When you signed on a ship, they asked you how much allotment you wanted to leave. The maximum you could leave was your [basic] wages; your basic rate was £44. I used to leave a tenner a week.
I sent it home, and I still wasn’t worried about it, twenty-five years after being in the Merchant Navy… But, I went home there, several years ago. My mother had died. She died while I was in prison. My father was still alive, like, and he said to me, he said, “ there’s still money to the side “.
They [his parents] didn’t expect me to send money home. But, I thought that it was always going to be there for me, …for a rainy day.
There was one thing, it [the money] helped to educate the rest of the family. I have two sisters, schoolteachers; and a brother, a contractor. So, that’s one thing I’d say to myself. At least, the money wasn’t spunked up against the wall, like. They [his parents] did something good with it, anyway.
So, I decided to go to work on the Victoria Line tunnels, which they were building at that time. Like everything else, money was too easily available. Big money, again. I spent about a year and a half, at that.
On the Victoria Line, it was 99.9% Irish. There was big money there. [However] I’d say 50% of the men who worked on the Victoria Line never saved a penny. You did one week on days, one week on nights. The week you were on days weren’t too bad. But the week you were on nights, you were in the bookies every day, and the coupla quid you saved the week before, you lost it.
The pubs used to close at three o’clock in the afternoon. So, you’d decide, maybe on Thursday, I’ll go home and have 2–3 hours sleep, get up at eleven and go in the pub. Stay there, till three. In the bookies, then, tenners on horses.
So, a man never really saved anything.
There was big money to be earned. But, I was never really on the highest level, and anything I did earn, I was gambling and drinking it as fast as I could get my hands on it. Gambling, drinking and smoking. You’d be better off if you didn’t get it.
The work was hard. Nowadays, I’d call it tough. When you were young and wild, it was a challenge more than anything else. Like, there was nights when you’d go down [the tunnel], or days, when the work WAS hard.
When you think back, we were getting exploited. But, we didn’t realise it at the time. When he gets too old, a man realises he was getting exploited, like. But any work I ever did ashore…. In the Merchant Navy it was different, you didn’t get exploited like you did ashore. That’s my belief about it.
The subby exploited his countryman, this is the problem. He exploited US. We ran along with the subby. We thought the subby was [sarcastically] a great man. He was paying you £100 into your hand, no questions asked. You could have been Tom, Dick, or Harry. What we didn’t realise, was that we should have been using our own names. But, even if you told a subby your right name, he didn’t want to know it, because he didn’t want to give you a receipt for tax, he didn’t want to give you anything. The subby, at the end of the day… [shakes his head, bitterly].
Although, I’ll be going back working for one, I hope.
Then I started working in bars after that. Working, under a wrong [false] name. Working a couple of weeks here, till people started trusting ye; then, I’d do the till up, disappear. I carried on like that for about a year and a half. Then the references started getting too hard to get.
You could just walk into a pub, if it was an Irish guv’nor, and if you spent a few bob, you could say:
“ I’m looking for a barman’s job, will ye give me a reference ?”.
And he’d say, “yeah, no problem”.
It was much easier to get stuff, that time than it was a couple of years afterwards.
There was a lot of Irish pubs, in all the areas I drank in, all over London. Like Clapham Common — I did a lot of skulduggery down there, even in Brixton. I think there’s only one [Irish pub] there, now, the ‘White Horse’.
Kilburn, Cricklewood, Camden Town, Finsbury Park, any area at all, there was plenty of Irish pubs. The majority of the people who drank in them, at that time were Irish. So, they did cater for the Irish, even if it was an English guvnor; but the majority of guvnors, at that time, were Irish, and all the staff would be Irish as well. Cheap labour. We were classed as a third world country. In fact, to this day, we’re still classed as a third world country. That’s what I believe. You’d go into 20 pubs, nowadays, before you’d meet an Irish barman — it might be an Irish guvnor, but all the staff are Kiwis and Aussies. They’re the cheap labour, nowadays, like.
Some of my fellow workmates on the Victoria Line, some of them made it and some of them didn’t. Some of them did make it, made it in a big way. I know men who worked on the Victoria Line, and who have three or four houses. And I know of other men, who worked on the Victoria Line, who are worse off than me. They’re living crippled, and they’re living in ‘oul B&Bs. At least in here [Arlington House], we’ve got one thing: we’ve got a roof over our head, and a landlord who isn’t going to come in and kick you out the next day. You’ve got some kind of security that way, like. Where as, if you live in an ‘oul house, where you’ve got an ‘oul room, you don’t know whether the landlord’s paying the rent [or mortgage] and Abbey National will come in and everybody’s out. [Maybe] You were illegal tenants in the first place because the landlord… I know men I worked with and they got a bit of a house in Cricklewood there, last year. They didn’t have a leg to stand on [legally], because the man [their ‘landlord’] shouldn’t have been renting rooms. He had never told the building society. Except you notify the building society, you’re not supposed to be renting rooms. And he was doing it on a large scale. Next thing, anyway, he wasn’t paying the mortgage, and they [the building society] arrived there, one day, and closed the house down. The bailiffs arrived, and all these poor lads, they didn’t know what was happening. One of the men, now, I was trying to get him in here… But, he came, and he had an interview and they told him it could anything up to twelve months [before he could move in]. And so, he never followed it up. He’s still living in a room up in Cricklewood; based on the same thing, and he can still get fucked out. You know, an `oul landlord, a contrary landlord [can be very difficult]…
At least, in here, they have to take you to court to get you out. There’s no danger of him [a contrary landlord] sending two mates around to do you in, or something like that. With a private landlord, you get a lot of that.
Well, I think some of them in here are a bit institutionalised. I’m in here about 14 years; you just sort of get institutionalised. The life a man has lived… I’ve been in the Merchant Navy, prison, the House [A.H. hostel]. It’s all getting more institutionalised. This is a type of an institution. You’re looked after, you’ve got company, you’ve got no responsibilities. There’s a lot of things that wouldn’t be accepted in private accommodation, that are accepted, in here. You could blow a gasket here, tomorrow. You could maybe damage property in here and you’re not going to get slung out over it; not the first time, anyway. You could have a row with another tenant and you’re not going to get slung out unless there’s some serious injury involved. Where as, if you lived in private accommodation, that wouldn’t be accepted in the first place. If you break windows tonight, you’re going to be out of the house tomorrow, lose your deposit and all, in private accommodation. Where as, in here, it’s a bit more free and easy, that way.
There’s a Kerry guy. I think he came in here about two months after me. He’s had two flats out of here and he’s still back in here again.
The Irish in Britain drink more than they do at home; …for the simple reason that the Irish, when they came over here, the only place where you’d meet anyone, would be in a pub. That’d be more so with people of my age group. Because nowadays, ye get a lot of young Irish come over, and they might go into the pub maybe one, or two, nights a week; but we were in the pub SEVEN nights a week. Then again, we’d go into a pub, “oh, there’s ‘townies’ [neighbours] of mine drink in there, I’ll go in and have the craic with them,” like. That’s what social life was all about, that time.
And there’s one bit of luck for the young Irish that’s coming over now, that wasn’t there in our time… Because, in our time, the HARDER you were, the more respected you were, as regards the Irish. The more of a RAKE you were, the more that was thought of you.
“Oh, he’s a good boy, he’s a bit of a fucking head-case ! He’s liable to fucking explode !”.
But nowadays, the young Irish have a different tendency. They’re different, alright. In the ‘oul times, you were fighting amongst yourselves, every night of the fucking week… We were only punishing one another, that’s all we were doing. I remember, years ago, up in the ‘Camden Stores’ [pub], what you call the ‘Rat ’n’ Parrot’ now… It used to be a fucking JOKE on a Friday and Saturday night. All Irishmen fighting one another, all from different counties. It was the same up the Holloway Road. We used to go up there, for bits of gang warfare. There’d be a big crowd of us might have a drink, somewhere, and say, “ we’ll go up to Holloway and give those Limerick cunts a beating up !” Seriously, though. Because, people had nothing to occupy their minds. A lot of people who came over here, at that time, were semi-literate. They were.
Like, you’d be surprised at my age group, and people maybe 5–6 years older than me. An awful lot of them were semi-literate. They wouldn’t read a paper. They may have known how to write their name, or read their name, but that was just about all.
They had no education. And the only life was, “I drank fifteen fucking pints”. And the other guy said “I drank SIXTEEN”, and one would say, “ no, you’re a fucking liar ! …”, and take off the jacket. Then, there’d be a fucking fight start.
Then, of course, everyone else would be jumping into it.
At least, that’s where the Irish are a bit more educated, nowadays, like. They don’t come over as stupid as they used to come over. That’s my belief.
I got a bit of schooling. Was no good to me. Because, when I came over here, I fell by the wayside. It was just… the WILDER you were, the MORE was thought of you:
“ Yeah, he’s mad enough to do anything, that fella ! “.
Camden? I was more familiar with Kilburn, and Finsbury Park, up until the mid-seventies. I lived up in Finsbury Park, a good while. We squatted, up off Durham Rd., for about four years. In and out of prison, and squatting when I came out. It was really 1977–78, when I really started hanging around Camden, regular. And nipping down to King’s Cross.
Camden Town was a good area for work that time. You could get work every day of the week. You could go out with a different subby every day of the week. You could pick and choose your jobs, get paid every evening.
You were guaranteed money, seven days a week. You didn’t have to save.
Where as, nowadays, there’s NO work. It’s few and far between. They want references, they want [laughs] everything off you. They want your national insurance number, and two photos, before you can start. If you’re signing on, you CAN’T work. That’s what it’s based on. If you go out with McNicholas, or Murphy, or any o’ them, digging trenches on the street, you’ve got to give them two photographs of yourself, two passport photos and your national insurance number. That’s before they’ll even tell you you’ve got a job or anything. They’ll give one to the Electric board, keep one themselves, give you an ID card, and you’re supposed to keep the ID card on ye, as you’re digging all day.
Next month, I’ve got a chance to get a bit of work up in Dagenham. That’s with Conny, that I worked with for 12 years. There’ll be no problem, if that comes off. I hope to hear in a day or so. It’ll be either drown or swim [laughs], when I get this one.
It all depends on what they’re getting up to at the time, because although a man’s not working, he’s not idle either. He’s getting cans [tins of beer], so he has to earn a few bob here and there. The majority of them on drugs, here, are on tablets [prescription drugs]. I still smoke [cannabis].
You know the game.
Since Easter, the only thing I’ve had, I’ve had a smoke [cannabis] every day… although I didn’t have a smoke now, since Saturday.
The older lads? It was more drink that time. It [drugs] was kinda looked down upon. I remember when I first came ashore, in 1966, there used to be a West Indian club in Kilburn, `Peters’, in Belsize Rd. Two and a half, to three quid, was the deal at that time; it would have been an eighth [1/8 oz. of marijuana]. And I remember, I asked these two guys in the `Cock’ in Kilburn about where to get dope, for that was the pub for drugs.
The crowd that used to work in the tunnels used to take `Purple Hearts’ [amphetamine tablets]. They were on the go more, that time, than smoke. Purple Hearts were the KING that time. But, I’d prefer to have a joint, any day to Purple Hearts. I’d take an `oul tab of acid, but tablets… I can get them, like that [very easily], up to this day. People say to me, “ I can get Valium 10… They do me down to the ground”, but, to me, they’re shit.
Fifty per cent of the men who worked on the Victoria Line didn’t take drugs. Most of the crowd that I hung around with, did. They were into Purple Hearts. They were the rage at that time, in 1966–67. You took Purple Hearts and stayed up all night. I’d head down to Piccadilly, to Take Five’ [a famous night-club]. I’d see us getting home at six o’clock in the evening, changing, having a bath, all out together, eight or nine pints, down to Take Five, buy ten fucking blues[another type of amphetamine tablet], stay up all night, and go to work directly the next morning.
It was all the rage, at that time. But there were people who were sensible, who didn’t do it. Like nowadays. You get people nowadays who don’t take drugs.
A lot of the guys I worked with in the tunnels, they’d look down on you, if you smoked dope. Because, dope, at that time, was classed as a black man’s drug. There was a lot of racism going around in the sixties, although you may not think it, but it was going on in the background.
‘What are you doing, going to that black man’s club?’— you’d hear all this. People looked down on you, over that, if you were smoking dope. Where as, it’s accepted nowadays. Years ago, if an Irish bar-man caught you smoking dope, it’d be broadcast all over Kilburn.
The friction between the Irish and the black community was there, but deep down. Toward the late sixties, the black migrant and the Irish migrant were realising, that we’re all under the one brush, so we’ll stick together, like. And you’d see: “ Rooms To Let, Irish Or Blacks Need Not Apply”.
You were classed as being the same. I’d say that there was less friction then, than there is now. Nowadays, people express themselves a bit more. Before, the friction was hidden. You didn’t really show it. In the past, you were more inclined to fight with your own race of people.
I remember, in the Finsbury Park Tavern… That was a black man’s pub in the sixties, and a black guv’nor owned it. Lost the licence afterward… And I used to go there and smoke dope, and drink, with the black fellas; there was good and bad. But now, you’ve got all this National Front, and they hate the blacks, and they hate the Irish.
When we came here [England], none of us thought that we would end up here [in the hostel]. I mean, in the sixties, I didn’t think that I would end up here in the nineties. No way.
I had always said, “ well, I’m going to New Zealand “. I got a chance to go back. A firm sponsored me to go back. I didn’t go back. But, I never thought that I would end up somewhere like this [A.H. hostel]. If a man had realised that he was going to stay here…
When I came here [England], I always thought I had a farm a land to go back to, in Ireland. I always thought that when my old man died, there’d be a farm for me. But, for some unknown reason, there wasn’t. That is my excuse for the position I’m in now. Which is no excuse, basically.
People had said to me,
“ Well, if you care about your farm of land, why don’t you go home and see your old man?” But, I never went home for twenty-five years. I think that’s kinda why he turned against me. He probably said to himself, “ if I give him the land, he’s going to sell it”. The only build-up I had was, I went home, twice, to visit him twice before he died… At that time, he had all his faculties about him. He died off, within two and a half years of me going to visit him, the first time.
In the end-up, I never got a penny. Of the land. Of the money. I never even got a copy of the will. Everybody was saying I was the black sheep of the family. I was painted as the black sheep, anyway.
That’s my excuse.
I always thought that I had that to fall back on. If I’d got the land, my intention was to sell it, and I’d still be over here. I suppose, I’d have spunked it up against the wall by now…
It’s just… It’s very hard to get to the back of a man’s mind, the back of your own mind. You say things with the best of intentions, and you mean to do this and you mean to do that…
I got a chance there a couple of years ago. I could be back there [Ireland] now, working with my brother. He came over here, two years ago. He tried all the pubs around, anyhow, and he rang up here. He left a message here, to meet him, to ring him. I never did neither. [But he found me and] I told him I had no money, and he gave me £200, there and then.
That man has a young family. His son is about 21–22. And I was just thinking, what would THEY think of me?
They wanted me to go home that time. But I was working, regularly, with Conny, that time. The last year, I sort of lost the work, but it’s building up again. I expect to start again, shortly, with the same man I used to work for.
He was around looking for me a couple of weeks ago. I’ve worked with him for 14 years and he’s been very good to me. When my father died, he gave me £1,000 to go back for the funeral.
He brought me out to Brent Cross. My sister rang him up, at half five that morning, because she didn’t know where I was living, at the time. He picked me up here, at six, in his Merc. He dialled my sister, and he said, “ your sister wants to speak to you, she’s got news for you “. So, I spoke to her.
“ Your dad passed away “, she said, “ at half four this morning”.
Now, the subby was good about it. He asked me how much money I had. I had about £160. So he said, “ that’s no problem. Have you got clothes ?,” he said. And I had clothes; I used to keep myself about half-right, at the time.
“ Well,” he said, “ I’ll ring up Aer Lingus out at Heathrow and I’ll see what time you can get the first flight”. So, I could get the flight home at 11.00 that day. He rang my sister and I spoke to her and I said, “ I’ll be at Shannon at 12.00”.
He was a good subby. But, at the end of the day, he exploited me as well. He used me, like.
I could get carried away, talking about it.
Note: Jimmy passed away in Arlington House, a short time after this interview was completed. A well-loved character in the Camden area, he was sadly missed by many.
