Showbands and Dancehalls
Interviewed in his room in Arlington House, 27.11.98, Dan was anxious to show off his books, and the neat collection of vases and ornaments that he and his girlfriend had collected.
Although suffering from poor health, he claimed that he would willingly have gone back to work, had suitable work been available. His whole life had been focused around work and survival, and without work, there was an emptiness, and too much time to kill.
I’m from the West of Ireland, Roscommon… All that was there was mountains, the Atlantic ocean and America in the distance. I still remember it, even though…well. Ah, Jesus, I haven’t been there since 1975.
There was no such thing [then] that looked like a watch or a clock, just the sun and the moon. They were good days. Good people. We were small farmers. My father, he died from lung cancer. He wasn’t a drinking man at all, but smoke, smoke, smoke… My mother…d’ye know what my mother done? She was in this country [England] before the war, and when the war started in 1939, she learned to drive, and for two years she drove ambulances. And I always remember that people would say to her, “weren’t you worried about them German bombs, while you were picking the people up?”
And she’d say, “ I was just worried about picking the people up, forgot about the Germans…”
She came back to Ireland, then — she came back in 1941.
We lived in a small little village. There was another man here [in the hostel], John Dunne, who died a couple of years ago, who worked in my village.
I never went to school. I only got educated when I come to this country. My aunts taught me to read and write. I can only write by printing. If you asked me to write fancy writing, well, I can’t do it. In the west of Ireland, the priest used to come round — “ why isn’t he goin’ to school?” And he’d be told — “ Aw, sure, it was bad last week, he had to help with the hay-making. This week, he has to help with so and so…” That was the way it was. I went a week here, and a week, there. When I come to this country, my aunt told me, you’d better learn to read and write. So, I picked it up, like.
I came over here in 1966. Relations of mine were over here and so, I come over. Everybody was going [emigrating] at that time, mostly to England. The West Coast for most people that time… Well, there was nothing there, really.
There was two breweries and bottling stores, but they’re closed down now. I had a job there one time, and that’s how I got to know the rest of the West of Ireland. I was in a van, delivering round Leitrim and Roscommon. It was lovely, going with the ‘oul trolley, delivering the beer in. To me, those were great days, and I’d love to relive them back again.
England — the first day, I arrived in Piccadilly, Manchester. An aunt o’ mine met me. She’s in a home now, actually, in a place called Whalley Range. I didn’t stay long in Manchester, because I had a first cousin o’ mine livin’ in Dagenham in Essex. There was plenty o’ work there, so I went straight to London and out to Essex. I had some good happy days there, in Essex, too. Jasus, they were great days, too. I worked with contractors for Ford. I worked for Scott Hale and them [other firms]. Harry Webb from Romford… I never worked for Ford, itself. I met some great characters ‘round Dagenham, and in a way it reminds me of Inverness Street, y’know, the markets here in Camden. Fruit stalls and stuff like that. Aw, it was good, it was great. I was young, that time.
There was a great Irish club in Romford, the Shandon. It’s long closed down, now. A great Irish dancehall. You had two hospitals there, you had Oldchurch, and then you had a TB hospital called Rush Green, and so you had all the nurses there. I used to go with a nurse from Cork, there. Aw, Jasus, a great dancehall it was. Gone now. All the bands of the time used to come — Big Tom and the Mainliners, Dickie Rock, who were all the go at the time. A mate o’ mine in here [in Arlington House], says he used to play with the Dixies [a hugely popular showband]. The Dixies — that’s goin’ back a long time ago. They were good bands, all showbands, [at] that time.
I remember one time we came all the way — we got lost — to a dancehall in Tottenham Court Rd., the Blarney. Comin’ back to Dagenham, we finished up at Crewe! We woke up at Crewe in the early hours of the morning. I said, “ what time is the train goin’ back, ‘guvnor?”, and he said, “ you got to wait till morning”. We didn’t know London that time. Them were good days, they were good.
Most of my life, I worked in the building game. I met some great characters over the years, doin’ wheelin’ dealin’ sellin’ gear on markets. I done that… but what did I get out of it? I ended up in here.
Well, when I left Essex, I went with a Limerick bloke. He done well for himself — he’s in Australia, now. We went to Jersey together. We had three months in Jersey, and we had a good few pound saved up. Then he come back to Dagenham again, and he went from Tilbury docks to Australia. I finished up in Southampton, and I went wrong…
I worked for a while, stayed in Shirley, with a Yugoslavian family. No hot water at all, the floorboards was rotten, and £8 a week. To me, it was great. I was young. Then I came back to London, to the East End. I lived a long number a years in the East End.
To me, it was one of the best times I ever had in my life. We met some great characters, gangsters, the whole lot. Never got involved, but. I loved that East End, but now… it’s finished.
Once you get in with the EastEnders, they’re great people. But if you pull a stroke on them (grimmaces)— oh, ho, ho, ho, ho! Great people! There were a lot of Irish pubs — the Murphys pubs in Whitechapel. I think there’s only one left, now.
There was a club off Bethnal Green Rd — and the owner, he was a Dublin man, Shaunnessy, and Lord a bless him, he’s dead now. I remember one incident there — and I’m not a violent person… My late woman, before she died, she went all yellow. Liver disease, of course. I used to use the club regularly, to buy her tobacco, like. So, one Sunday, there was a load a roadsweepers, Cockneys, in there. Most of them were alright, but some a them had a bad sense of humour. I bumped through the bar and right up to the counter. One of them said, “ Hey Paddy, where’s the chinawoman?”.
Aw, Jasus, I didn’t like that. I kicked the tables, the drinks, the whole lot over. The bar woman, she come out, and she was a big woman. “Get your drink,” she said to them. I thought I was going to get barred. “Get out,” she said to them. “Never insult a woman,” she said to them. She was a Scotswoman, and she knew my woman, another Scotswoman. And she barred the whole lot o’ them, though they were regulars. She was a great character, and her husband was a Dublin man. A very quiet man. Would never say a word. She was the boss, like. It was a great place, all nationalities together, and no prejudice. It’s an Indian community centre, now.
All gone now. Same as Camden Town, finished now. It’s not for the working class anymore.
Seven years ago, she died. I would have stayed in the place [the council flat he shared with his girlfriend], like, but I didn’t have a tenancy agreement or that. So, with me not being a tenant of the London Borough of Hackney. I had to get out of it, like. They give me time to get out, like. So, fair dues to them, that way.
And so, I ended up in here [Arlington House hostel]. A lot of the lads in here, I knew anyway, through working with them. But I’m still trying to get a flat out of here. I want to get out.
July ’88, I came in here. I had been staying with friends for a while, kipping on floors. Stayed with two brothers from Armagh. Very decent people. Stayed with Pat Barkins, a man from the Shankill Rd., and his wife is from Galway. If I went over there, today, it’d be “c’mon in, ya dosser!”. A great fella. Whisky drinker, but never during the week. Looks after his wife and children first. O, great people, North & South.
Well, when I came in here, it was a great house, this. Two great ladies used to run this house, and aw, Jasus, they were brilliant. Today… well, it’s not good and it’s not bad, either. There’s so many young people in here, y’know, I feel sorry for them. We were only talking last night, me and Sean G. and Joe B., that when we were that age we were working up and down the length of the country… But that’s the way it is, I suppose. It’s a shame, really. And up where I am, this room, it’s not bad.
No matter how much I drink, I never forget all the lads that have died. I’m getting a mass said for them, next week. I never forget these people, not because they were part of this house, but because they were great characters. Characters like you’d never meet again. Take Tim Buckley: no matter where you’d be working in this country, you’d meet Buckley, and he’d call you back, “d’ye want a drink?.” And Dan Driscoll, a west Cork man…
I went to arrange to get a mass said, knocked on the priest’s door there on Arlington Rd, where they used to give the sandwiches out; and the woman who answered the door, well, I think she thought I wanted a sandwich. So, she slammed the door on me, like. But I’m going to try one day, again. I want to give the priest the money for the mass.
There’s a load of old people in here, and they used to come down every night, down to the club room. Since those young kids come in here, they don’t come down, now. I was talking to a man from Southampton. I worked with him on a job in Barking in 1975. He doesn’t drink, anymore. He had a big operation. He’s a gambling man. And he says that he doesn’t come downstairs any more. Doesn’t want to. With these young kids about. The place is changed, aw, it is. In the early nineties it was a good house. Now, they got to book so many young people in here, there’s so many rules and regulations. It’s a shame, really. There was a young lad here, last night, and I don’t know where he come from, but he was sick as a dog. Twenty-seven years of age.
The last job I had was 1992. At the British Museum. I was there for five years. And I finished, on medical grounds, in 1992. I worked with a tradesman there, and it was the best job I ever had. There was a young chippy there, from Belfast, and he come to see me after I left. But he hasn’t come to see me for a while. When I came here first, I was working every day. And I often say to myself, if I hadn’t come here, would I still be working?
I had to go in front of a “sick panel” [health board] the other week. Questions, questions, questions, and they examined me, the whole lot. And when I was going away, I said, “excuse me, lady, I know it’s not your decision, but can I axe you a question?” She said, “yes?”. I said, “d’ye think I’m fit for work?” And she said, “No, and take care of yourself…” A reasonable woman.
I’ve been in hospital several times. I nearly come unstuck. Cancer of the throat. Operation, 1981. And still survived. I nearly went, that time. From nine stone three, down to seven stone, nine. I was young that time, in ’81. And I bounced back. Two big lumps came up — I thought they were nothing, and I was trying to burst them with a safety pin. Yeah. I was over three months in hospital. My hair fell out, the whole lot. And I thanked the doctors at the Royal Free Hospital. By Jasus, I kept to the rules, I didn’t drink for, uh, … And I never drink with tablets. Unlike some of them others out there…
Unlike some of the lads, I’m not always depending on that giro turning up, and then getting broke again the next day. If I know them, I’ll bail them out, lend them a few pound. I bought this jacket off a fella this morning, for two pound. I have loads of jackets up here, but I felt sorry for him. He wanted two cans of beer, for he was rattling. But Jasus, I never let meself go to that extreme, y’know. I’ve been down, drinking and gambling, but I always keep a few bob put away, by the reception. They’ve a few bob up there for me.
But I’d like to get out of here. Get a nice flat or a bedsit, where I could be happy. I’d love to be able to get back to work again. Y’know, if I stayed off that drink… Look at that man, George, and he has worked on more heavy jobs and motorways and what have ye, and yet he never gives the drink a break, seven days a week…
I said to my last key-worker, if you find me dead in the room, take what you want of my stuff. Take them vases, take the whole lot. The little ornaments and that. My woman, Cathy, she loved them, you know. And when she died, I said to her sister, “you take what you want”. But she said no. I could have taken them down the East End to the market, and sold them. But no. What would I do with the money? Only drink it and gamble it. To me… Well, they have a sentimental value to me. To me, she was everything I had, and when she went… That’s why I went haywire. Sometimes when I’m not drinking, and I’m up there late at night, reading a book, I’d look at them things, and I’d think…if Cathy was alive, she’d love to see them there. They’re part of my life, like.
Y’know my sister contacted me after twenty-two years, recently. I wrote her back, but I got no reply. I wonder why that should be? She said that she was going to send me on photos of herself and the husband and the kids, who I’ve never met. I’m trying to get back into my family again, like.
My sister done well in this country. And me, only for drink and gambling, I could have done the same. She had two houses in this country, …oh, she done well.
When I think of it now, I wish to God that I’d never come over. Even when my sister wrote that letter after twenty-two years, she didn’t mention…all she said was, “I’ve got a few cattle in the ‘oul place back home.” “They’re [family members] all dead,” she said.
I fell out with my family, fell out wi’ them for years. My own stupidity. They were good to me. I had the opportunity to make money… I didn’t do it, like. And my family did. My sister. She made quite a bit o’ money. And I’m delighted for her now. When I sit above in my room, and I think about it — where did I go wrong ? All the years I’ve worked. I worked seven days a week on building sites. The money…went….
That letter — I’m worried about that. My sister contacted me after all those years. And I wrote back, I posted the letter in the box, right. But I’ve got her phone number upstairs and I’m going to show it to my support worker because Christmas is coming and I want to write to her and send her a Christmas card. She must have got the letter, surely. And I want to get in contact with her again. Meet her, eventually.
But would I go back to Ireland ? Y’never know. I might. I’ve been asked to go on the Aisling trips, but I’ve never went. It would bring too many bad memories back. If I did go back, I’d like to go back on my own, under my own steam. And reminisce. With company, no, I couldn’t handle it.
