The Good Companions
Interview with Phil & Peter, the Kildare Bhoys, Arlington House hostel, 1997.
Phil had a Scottish and Irish background, though he primarily and proudly identified himself as Irish. Though chronic illness and having only one leg meant that Phil found it difficult to get out and about, he remained a well-liked and popular figure in the hostel. During the course of our interview [while Phil remained in bed, in his room], we were interrupted many times, by visitors dropping in to have a chat with Phil, or to see if he was alright, as he he had been suffering from the ‘flu. His close friend and neighbour, Peter, who was brought up close to Phil, in County Kildare, joined us, “ for a bit of craic” and added his own opinions…
There was seven of us. I was the second youngest. Originally, I had come from Glasgow, and I had family there. I’m the only one in the family with an Irish accent, apart from me mother and father. Yeah, see what happened, and I’m not telling lies — see, when the war broke out in 1939, the bloody Germans were heading for the Clyde , y’know, for to bomb the shipyards and engineering places… I was only six weeks old, when I was taken to Ireland. I was only a baby, I don’t even remember it, landing in Ireland. But, I’m very glad, today, that I was.
I grew up in Naas, just outside Naas. It was only a little village. I worked in the cotton mills. I worked there till I was eighteen, then I got fed up. I made my way to Dublin to the North Wall. I got fed up in the cotton mills, so I went to the North Wall, and jumped on the boat for Glasgow. Awww, I was happy then, I was happy then. Me family was there.
I got the boat from there to Glasgow. I worked in pubs, there. I worked on the buses; the tram-cars first, because the tram cars were going at that time. That was 1957, when I first came over. I got fed up with the tram-cars, went on the buses, then [laughs] they called me up to the air force.
National service was going at that time. You were supposed to do two years, but they let you out after 18 months. The trouble in Cyprus was going on at that time, but I never left the British Isles, heh, heh [laughs]. The nearest I got to it [going abroad] was Lucas in Fife [Scotland]. I was a steward in the officers’ mess, puttin’ up their dinners. I was USELESS, honest to God, I was! Haw, haw [cackles loudly]. AND PROBABLY STILL AM !!
This really happened to me, in Bridge North, when I was doing the basic training. It’s about twenty miles from Wolverhampton. I was a steward in the officers’ mess, serving them. And this fella came in, called Ray Coot. I had went to school with him.
I said, “ hello Ray”.
He had the pips on, he was a pilot.
He said, “ don’t call me Ray,” he said, “ call me SIR”.
And I said, “ YOU DIRTY BASTARD !! The two of us went to school together, and I’ve to call you ‘ SIR’??”
There was a Welshman there, the NAAFI sergeant, and I said, “ I’ll kill that bastard!”; but he said:
“ You’re not big enough. Leave him !. Forget about it….” [laughs].
A mate of mine, John McTaggart — we call him Mad Mac — is the only one who was in the air force and was NEVER in an aeroplane. [Laughs].
After I left the air force, I went back to Glasgow, and I went on the buses. The tram-cars were finished, then. I was a conductor, I wasn’t a driver or nuthin’. I never drove nuthin’.
Glasgow — it’s all Irish there. Every other name you hear is Murphy or O’Hara. They have a great time for the Irish there, so they have. Sure, every other pub ye go to there, is Irish. If it’s not Irish, it’s Irish that’s running it.
I was here in 1964. I stayed in this house (Arlington House Hostel) for a few weeks. Then, there were little cubicles, half the size of this. Little cubicles.
I met a girl, then. We got a place in Kentish Town. It was a county Down man that owned the house. We said, “ we’re not married”.
He said, “ I couldn’t care less, whether you’re married or not !” he said, “you’re welcome anyway, as long as ye behave yerselves !.” [Laughs]
Which we did !
We settled down, but not for very long. Near enough a year. The wanderlust — is that the word for it ? — the wanderlust came over me. I started wandering about. See, I was very young, then. I headed off to different parts of England: Coventry, Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool… I loved Liverpool. I used to love Liverpool, it’s like they were all Irish, not patronising. Jesus Christ, once they heared your Irish accent [laughs] … Same as Glasgow. It was the same. When they hear your Irish accent…
I did all kinds of work. Mostly on the buildings. When I went to Liverpool, Edgehill, Mrs Kavanagh, she was there, from County Carlow. Aw, Jesus Christ, she was a lovely woman: “ don’t forget you’re always welcome here,” she said.
I knew she meant what she was saying, but I never went back to Liverpool after that. Edgehill, the most of them are Irish there anyway. In fact, no matter what part of Liverpool you go to, they’re all Irish.
I never stayed in [work] camps. I either stayed in a room, or got full board, or whatever. And I’d be a liar if I said I had any trouble because I was Irish.
I worked around most parts of London. Up in Cricklewood, Kilburn and Cricklewood, that’s where you had to go to if you wanted a job. Yeah. There was a cafe in Chicelle rd in Cricklewood, near enough opposite the Crown [a famous N. London Irish pub] and you stood there like a — honest to God, now — like a PROSTITUTE, looking for a bit of work. …But, you were always sure of getting a job.
And Tina [in the cafe] — they were from Milan, in Italy — ah, Jesus, they were LOVELY people. They wouldn’t see ya hungry. As long as you made sure to pay them back, when you got a few bob, you’d get yer breakfast in the morning. You got a job, and at that time, it was four and a half quid a shift. You would go back when you got your few pound, pay Tina for the breakfast.
She’d give you a feed. AND ! She’d make sure you had the price of a packet of smokes ! LOVELY people.
There was plenty of work, plenty of money. Then, in the bad winter of 1963 I was working in London, and the building trade folded. You couldn’t get a job, anywhere. The building trade completely folded, even conversion jobs. So I said, fuck it, I’m going back to Glasgow.
I was sure of getting me job back on the buses, the bus conductin’. I was happy to get back there, among friends. A lot of people say, ah Glasgow, they’re Scots, but naw,… they’re all Irish. If they’re not Irish, they’re Irish descent. That’s the truth.
Then, in 1967, I settled here.
(At this point, Phil’s friend Peter joined us, and added his own comments)
It was a probation officer that put me in here [in Arlington House hostel]. From Marylebone Court. My wife Bronagh said: “ No, you’re not getting back into MY house”. Now, I’m NOT a violent man.
Peter — “You’re not coming back,” she said.
Phil — That’s right. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not a violent man.
Peter — She still loves him. Tell him she still comes down.
Phil — She does, yeah. She’s from Portstewart.
Peter — Portstewart. She’s a good woman. A BIG woman. And a GOOD woman !
Phil — Bleaugghh [coughs bashfully].
Peter — And she still loves you. Go on, tell him that.
Phil — [Shyly] Well… I hope she does. I’m not sure [laughs].
Peter — Well, she doesn’t hit ye, does she? She doesn’t hit ye. Say “she doesn’t hit me.”
Phil — She doesn’t.
Peter — She doesn’t what ?
Phil — SHE FUCKIN’ DOES !! I’ll tell the TRUTH !
Peter — [Laughs]
Phil — [Quietly] She fuckin’ does!
Peter — NOW you got it [laughs] !
Phil — Ah, you know her!
Peter — He’s only got one leg. G’wan, tell him, tell him you’re fucking legless. Sheltered housing is no good. They won’t look after him the way we look after him. No problem. We all look after him.
Phil — Sure if I left here, I’d be lost. Honest to God, now. I must tell you the truth, I’d be lost if I left here. I’m happy enough here. You’ve company, a bit of company, and if you want to hide away — what’s the best way of saying it ? — if you want to lose yourself, you come in and go to bed.
Peter — You get help from your comrades. [Loudly] I was sick for a whole weekend and I was screaming for help, and they said, “aw fuck him, fuck him, he’s drunk, he’s drunk, he’s drunk.” [Quietly] And I was sick, I WASN’T drunk. I couldn’t get up. I pissed on the bed, I pissed on the floor. Aw, my Jesus Christ Almighty. Drink? I didn’t drink, bejasus, for six months.
Phil — It’s the truth.
Phil — People on the outside don’t like us. They look down their nose.
Peter — According to them we’re dossers. Years ago, in 1920 or something, when it was a shilling a night, you were an off-the-street dosser. You were homeless, you were a no-good bastard and that’s it. But nowadays, in the nineteen nineties, it’s £120 a week in Arlington House. And there’s good service. We’ve got bathrooms, we’ve got toilets, and we got a good canteen. Aw, Arlington House is alright. We got four television rooms. But they [people on the outside] say, look at them dirty dossers, they think we’re loused up or something.
Phil — AN ‘OUL DOSS HOUSE ! I’ve heard them saying it, Jim ! Ohhh, he’s from that doss house. I said to this bitch of a woman, …. We were drinking on the slab in Inverness street, y’know, where the market is. We could sit and drink, and this fucking bitch, — God forgive me for saying that…
Peter — She threw the water over ye ?
Phil — That was the guv’nor [the manager of a local pub]. That blauuughhh ! [pulls a disgusted face].
Peter — Yeah. Threw a bucket a water over him.
Phil — A Cork cunt ! Maaughhh !
Peter — He come from Cork. OH, LORD JESUS !
Phil — It’s the truth ! Me and Terry Dixon. Aw, Jasus, I lost the head. Terry Dixon had been through the Korean War, and decorated and everything. He [the manager of a local pub] threw a bucket of water over the two of us. Terry is dead now, Lord have mercy on him. He was from Dundee. …The dirty bastard [the manager]. D’ye know what I done ? I give this young Cockney fellas £20, I said, “dive [smash] in his fucking windows tonight.”
AND THEY DID IT.
There!
And I was laughing when I passed by the next morning. I was laughing, for they had the glaziers — that’s as true as God, may I never get off this bed! Jasus, wasn’t I GLAD. I said [sweetly], “ye’ve lovely windows, YE ‘OUL CORK CUNT.” He’d no fucking windows! Oh, the lads…! That’s as true as God!
Peter — He’d no windows!
Phil — NO FUCKING WINDOWS! But it cost me £20 to pay the young fellas.
Peter — Was it worth it?
Phil — IT WAS. It was worth it. …The dirty cunt.
Phil — I went through the mill [had some bad times], but there are very few bad people here. Peter will tell ye. Very few. Share and share alike. They’re very friendly.
Peter — I know nearly every fucker here. I’ve met a lot of the ‘oul boys here. I go away out at six o’clock in the morning, half five, for their papers. I get the ‘oul daily papers, and I go to the off-licence for them. I get them half bottle of brandy, half bottle of whiskey, or half bottle of gin, whatever they wants. I take their money and I give them back their change. They trust me and that’s it. Them ‘oul bhoys from the sick bay. Yes. You won’t go short in here, put it that way.
Phil — Most of the time he doesn’t drink.
Peter — I’ve got six months money. In me pocket — LOOK !….. All the bhoys want [to borrow] a few pound off me [grinning].
NOTES:
Regretably, ‘Phil’ passed away due to poor health, shortly after this interview was completed. Peter, who was very saddened by his friend’s death, left Arlington House shortly afterward.
