The Irish Are Coming. Ryan Tubridy
monikers are only one part of a much bigger story and a much deeper relationship.
Anglo-Irish relations deteriorated again with the Troubles of the 70s and 80s. The British looked askance at anyone with an Irish accent and wondered if they had a whiff of sulphur about them, or if they were related to someone who might be troublesome. Then there were the gross injustices of the Birmingham Six and the Guildford Four when people were just picked up off the street and banged away until eventually justice came along. Throughout that time, Terry Wogan was enormously important as a symbol of the civilized Irish. Every morning from 1972 to 1984 people woke to the tones of a cheery Irishman who made them forget about the unrest and reassess their view of the nation, then throughout the 80s he was on their TVs every evening straight after the news. I’ve always thought Wogan was more important than he’s given credit for in terms of tempering the British view of the Irish at a critical time.
The peace process came along in the 1990s, leading up to the Good Friday Agreement of 1998. Sure, there have been ups and downs since but once Queen Elizabeth came to Ireland in 2011 and was seen belly-laughing with a fishmonger in Cork, it seemed clear the Cold War was over and the neighbours were friends at last.
The Irish in Britain
The question this book asks is ‘What have the Irish ever done for the UK?’ Sit comfortably, because the answer is rather longer than you might realize … Who invented the submarine? Who is the cleverest funny man in Britain? Who is the most-loved radio host? Who makes the best hats for royal occasions? Who populates the cast of Harry Potter films? Who raised hell like no others? Who reports from the world’s most treacherous hot spots? You know where this is going but you’ll have to read on in order to equip yourself with such ‘Oh, I never knew that’ moments.
From the Duke of Wellington (the man, not the pub) to the Coach and Horses (the hostelry of choice for Richard Harris and Peter O’Toole) and from Eamonn Andrews to Graham Norton, the Irish have served and been served by the UK. This book is intended as a friendly postcard or, at the very least, a yellow Post-it from one neighbour to another with a view to reminding each other of how we’ve enriched each other’s lives, in sickness and in health, for richer and for … you get the idea.
I wrote this to celebrate those born in the Republic who came to live in Britain (for a time at least) and made a significant impact on British life.
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Inclusion is based on a more or less arbitrary decision-making process by a committee of one, with no discussion and no voting. This is not Eurovision or a council election. This is one man’s curiosity about two countries that mean so much to each other. I haven’t included Bono, who is of course a household name in the UK, because he has always remained resident in Ireland. I haven’t included Daniel Day Lewis because he was born in England although he now has Irish citizenship. I haven’t included anyone from the North of Ireland because their history of emigration to England and reasons for emigrating are an entirely different story. I’m writing about the country I’m from, and George Best, Kenneth Branagh and Patrick Kielty need a book of their own (maybe someone will write it one day). Having said all that, I might break my own rules sometimes – but that’s the author’s prerogative.
For each of the people my committee of one has chosen, I’ll be looking at why they came over, how they fared, what the Irish think of them, what the British think of them, and what I personally think of them. In this way, I hope to shine some light on our differences and similarities, our shared quirks and oddities, and the way history has affected our views of each other.
So let’s get on with it and endeavour to discover how the Irish really did help to make Britain Great.
THE IRISH HAVE A REPUTATION for drinking a lot – and make no mistake, we do drink a lot. There’s no point being politically correct about it. A 2009 survey found that 54 per cent of Irish adults engage in harmful drinking each year, compared to a European average of just 28 per cent. The oldest pub in Ireland is said to date back to 1198 and the Irish have been drinking ever since, perhaps to help them cope with all those centuries of hurt they blamed the English for. The first written mention of whiskey comes from 1405 and they famously invented the shebeen (Irish: síbín), a place where illegal home-brewed booze could be drunk without paying excise duties to the British.
Drinking has always been a sociable thing with the Irish. We don’t sit at home nursing a can of Guinness; we’re out there with our friends, supping a well-pulled pint and enjoying the craic. The pub is a place where deals are done, tips on the horses are passed along, and generally the world is set to rights. Until fifty or sixty years ago no decent lady would be seen in a pub (many banned them), but I’m delighted to say that the Irish now welcome just as many women in their drinking establishments as men.
When there was a wave of Irish folk emigrating to the UK in the 50s and 60s, it was soon noted that they had a taste for the hard stuff. The Americans had long known the Irish were that way inclined. If they wanted an Irishman in a Hollywood movie in the 1950s, they stuck Bing Crosby in a priest’s outfit with a whiskey in his hand. If they wanted an Irishwoman, they chose someone tired-looking, with twenty-five children and a boozy husband. The stereotype stuck for decades as the waves of economic migrants caught the ferry across to British shores.
It wasn’t just booze and builders the Irish were exporting to the UK in the 50s and 60s. Some of our home-grown actors fancied playing in front of the bigger, more cosmopolitan audiences of London’s West End and making names for themselves in the movies so they sauntered over, complete with their home-grown drinking habits. If they made fools of themselves appearing drunk on chat shows, it was only part and parcel of the world they lived in. Besides, the English had Oliver Reed and the Welsh had Richard Burton, so it’s not as though they were drinking alone.
The ones I put into the ‘hellraiser’ category weren’t just boozers, though; they upgraded their drinking until they were completely out there. It was a Gatsby party done three-six-five days a year, and it included plenty of womanizing and sometimes a snort of white powder as well. Yet these were extraordinarily talented men who managed to work hard and play hard. How they were able to hit the tiles and hit the boards at the same time I’ll never know, but they lived to a good old age – well, most of them.
Back home the Irish watched with a mixture of pride at the awards ceremonies and horror at the tabloid headlines, but always there was a sense of ‘He’s one of ours.’ And the first two hellraisers I’m going to talk about are legends who completely transcend their boozy reputations because they were simply so amazing at what they did.
RICHARD HARRIS: the excessive-compulsive
1 October 1930–25 October 2002
If I win an award for something I do, the London papers describe me as ‘the British actor Richard Harris’. If I am found drunk in a public place, they always refer to me as ‘the Irish actor Richard Harris’.
Standing proudly in the south-west of Ireland there’s a significant province that reeks of rebellion, tenacity and belligerence. That province is Munster, and within Munster is Limerick, a city that produces paradoxes by the cartload. A rugby city with a large working-class population, there is a celebrated statue that shows two players, arms outstretched, grasping for a ball. One of the players is a docker, the other a doctor. Together they play for the same club, province and (if lucky) country. They work hard, they play hard and they are unconcerned by class. Welcome to the city that gave the world Richard Harris, a city where two classes met and mingled freely.
In fact, Richard Harris’s father started out wealthy – he was a flour mill owner –