Building in England is carried out mainly by Irishmen. It is a very strenuous occupation. Most Englishmen and other nationalities shun it like a plague. Men work out in all weathers. They are not deterred by a drop of rain, a fall of snow or a skiff of frost. They earn very high wages in comparison with people in other industries. They have no effective trade union, neither do they seek one. They drink heavily. They come from every walk of life. I met men who were teachers, priests, accountants, who had forsaken their professions in Ireland and gone to England to work on the buildings. I met men who could not write their names. I met men who were gentle as lambs and those who surpassed a pig for ignorance. There were gentle giants and small cranky men. There were those who became rich and those who never had a bob. A man had to be hard to fit into the gang. There was much respect for the one who drank beer by the gallon - the one who did not was treated as the exception and classified as inferior. There were men who were masters of their craft and those who never will be. There were men who improved their lot and those who never will. The categories are legion. I worked with them, argued with them, annoyed them. I played cards and replyed matches with them.
They all had one thing in common and that was home. Despite the fact they spent forty years in England, each yearned to return for good. To most it was a dream, to a few it was a reality. Their big earnings were oftentimes squandered at weekends. The gambler never learned, the heavy drinker seldom laid off. Learning was scoffed at. Arguments were many and some would accept any type of illogic as gospel, even though it was shit to the highest degree. There were men from all parts of Ireland. The one from Connemara was famous for his use of the scian, his counterpart from Dublin was fond of gang warfare. The men from Kerry were all supposed to be tall because they craned their necks as young lads to get a look into Cork over the Magillicuddy reeks. The men from the Midlands were all mad about horses because, it was said, some of them were born on their way to hospital on a nag's back. The men from Donegal were reputed to be the best tunnellers in the world because land was so scarce they had to burrow into the ground to hide themselves and the poitin from the cops.
In a discussion one night with my very good friend and mentor, Brendan Murphy, we came to the conclusion that a book could written about them all. I decided there and then to do just that.
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