They crossed the Irish Sea in their millions seeking a new life, and in the process reshaped Britain, building motorways and cities, filling churches, clubs and pubs, and stamping their identity on the landscape and the culture.
The Irish came in waves that started in the 19th century and continued through the Great Depression, the post-war boom, the swinging 60s, the Thatcher era and into the 21st century, one of the great migrations.
Many were unskilled labourers, or navvies; others were plumbers, teachers, nurses, dentists, writers and entertainers. Some became famous – Oscar Wilde, Fiona Shaw, Graham Norton – or had children who became famous – Shane MacGowan, Morrissey, Piers Morgan.
However, last week brought confirmation that the Irish community, for so long Britain’s biggest source of immigration, is withering. Census figures showed the number of Irish-born people living in England and Wales last year numbered 324,670, a fall of 80,000, or 20%, from a decade ago, when they numbered 407,357.
The UK’s Office for National Statistics says this is a long-term trend that started in 1961, when the Irish-born population peaked at 683,000, more than double the current number. Once the biggest group of those born outside the UK, the Irish are now fifth behind India, Poland, Pakistan and Romania.
“You see it in the Irish centres – an ageing, dying demography,” said Peter Shirlow, director of the University of Liverpool’s Institute of Irish Studies. Neighbourhoods that once teemed with Irish arrivals – such as the London district of Kilburn, nicknamed County Kilburn – are barely recognisable, said Shirlow. “If you go back there now there are Australian bars, French and Italian restaurants. The Irish bars are all gone, or commodified.”
Irish immigrants continue to arrive, their numbers fluctuating according to the economic opportunities in Ireland and the UK, but not in big enough numbers to replenish the older ones who are dying off. It is a slow-motion, tectonic change.
The scale of the Irish influx into Victorian Britain lowered wages and divided the working class. Karl Marx observed: “The ordinary English worker hates the Irish worker as a competitor who lowers his standard of life.” The satirical magazine Punch depicted the Irish as ape-like criminals with too many children.
Outright racism ebbed, but discrimination endured while the bulk of arrivals were working class. IRA bombings in England in the 1970s and 80s renewed suspicion and resentment.
The Irish wove tight bonds by clustering in certain areas, meeting at church and socialising in pubs and Irish centres, said Shirlow. “It was a very coherent and at times very supportive environment. You could connect and have a sense of identity away from home.”
That began to change in the 1990s when more arrivals were well-educated professionals – financiers, scientists, academics who had less interest in Catholicism or venues adorned with tricolours and sepia-tinged photos. They socialised with – and often married – British colleagues. Attendance at traditional Irish pubs and centres dwindled.
“That has severe ramifications for the older community – we see a lot of isolation and mental health and care issues,” said Shirlow. “But there is also a point here to celebrate. It’s as if the Irish have arrived: they don’t need to hive themselves off. They’ve found the confidence to be citizens of the UK.”
Bernard Purcell, editor and managing editor of the Irish World, a weekly London-based paper, said the numbers of Irish-born may be shrivelling but their children and grandchildren are thriving in business, the arts and sport. “It’s not as homogenous but the Irish community is alive and well. There are many Irish people in this country with English accents.”
Purcell noted the irony of the rugby club London Irish becoming a feeder for the England team. “It shows the nature of integration.”
Donal Corbett, chair of the London branch of the Gaelic Athletic Association, was phlegmatic about the changes. “We have a lot of youth players. We have a number of clubs who have their own London-born teams and that’s thriving. We’re looking at second-, third-, fourth- or fifth-generation players.”
For old-timers like Peggy O’Donoghue, who is originally from County Kerry, the dwindling number of Irish people in Cricklewood, north-west London, is a sad thing. “There’s not many left now,” she said, standing inside Carters card shop, which sells rosaries as well as stationery. “I suppose the youth are not coming over. It would be nice to have a few more. It’s only elderly people in Cricklewood now.”
Most of the institutions O’Donoghue knew are gone, including Eddie’s newsagents and the Galtymore dance hall, which opened in 1952 and went on to pack in the punters for performers such as Joe Dolan and Big Tom McBride. “We were there Friday, Saturday, Sunday. All the Irish people in London would be there. You’d fall out of the Galty at 2am or 3am and you’d be fine. Some of them would get picked up by the police – we’d call it Paddy’s taxi.”
The Galty closed in 2008 and the site remains vacant. There are two Irish pubs left: Barrett’s and the Lucky 7, where “all the old boys” go, O’Donoghue said. These pubs were both quiet on Friday afternoon; the streets were busy instead with worshippers from the local mosque.
The Irish county flags hanging outside the Lucky 7 looked bedraggled. None of the old boys there or at Barrett’s wanted to discuss the falling numbers of Irish people.
“I’m meeting someone. I’ve no time to talk,” one regular said, then ordered another pint.
