FEBRUARY 26th, 1966: Writer Dónall Mac Amhlaigh was a regular contributor to The Irish Times in the 1960s and in this piece he described his experiences on the dole in Ireland in the early 1950s and what was then a regular feature of every town, the "corner-boys", unemployed men who stood all day on a corner commenting on the passing scene.
THERE WAS first and foremost the cardinal act of the day – signing – . . . and afterwards many of the men would station themselves at their favourite street corner from where they kept a tireless vigil on all that passed.
I spent odd hours on the corner myself but I never attained the stamina of the true devotees who could stand for hours on end in all but the wettest of weather with their backs against the polished walls of the bank. The tedium of this existence was relieved by fragmentary conversation and provocative remarks or libellous disclosures about the appearance or private life of some passer-by.
There would also, at intervals, take place that odd performance that seems to be characteristic of corner boys in all towns – a sudden stepping out to the kerbside accompanied by an energetic rubbing of the hands and then a swift return to the position vacated a moment before. Here in England, I have often seen Dublin or Belfast lads go through this movement while reminiscing about their corner-boy days at home.
Not all who passed by were accorded such scant respect, however. There was the usual respectful salute for the clergy or a popular businessman, and one old veteran of the Northwest Frontier, with his well-parroted few words of Hindustani, never failed to exact a toll from a retired Indian army major who made sporadic attacks on the town. A couple of the regular habitues of the corner, when drunk, would try their hand at a form of extortion – staggering into the path of some likely mark and begging the price of a pint – but for the most part they annoyed no one.
One of these was a man of exceptional hardiness, an ex-commando with a fine physique being slowly ruined by drink, idleness and lack of nourishment; he always wore a hat, at a gangsterish angle, and a well-cut check suit that no amount of wear could make shabby. This man spoke in monosyllables only – delivered, Bogart-like, from the corner of the mouth – and for bravado, left his shirt-front open throughout the coldest part of the year. In drink he became loquacious, interesting even, but he generally grew aggressive before the night was out.
My first port-of-call after signing, however, was not the corner, but the library; here in the reading room all the daily papers and periodicals could be gone through at will. You had to be an early bird to beat some of the regulars to the papers, but while awaiting your turn you could post yourself strategically near to the newspaper of your choice, with some magazine, whose contents did not become stale after 24 hours . . . The library, even more than the corner, had its quota of characters. There was the tall old gentleman who always beat you to the paper you wanted, and then proceeded to read every dot of print on it with the aid of a long-handled magnifying glass, occasionally uttering such loud sighs as to cause the librarian to rap sharply on her desk and point meaningfully to the printed sign that said “Silence”. And an old lady in a bedraggled fox fur, who glared at me malevolently, daring you to covet her lantern.
Through the library window, from across the river, the Town Clock could be heard musically striking each quarter hour; as soon as the Angelus had struck, and was loudly recited by the man with the magnifying glass, I used make off for the centre of the town. Round about this time the traffic always increased, and the boot factory girls would be cycling home to dinner, and life on the dole was so uneventful that little things like these were looked forward to as a break in the monotony.
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