Christy Sullivan; Dublin Barber.

Well there he is at the top of the page; my dad – Chris Sullivan and if he had lived he would be 100 years old today March 9^th 2013.

Here he is again with me and my brud - brud on the left with me on the right:

and again on the left with the full family – except that's not my mother; that's my aunt; my mother took the picture. I'm the one next to my aunt:

( See bottom for the original picture.)

He always kidded that he would live till he was 92; whenever the gypsies came to the door to sell pegs and tell his fortune he would say “I know I know; I'm gonna live till I'm 92” but he didn't; he popped his clogs 22 years ago yesterday, March eighth; it was quite pathetic on the morning after his death to see the birthday cards arrive in the mail to wish him a happy birthday when he wasn't there to celebrate. It was a very quick death so it didn't bother him much but, like all quick deaths, it left the rest of the family devasted and shocked.

He came across to England during the war to help with the war effort and earn money at the same time. He went to Liverpool, Manchester and eventually settled in Birmingham where he stayed till he retired and then bought a bungalow in Northampton which is where he died.

Originally he was a barber in Dublin but business was never too good; he would sit my mother in the chair where he would pretend to cut her hair trying to make the shop look busy. I had a similar kind of job when I was about 14 when I worked in a café as a dishwasher and potato peeler and sat in the window eating sausage, egg and chips to try and attract customers; might sound attractive but there is nothing so base as a wet tea towel when you're trying to dry the delf and nothing so rough and horribly oderous as rotten potatoes (that's where the 'e' comes in, Dan) when you're trying to peel them! 

The skinflint of a café owner would buy the cheapest potatoes full of frost bitten brown bits and eyes and I was supposed to put them into a potato peeler. That was a big barrel with sharp sides which were supposed to take the peel off but never touched the eyes or the brown bits so when he wasn't looking I threw the really bad ones up to the top of his garden.

Later on my brud took the job and threw his bad potatoes in to the same place; the owner saw them one day and said “I was disappointed to see a load of potatoes in the garden” - “I thought someone planted them” I wish I'd have said; that's where the saying l'esprit d'escalier(*) came from, I suppose.

There were certain places in England called Rowton Houses; these were essentially working men's hotels and were established by a philanthropist called Lord Rowton. The first one, I believe was built in Vauxhall, London in 1892 and the one in Birmingham was built in 1903 and could house over 800 men @ the cost of 6d per night. That is 2½p in today's money.

“The Birmingham Rowton was later renamed the Highgate Hotel but conditions for the residents declined considerably. By 1973, the hostel offered 500 beds at 65p per night and its clientele included a large number of Irish building workers. Subcontractors picked up men from the establishment and took them off to building sites all over the Midlands for which they (the subcontractors) were paid from £4 to £7 for a 12-hour shift, cash in hand with no tax or national insurance.

In September 1978 the Sunday Times reported that 'in this depressing five storey pile there were only nine baths for the 450 inmates. The WCs lacked doors and seats, and no toilet paper was provided. The corridors were dark and cavernous. Bedsheets were discoloured, and a 25p fine was imposed for bedwetting.'

In the mid-1990s, the building was refurbished as a modern hotel. Rooms now (2007) cost £100 per night compared to 6d. a century ago!” (Wikipedia)

Last year Equity, the actors union, held their Annual Representative Conference in Birmingham and delegates were put up at The Rowton House; I have to say I heard many complaints about the conditions.

My dad stayed there for a little while during the war and also joined the Home Guard as his job on the Railway was considered essential so he didn't qualify for the call up - conscription or the draft. 

In the home guard he joked that the only battle he took part in was the battle of Kingsbury Range; I would go to Kingsbury Range later to fire the Lee Enfield .303 rifle which was the same weapon they used during the Second World War.

So here we are 100 years after his birth remembering my dad who went on to be the boss of Lawley Street Railway Goods Depot; when I first went to work for the post office, before I went on the motor bikes, I had to deliver the telegrams by foot – well not deliver by foot I would hand them over by hand – and I heard talk in the office of a 'Lawley' and wondered what that was. It turned out to be the longest walk for any telegram to be delivered from head office and a dreaded task, especially if the weather was bad. The telegrams themselves were just confirmations and were thrown into a pile at the end of the long walk.

The people I gave the telegrams to didn't know that I was the son of their boss. These days there are no such things as telegrams and the messages I would be taking from Birmingham city centre to Lawley Street so long ago would be sent electronically.

A lot of strange things have happened, been invented and developed since my old pot and pan was born 100 years ago – not all good I have to say. Both world wars, man on the moon, the birth of the computer and the popularity of the dreaded private motor car. He popped off before 9/11 but he missed the London Olympics which he would have loved and he didn't see any of his great granchildren - but that's life.

This week we had an addition to the family in Dublin where my cousin's son welcomed another son into this world three days short of my dad's centenary and one wonders what range of delights and wonderment the new fella will witness over the next 100 years; here's to that thought.

* L'esprit de l'escalier or l'esprit d'escalier (literally, staircase wit) is a French term used in English that describes the predicament of thinking of the perfect comeback too late – as you pass on the stairs.

This is the photo as I found but I repaired it when I had nothing to do one day (the life of an actor).