Thomas Dudley, universally known as ‘Bang Bang’, was famous for travelling on the buses of Dublin and holding pretend shoot-outs with the people of the city with a large church key as his ‘gun’. He is fondly remembered by many people who lived in the tenements for the fun and joy he brought to the streets of the city, writes HARRY WARREN

 

Walking through the Coombe area of Dublin, you’ll find a wonderful monument to the old Coombe Maternity Hospital, a place where generations of Dubliners first entered the world.
The original entrance has been preserved, and if you take a moment to wander around the back, you’ll discover a touching tribute engraved at its base, the names of Dublin’s beloved old street characters.

Among them, one name stands out, sure to bring a smile to the face of anyone who remembers him, ‘Bang, Bang’. His story is one that deserves to be told.

In the Dublin of the early 20th century, the city’s streets were alive with a rich tapestry of characters, individuals who, despite the hardships of the time, brought colour and life to the grey cobblestones.

Few figures stood out more than Thomas Dudley, though to Dubliners, he was known by a different name, Bang Bang. With his brass key in hand and a mischievous grin, he roamed the city, ‘shooting’ buses, trams, and passers-by with his imaginary six-shooters, shouting ‘Bang! Bang!’ as he went.

His playful antics and gentle humour made him a cherished figure, a reminder that even in tough times, joy could be found in the simplest of moments. Bang Bang’s legacy endures as a symbol of Dublin’s unique spirit, a city that has always had a soft spot for its eccentrics and a heart full of kindness.

Born in 1906, Thomas Dudley came from humble beginnings. His early years were not easy, his childhood was spent in poverty, and he spent some time in St. Vincent’s Orphanage in Cabra. While life could have easily hardened him, it did just the opposite.

Out of these tough circumstances emerged a man who embraced life’s simple joys and, through his unshakeable imagination, brought laughter to Dubliners young and old. He became a local legend, not for any grand achievements or heroic deeds, but for something far more priceless, his ability to make people smile.

Bang Bang’s weapon of choice? An old church key. But in his mind, and in the minds of everyone who played along, it was a six-shooter, straight out of the Wild West.

With his key held firmly in hand, Bang Bang would dash through the streets, pointing it at unsuspecting passersby and gleefully shouting, “Bang! Bang! You’re dead!”
Dubliners, no matter who they were, became part of his ongoing shootout. Some played along with dramatic flair, pretending to be shot and collapsing in mock agony, while others might fire back with imaginary guns of their own.

In a city often weighed down by hard realities, Bang Bang was a living spark of playful chaos.

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