The tabloid press has claimed that John Noonan held authoritative positions in the IRA, as the commanding officer of the Dublin Brigade and an Executive on the Army Council. But the 54-year-old Dubliner dislikes labels and will confess only to playing an influential role in the Republican movement.
Infuriated by the atrocities carried out by British soldiers in Derry on Bloody Sunday, the then 19-year-old Noonan travelled to the North to join the IRA and was trained as an explosives expert. He went on to work as part of a team hitting commercial targets in the UK, in an effort to inflict the kind of financial damage on the British economy that would force the hand of the British government.

After only three months of active service, Noonan was captured and became the youngest IRA volunteer from the Republic to be interned at the Long Kesh prison, which he describes in this interview as being akin to a Nazi concentration camp. During his incarceration, Noonan participated in a hunger strike and was instrumental in the infamous prison riot that resulted in parts of Long Kesh being burnt to the ground.
Despite being detained “more than several times” by the Special Branch, Noonan was never convicted or imprisoned again. “I began another phase in my life, which was one of being more aware, of being a bit cuter,” he proffers, “and, as a result of what I learnt and kept in my head, I was never arrested and convicted of anything in the 26 Counties. Without doubt, there was serious moves to do me several times. More than several times.”
During the 1980s, back in Dublin, Noonan became involved in community politics and was a founding member of the Concerned Parents Against Drugs group that was set up to evict drug pushers from working class estates. Noonan ran as a Sinn Fein candidate in the Euro elections, and generated 16,000 votes. In the local elections he came agonisingly close to becoming a Councillor, falling short of the tally by 40 votes.
He subsequently retired from the Republican movement to focus on providing a better standard of living for his family. Noonan says that he met resistance from “the powers-that-be” to every effort he made to earn an above-board livelihood. He was forced to take legal action, in an effort to gain his taxi badge and also to be granted a publican’s licence.
Noonan now operates a successful security company, which offers protection for A-list celebrities and oversees the necessary safety measures for film production companies working on location in Ireland, including the North. But while he is enjoying the success achieved by his security consultancy work, Noonan still attracts unwanted attention from the tabloid press, with one newspaper recently alleging that the Criminal Assets Bureau (CAB) were investigating him.
“Nobody from CAB has come to me, it’s all paper talk,” he says. “All the people like myself, who were involved in the struggle, are entitled to make a living and are entitled to get ahead – and do it legally. The harassment has to stop,” says Noonan.
He hopes that this interview will help to set the record straight.

Jason O’Toole: What motivated you – a teenager from the north Dublin suburb of Finglas – to set out for Northern Ireland and join the IRA?
John Noonan: It was a sense that a wrong was being done to Irish people, which had come to me from watching news footage of the ’69 troubles and from Bloody Sunday, January ’72, when people were slaughtered on the streets of Derry. If you go back to 1969 when the Protestants were burning the Catholics out of Belfast, thousands and thousands of people came out onto the streets of Dublin in solidarity with the Catholics who were getting burnt out of their homes or getting killed.
And after Bloody Sunday there were huge marches in Dublin. So there has always been a groundswell of opinion. Why I had to take this step above everybody else, why I decided I had to do something about it, I still don’t know. That’s what dictated my life for 30 years after that.
How did you join the IRA? I presume you couldn’t just walk across the border and ask the first Catholic you met …
I was politically aware of the situation in Northern Ireland. I would watch the news and read the papers, which was unusual amongst my group of friends. We were all just regular teenagers going down to the pub and discos for a few pints, but to me there was more to my life than that. On one occasion we were over in Salthill, in the summer of ’72, and we teamed up with a group of fellas from Newry. We just mingled together and through discussions I discovered that they were part of the IRA. One day two of them had to go back to Newry and I asked could I go with them to have a look.
So what was your reaction to what you saw?
It was a shock to me. We got stopped on the streets by the UDR, we got stopped by the Brits, by the RUC, and my two friends were harassed. So on the way back – I was fairly hopping now – I asked the boys what would be the chances of me coming back with them. I wanted to give up my job and get involved and play my part in getting the British troops out. I was accepted and on the way up the van overturned and rolled a few times. So, I suppose if you were looking for signals, that this was the thing not to do, that would have been it – but I ignored it.
How long were you active before being arrested?
I was in active service for about three months. Not long. As a Dub in the Six Counties, you stand out, which was definitely a hindrance to me. Well, I know now that it was (laughs).
What type of IRA missions did you participate in?
At the start I was a lookout for operations, because it was felt that I would learn better by being a lookout, having a peripheral part. I just kept developing my skills and became the person who made the bombs. I was the engineer for the area (Newry). I don’t even know why I took that job. Somebody had to do it. I was trained in Southern Ireland for it and, after I came back up, I got stuck in.
At that time there was a massive commercial war throughout the whole six counties, which was forcing the Brits to reconsider their position. A realisation was coming that no matter how many Brits were killed it really wouldn’t matter to the British government. Hitting them financially seemed to be a better way to go.
In your autobiography you recount that you almost died while attempting to blow up a petrol station?
We had targeted a petrol station being used by the RUC. The bomb exploded prematurely. A volunteer died in that explosion. The building came down and I was caught inside and it came down on top of me. I was blessed to get out. My other companion was lying on the ground and I picked him up and got him away. We semi-hijacked a van and the driver took us away. We were shipped off to Dundalk hospital that night. That was another sign to call a halt but, again I didn’t want see it, to see it – I was driven on. As soon as I got fit again, I was back involved.
How did you get arrested?
There was an ambush being planned. We decided to go down to Newry town and pick up a car. To do that I had a weapon: a 9mm Browning. We were set upon by a squad of British soldiers, who stood us up against the wall. The weapon was found and we got a right good kicking. The crowds started streaming out of the pubs and a mini-riot was developing, and we were taken away to the police station. On the way there we got a serious kicking in the back of the Saracen (armoured car). To my mind, at that stage, one of three things was going to happen: you were going to get caught and imprisoned for a long time; you were going to get killed; or you were going to walk away. Walking away was not an option for me. I got five years for that.
Five years seems extreme for possession of a handgun?
Loyalists were getting suspended sentences at that time for similar crimes. They were getting a slap on the hand for being in possession of a firearm. During my trial I remember reading how others were getting six months or nine months, or suspended sentences, but they were all from the Loyalist community.
You were only 19 when you were arrested and were in a relationship with woman, whom you eventually married after your release. As a young man passionately in love it must have been frustrating, sexually speaking, for you?
Let’s just say it was a romance through writing letters (laughs)! I was luckier than most because I had no set commitment at that time. Other prisoners had wives and kids growing up – and they had no control over the upbringing of their children. The women that stood beside the prisoners never got the appreciation they deserved. I know individually they got the appreciation from their husbands or their partners, but not from the country overall. These women were just magnificent.
When I was in jail, Catherine came up to visit me every second week. I could never match her commitment to me. I could never thank her enough and I could never repay it. The relationship actually got stronger after my release because when I got home my wife became my best friend. I never made her aware of anything I was involved in. I would go away for a few days and she would be glad to see me when I came back. At times she would express her view that this wasn’t on. She was left at home with several jobs cleaning and looking after the kids. I know now how selfish I was. We have been able to enjoy ourselves as a couple for the last eight or nine years.
How did you deal with the sexual frustration?
You suggested that! I wasn’t sexually frustrated. As I said, I had a romance through writing letters.
Was there any porn in the prison?
We had a strict regime amongst ourselves and did not allow any porn.
Were you aware of any homosexuality in the prison?
I never saw anything like that happen.
You never killed anybody, but would you have been prepared to execute, say a tout, if ordered?
I am not going to answer that question.
You have described Long Kesh prison as a concentration camp…
Anyone who takes a trip to the former concentration camps in Germany – the make out of the cages, the compound, the huts, are practically identical to what we were in. The only thing missing would be the ovens!
During the period of your incarceration there was a dramatic prison riot. What was your involvement?
The plan for each of the cages was: on a given signal people would go over the wire – which was probably 20 foot high with razor barbed wire around it, which was illegal under European standards – by placing two tables on top of each other and mattresses thrown over the wire. You’d jump over and take the screws and get them to open the gates and let all the lads out of the cage. The riots lasted two nights and for the first night, when we took control of Long Kesh, and burnt it to the ground, the outer perimeter was surrounded by the British army and we knew what was coming the next morning – they would have to come in and reinforce their will upon us.
How did they do that?
The British army flew over in helicopters and hurled gas canisters out – hundreds and hundreds of them – into the crowd of prisoners. Prisoners were dropping left, right and centre. They then launched an attack with the riot squad and we began hand-to-hand fighting. It was so one-sided that it was unbelievable – they were fully armoured with batons and shields. We had only stones, but they were coming to give you the kicking of your life, so you had to get something back in at them. The sheer righteousness of our position kept us going.
The one thing that can be said about the Loyalist prisoners at the time was that they took in our lads who were injured and tended to them, which was probably a sign of things to come where people would have to cooperate for a greater end. Although they wouldn’t come out to fight, they helped a lot of our lads who were badly hurt.
How important was it for you to be perceived as a political prisoner rather than a criminal?
I was never in trouble with the police in my life. The vast majority involved in the war were never in trouble in their lives. I was a political prisoner and wanted to be treated as such. A political prisoner was entitled to his own clothes, get a food parcel in, his own education books. The hunger strike, which I participated in for 19 days, occurred when the prison authorities ordered the food parcels to be stopped.
There was no way that we were taking the prison food for a number of reasons. The first one was that we would be accepting that we were ordinary prisoners. The second thing was that the orderlies down in the kitchen were all Loyalists criminals, who would have been ordinary prisoners, if you like, and the dangers of them poisoning our food or putting glass in our food was high, so we weren’t taking those risks.
I ended the hunger strike after 19 days because I felt that the other prisoners hadn’t as strong a conviction as I had. Some fellows were a bit weak and weren’t strictly staying off the food. When I saw that happening I told the officer in charge that I was coming off it and, as it happened, two days later the prison authorities gave in to our requests.
Psychologically, all of that must have scarred you?
I have an ability to block things out. That is what made me write my book. Writing my story unlocked the whole pent-up thing that was inside me. If nobody else was ever to read it, it was still the best thing I have ever done because it was therapeutic. The most frightening time for me was when (pauses)… when you are first brought into Long Kesh you are put in an overnight remand cage, which just happens to be the Loyalist compound. In this compound there were four huts, and three were occupied by Loyalist prisoners and one was for the overnights coming in for the first time. I found myself in this hut on my own, and six men came in and one of the guys said to me, “We have just been instructed to kill you.” I was shocked. “But,” he said, “It’s not going to happen because we are up for bail tomorrow and we want outta here. We want you to lie under the blankets. We are gonna throw stuff all around the place and create a riot so it appears like we are givin’ you a good seein’ to. We will be dragged outta here.” I lay under the blanket and never moved.
During your time in the IRA did you ever murder anybody?
No. I haven’t killed anyone.
You didn’t return to the North after your release, but stayed in Dublin. Why?
There was more work to be done in the 26 counties. There was a political base to be built with Sinn Fein, election-wise and, so my effectiveness to the Republican movement was better served in the 26 counties.
Do you think the Special Branch targeted you?
I know they did (laughs). I was arrested and my family home was upset so many times. To have armed police bursting through your doors is not nice. My kids were put through stuff that they never should have been put through. In my eyes, if a guy had a job to do – to try and capture me – fair enough. It was me against him. Don’t harass my kids, don’t harass my wife, or abuse them. That was the way they conducted their game at that time. 6.30am was their time; they’d drag you out and wreck the house. They would frighten my family. For a kid waking up to a man standing there with a machine-gun is not right.
You are no longer a member of the IRA. Can you simply walk away?
The misconception is out there that you can’t leave. But I had done so much for the Republican movement – 32 counties wise – and I played such an (influential) role in it, that I presented myself to the leadership and told them that I was finished – that I could no longer partake in it at the level required. At that stage, my wife and six kids had to be looked after on a better level than I had been doing previously. And that was accepted. Most of the leadership would be friends of mine.
When did you cease to be a member of the IRA?
When the first ceasefire came into play, this was the mid-’90s, I didn’t agree with it. My view was that it was the wrong time – but other people who were involved in the leadership had a bigger picture than me and accepted it. When that ceasefire broke down I thought it was the right thing for us to get stuck in and build up again because of the oncoming British election. But when that didn’t happen I decided there was another way for me to go, another life for me to have.
Some Republicans wish you had never published your autobiography?
I wrote this book for therapeutic reasons. The people that matter to me who are in the Republican movement – that I had spent a long time with – have spoken to me about enjoying the book and could relate to it because it was their story too. I know, as you say, there were a couple of people, but they were a very small minority.
How would you describe your position in the IRA?
It was said in the papers that I was OC of Dublin for a period of time. It was said in the papers that I was an Executive on the Army Council for a time. According to the papers, I have done everything and held every position. I have just been a Republican – doing the best that I could.
Is it fair to say you were an influential member?
Yes. At that time.
You claim that barriers have been put in place to prevent you from working legitimately. You had legal battles to gain your taxi badge and also had to fight to be granted a publican’s license.
Those things still happen to this day. They are not as bad and I am more able to cope with them, but sections of the State don’t allow you to forget and don’t allow you to move on. We had fellows driving up into my cul-de-sac and up to my door three times a day, 365 days a year.
I have to say that in fairness to a lot of the Gardai who were chasing me at the time, a sort of a rapport grows over the years. I would meet them around the place now, some of the older ones, they’d stop and have a chat with you. A civilised conversation. But some of the younger bucks that come up now see you as a name (pauses)… some of the younger lads who come in to harass me are wasting their time. I have seen all the tricks. I know what’s what and, besides, I’m not up to anything. The older ones, the ones in authority, know that.
You were heavily involved in the Concerned Parents Against Drugs (CPAD) group which was founded in the 1980s to help stop drug dealers operating in housing estates.
There was a change in attitudes about what the Republican movement should be involved in. A political battle had to be won throughout the 32 counties.
As it happened, the scourge of that time was the drugs coming into Ireland. Kids were becoming addicts and no one knew how to handle it. Where I’m from, in Tallaght, we decided to start an organisation that would confront the drug dealers. And confront the State because of their inactivity with the problem. People were dying of drugs and nobody was doing anything about it, except us out on the streets. This was the first opportunity that working class people had to better their lives.
The CPAD organisation had a policy in the ‘90s of non-violence, but the ‘80s did see violence used against drug dealers. Is this a fair assessment?
At that time nobody had anybody to turn to. Nobody was turning to the guards because they were harassing you and they were charging you, and they were abusing you. So communities looked after themselves. If drug dealers lived amongst them they were put out.
What do you mean by “put out”?
Their doors were kicked in; their furniture was taken out in the garden, and they were ran out of the estates.
Would they have been roughed up in the process?
Yes, I have to say they were on occasions because people were at their wits end and this was their way of dealing with it. We started the next wave of the campaign in the ‘90s up in Tallaght with a totally different philosophy. We wanted everybody involved, including the police and politicians, and we weren’t doing evictions. We camped outside the house of known drug dealers to stop them selling. We forced the government of the day to work with us and this resulted in the Drugs Task Force that is now in existence. If they had done that in the ‘80s – and not in the ‘90s – we would have been 10 years on top of the situation.
There were occasions in the ‘90s when violence was used. I am thinking of the Josie Dwyer incident, where a drug addict was set upon and viciously kicked to death by a group of men, including Sinn Féin members, emerging from a nearby anti-drug meeting.
When we started up in Tallaght in the ‘90s, I was loath to get involved in a citywide movement, which we had with the CPAD in the ‘80s. There was too much friction, people had egos, and agendas. There was never a central organisation and different areas conducted themselves in different ways.
What happened in Dolphin’s Barn, I can’t say it wouldn’t have happened in Tallaght – but it didn’t. So only the people in Dolphin’s Barn know what the problem was there. There was an organisation that formed out of sheer desperation, I would imagine, and they started shooting drug dealers. Different people have different ideas, but to me if an addict is selling gear he is doing so to feed his habit. He deserved to be given every opportunity. It is the fellow above him who is supplying the drugs – and doesn’t get dirtied and who doesn’t get soiled with drugs, and makes all the shillings – that is the one who needs to be zoomed in on.
Was anybody every wrongly targeted during the CPAD campaign?
As far as I am concerned, we never targeted an innocent person. We went to great lengths to ensure that only drug dealers were targeted.
What is your opinion about the drug situation in Ireland now? A recent study found traces of cocaine on all euro notes…
From those in the know – and I talk to a lot of drugs counsellors who tell me that cocaine is the biggest scourge in this country – it is rampant and it is 32 counties-wide. Since this year started there has been over €10m worth of drugs seized. So how much is after getting in? You can’t even quantify it. There was hundreds of millions caught last year. So it is flooding in.
I have to say that drugs were flooding in before the foreign nationals came in. It could be a handy cop-out for people to be blaming foreign nationals. It is not my way because I know it was flooding in before people started coming here.
You now have your own security company that primarily looks after A-list celebrities, on film sets and at rock concerts. How did this come about?
Friends of mine who would give me jobs – helping on lorries, bits and pieces – were always approached by the police. In order to stop them coming under pressure, I decided that it would be best if I became my own boss – and the best way was to be a taxi driver. I was refused a taxi licence but with the help of a solicitor I eventually got it. It must have taken eight years.
I knew Jim Sheridan through another friend of mine and he was doing a film (In The Name Of The Father) down in Sheriff St. and I asked if there would be a bit of work for me with the taxi-ing. One of the days down there a prop – an SLR, British army riffle – was robbed out of the back of a van, guarded by an armed Garda sitting in the front! I knew people down there and got it back. That showed people that I could get stuff done.
I knew there was an opportunity at the security end and the film industry was developing really well. The taxi has now gone out the window because there is money to be made by providing security for film sets, the equipment, the crew and the stars.
Have you ever had any difficult moments looking after these celebrities?
By and large the people of Dublin are sound. The Pope could walk down the street here and get a nod, “How’s it going?” He wouldn’t be harassed. Most of the stars that come in have learnt this. So you do a low-key minding service for them.
The one time we had a problem handed to us was for Kevin Spacey who had two stalkers. They had travelled all over Europe after him. Two individual women stalkers – they weren’t together. On the first day I copped one of them because when you are doing that type of work you are looking at the crowds and this person was different. Two days later the other stalker appeared. When you spot them you then have a couple of security people filtered into the crowd.
Did you ever get physical with someone while protecting a client?
The nearest I got was a couple of people acting the maggot, not coming in to do serious harm, and I would have to get between them and the client and push them away, and get the minded person into the car. We were doing the Veronica Guerin film and the screen came up that Gerard Hutch, known as The Monk, had walked onto the set. And this sent waves around everybody. Now I know Gerard Hutch and he knows me, so I rambled up to him and said, “Why don’t we go get a cup of tea?” The producer phoned me and I said, “Don’t worry, Gerard is here with me having a cup of tea.” Gerard had just wandered onto the film set out of curiosity.
Another time out in Crumlin, two walkie-talkies were stolen in the cul-de-sac where Martin Foley (The Viper) lived and I asked him for his help in recovering them. Two hours later, we had them back. When a film is being made I will go into the location and pave the way.
There is always a main person – this is the way the undercurrent of Dublin is – that allows things to happen or could create problems. From years of activity – both politically, anti-drug wise and Republican wise – most of these people would be aware of me. When I come and talk to them and explain what we want to do, everybody is happy.
How do you find working with celebrities?
There are very, very few who put on airs and graces about being different to everybody else. Most of the people I’ve worked with – Harvey Keitel, Kevin Spacey, Vinnie Jones, Cate Blanchett, Joan Allen, Liam Neeson, Tim Robbins – they’re all top people and very easy to deal with. There would only be a small few – in fact, I can think of only one – outside of that bracket.
You also worked with Bono. There is a famous photo of you helping Bono circumvent an exuberant crowd of fans outside the Clarence Hotel…
As it happened I was hired to work for the people who were producing the video done on top of the Clarence Hotel about six years ago. It was nothing to do with the actual security of the band. They had their own security personnel, who I knew, so between us we had everything sorted out. As it happened, when the band was coming into the hotel, a larger than normal crowd appeared and we had barriers up, and I happened to be on the spot and I escorted Bono through and somebody took the photograph, and it was said that I was a minder for Bono. I am not a minder for Bono; I was a security consultant for the video company.
One tabloid newspaper recently claimed that CAB is coming after you for tax arrears of millions?
Those allegations were hurtful to my family. There is absolutely no foundation to what they say. I remember reading in the paper that I was running something like 28 pubs in Dublin! I couldn’t run one for myself years ago when I tried and failed. Total nonsense. Although you can laugh at all the allegations, nobody from CAB has come to me, it’s all paper talk. I just got a tax clearance cert to get my security licence. You don’t get a tax clearance cert if you haven’t paid taxes.

Without a shadow of a doubt. I was an active volunteer and looking at people running planes into sky scrappers is a whole different thing – that is a level you never want to get to. The IRA never – at any time – considered suicide bombings, but yet they are prevalent all over the world. It is something totally alien to our make-up, I think, and I hope it stays that way.
By today’s standards you could say the IRA were genteel in their behaviour as they would ring up and inform you that there was a bomb planted – giving you time to evacuate!
Yes. But September 11 definitely created a whole new mindset around the world against what would be deemed as terrorism. I never considered myself as a terrorist. I was a member of the Republican army fighting for Ireland.
Pics: Graham Keogh

John Noonan’s autobiography, What Do I Do Now?, is available now, priced €14.99.