It took 14 months to demolish what was described as the ugliest building in Belfast, the remaining bricks taken away in March. Frank McNally wrote here that Fanum House was “a 1965 atrocity of brutalist architecture” although he found two positives: once inside you couldn’t see the exterior of the building, and you got a grand panoramic view of the city from the roof.
I first took note of Fanum House in November 1970 as I was on my way to college where I was studying electronic engineering. An IRA gelignite bomb wrecked the ground floor reception area of the building but such were the times that no one took any great interest – it was just another bombing in a much-bombed city.
Two years later I ended up working for RTÉ, whose Belfast offices were in Fanum House, staying with the station in Belfast until my retirement in September 2012. The building became a sort of media hub, The Irish Times on the second floor, us on the top (11th) floor, Sky and Reuters coming some years later.
My most vivid memories of working there are from the 1970s, the worst years of the Troubles. In 1973 RTÉ fitted out new radio and TV studios, which were needed for the Assembly election in June that year. The editor of the election programme, Rory O’Connor, invited a few politicians for a trial run. Paddy Devlin of the SDLP and Paddy Kennedy of the Republican Labour Party were two of the guests.
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As we were about to start we heard a thumping sound from Devlin’s jacket. He dropped his papers and removed from his pocket a Webley revolver which he placed on the table. Not to be outdone Kennedy pulled out his Star pistol. We laughed – but only after they holstered the weapons.
Soon after, Devlin came in for an interview for the current affairs programme 7 Days but this time he had police protection. As he left the building two people emerged from the shadows causing the RUC officers and Devlin to draw weapons, shout a warning, and then quickly exit the scene. I followed suit, sharpish.
A few months later, on a cold damp evening, two men arrived at the front gate and rang the office saying they were police and needed to check the place. We were always wary but after some discussion we decided to admit them.
Before heading down the 11 floors and walking exposed through the car park to the gate I put on body armour, which reduced my height by a couple of inches. I looked like an orangutan.
The officers made no comment. The RUC did return later to inform us that the UVF were planning a bomb attack. A device was to be placed in the lift and detonated on our floor. Thankfully that attack never happened.
The two lifts in Fanum were unreliable. One evening John O’Callaghan, RTÉ’s Northern Ireland correspondent, found himself trapped in a lift in an empty building with no means to communicate with his situation. He was freed the next morning.
In order to prevent another such occurrence the landlord installed a phone in each lift. Unfortunately, other people in the building found out that the phones were not metered and used them to make long-distance calls, some to their relatives in Australia.
The phones were disconnected, prompting a local newspaper to print a story claiming this was an example of RTÉ’s penury. In March 1974 there was a huge explosion in the centre of Belfast. John O’Callaghan grabbed his coat and cap and dashed to the scene on his bike.
He met up with his camera crew, quickly recorded a piece to camera and rushed to the train station, just making the Dublin train to hand over the film. The story made the bulletin. There was no managerial praise of John’s commitment – a few days later he was reprimanded for his cloth cap and anorak attire.
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Fanum House was just across the road from the staunchly loyalist Sandy Row area. One day in May 1974 during the Ulster Workers’ Council strikes that brought down the Sunningdale powersharing executive, a group of men in paramilitary clothing and carrying baseball bats marched out from Sandy Row and blocked Great Victoria Street, right beside us. It was incredibly intimidating.
The next day, May 17th, loyalist bombs exploded in Dublin and Monaghan, killing 34 people and injuring many more. At about eight o’clock that evening our reporter received a call from a loyalist who claimed on behalf of the UDA responsibility for the outrage – even though it was a UVF attack. Belfast had turned into a ghost town – the only sound was from the UDA protesting outside our front door. Then, just before 10pm, we heard a voice and footsteps on the stairs. Who would walk up 11 floors unless their intentions were malevolent? We panicked. I ran into the studio and dived under a desk so frightened I couldn’t even think of a prayer to say. The “intruder” turned out to be our Dublin cameraman. He had braved the paramilitaries so he could watch the late RTÉ news.
As we approached Christmas 1974 a car bomb exploded close to Fanum House, causing widespread damage. Fortunately no one was injured. But late the following month a 17-year-old apprentice joiner, Robert McCullough, was helping repair the damage. The innocent youngster was playing chess on his lunch break. Two masked loyalists entered the room and shot him dead. In the shadow of Fanum he became the 1,299th victim of the Troubles.
Fanum House is gone and soon will be forgotten.
