Chapter Five - The Final Instalment of the Giblin Brother's Story

A Miscarriage of Justice in 1880s Birmingham

In the shadowed alleys of Birmingham, where gang culture thrived and justice was often swift but flawed, the name John Giblin became a fixture in police reports and courtroom records. Yet, as I uncovered in my previous research, there were not one but two John Giblins—one from Northwood Street, born in 1854, and the other from Water Street, born in 1859, brother to the infamous Thomas Giblin.

Both men had criminal records, both had served time, and both had brushed against the law more times than the courts could count. But as I examined their histories, a pattern of judicial confusion emerged. Over time, their crimes became interchangeable, their names blended into one, and their sentences—often harsh—were imposed with no apparent effort to separate their identities.

This mistake would culminate in one of the worst judicial errors of my research into Birmingham’s 19th-century criminal history—a decision that would shape both their lives. One of these men was sentenced to seven years in prison for a violent robbery, while the other, the true offender, remained free to continue his criminal career.

Before we reach that fateful sentencing in October 1881, however, we must examine the crimes that set the stage, crimes that demonstrate just how dangerous John Giblin (1859, Water Street) had become and how the courts repeatedly failed to distinguish the two men.

The Wheat Sheaf Inn Incident (17 April 1879)

On a damp April evening in Suffolk Street, the Wheat Sheaf Inn was packed with the usual assortment of men looking for drink, trouble, or both. John Giblin (1859, Water Street) was among them, his presence enough to make some of the more respectable drinkers leave before the evening turned sour.

It began, as it often did, with drunken misbehaviour leading to an argument . Words turned to shouts, shouts to fists, and soon chairs and bottles were flying across the dimly lit room. The landlord, Mr. Palmer, had already warned him once. When Giblin continued to cause a disturbance, Palmer ordered him to leave.

Giblin left—but not for long.

Minutes later, he returned, brick in hand. Without a word, he hurled it straight at the landlord’s head, striking him square on the forehead. The force of the blow sent Palmer collapsing to the floor, unconscious and bleeding heavily, as the remaining patrons rushed to his aid. The scene quickly descended into chaos as Giblin fled into the night.

Pursuit and Rooftop Capture

News of the attack spread quickly, and by nightfall, Detective Baker and several constables were already searching for Giblin. Their hunt led them to John’s house in Water Street, where they found him inside but Giblin was not about to surrender easily.

As the officers approached, he scrambled onto the roof, kicking away loose tiles to block their path. From there, he moved across to a higher roof of an adjoining house, attempting to escape over Fleet Street. But the rooftops only offered temporary sanctuary. With ladders in hand, the constables climbed after him, breaking through a hole in the ceiling of an adjacent building.

Realising he was trapped, Giblin fought to resist arrest, but he was ultimately overpowered and dragged down from the rafters. Later that night, he was taken to the Moor Street lock-up, charged not only for the attack on Palmer but also under a separate warrant for a previous assault.

Making headlines in the Birmingham Mail, it was a most dramatic arrest. But when the case appeared in the criminal records, it soon became clear that the crimes committed by both John Giblins were being treated as one person. John Giblin (1854, Northwood Street) was receiving a reputation for the crimes committed by the more notorious and violent John Giblin (1859, Water Street).

The Assault on Inspector Roby – September 13, 1880

It was nearing eleven o’clock on a Saturday night, and the streets of Water Street were alive with the usual noise of drunken arguments and the occasional clash of fists. That night, Inspector Roby was patrolling the area when he spotted Giblin at the center of a growing commotion. The Giblin brothers were already well known to the police, as Roby moved in, grabbing John Giblin by the collar, intending to put a swift end to whatever disorder was about to unfold.

John, though, was certainly not going to go quietly. In a flash, he twisted free and struck out, kicking his boot hard into the Inspector's stomach, doubling him over with the force of the kick. As Roby staggered back, catching his breath, other officers rushed in, wrestling Giblin to the ground before he could strike again. 

Dragging him to Kenion Street Police Station, Giblin’s violence only escalated. Inside the holding cells, he became furious and uncontrollable, lashing out at the officers and other prisoners alike. At one point, he attempted to gouge out the eye of another prisoner, digging his fingers into the man’s face until police officers tore him away just in time.

For two hours, he raged in his cell—until suddenly, the screaming changed. Now, he was complaining that his arm was broken.

When taken to the General Hospital, doctors confirmed it—his arm was indeed fractured. But how? That depended on who you asked.

🔴 Giblin’s version of events: He claimed Inspector Roby had struck him with a stick, delivering a blow so fierce that it shattered his arm. Later, he changed his story, stating that he had been kicked in the shoulder instead.

🔵 Inspector Roby’s version: He denied striking Giblin at all, insisting that any injury must have been self-inflicted in his fit of rage.

Even though the police expressed deep regret over the situation. Inspector Roby emphasised the necessity of enforcing authority, noting that such violence against police officers was often a more serious offence.

John denied the offence declaring himself to be "a quiet chap", with his counsel describing him as a gentleman and trying to portray his previous good behavior? 

The magistrates, however, were unmoved by Giblin’s protests. Instead, citing the long list of his prior convictions for violence, including a recent twelve-month sentence for an aggravated assault. Sentencing was swift: four months' imprisonment with hard labour.

Yet, when reviewing the official criminal record sheets, something became clear—this crime, like many others, was recorded without distinguishing which John Giblin had committed it. The single criminal record sheet contained convictions that applied to both men, creating a tangled web of offenses that made it nearly impossible to separate their individual crimes.

Would this confusion have mattered if it was just another short prison term? Perhaps not. But within a year, this failure to correctly record their crimes would result in one John Giblin being sentenced to seven years in prison for a crime committed by the other.

The Seven-Year Conviction: A Case of Mistaken Identity

October 13, 1881 – The Crime That Sent the Wrong Man to Prison

By the autumn of 1881, John Giblin was a name well known to the magistrates of Birmingham. It was a name that conjured up images of violent gang fights, pub brawls, and savage assaults on police officers. It was a name that had passed through courtrooms too many times to count.

And yet, as the judges prepared to hand down one of the harshest sentences ever given to a Birmingham street criminal, there was one glaring problem.

They didn’t know which John Giblin they were sentencing.

Which John Giblin? (alias Gibbons)

A Violent Robbery

The crime itself was brutal. On the night of October 13, 1881, a man was set upon in the streets, beaten, and robbed. His attackers worked quickly, striking him down before he could raise an alarm, rifling through his pockets for anything of value.

One of the men was identified as "John Giblin."

The case moved swiftly through the courts. The magistrates were all too familiar with the name. The evidence, though circumstantial, was enough to secure a conviction. The sentence was harsh: seven years' penal servitude—one of the longest sentences handed down to any known gang member at the time.

But which John Giblin had actually committed the crime?

The Evidence That Didn’t Add Up

There was one crucial detail in the court records that should have raised questions. The convicted man’s occupation was listed as a shoemaker—a trade associated with John Giblin (1854, Northwood Street).

And yet, after October 1881, John Giblin (1859, Water Street) continued to appear in crime reports.

If the real Slogging Gang leader had been sentenced to seven years, how was he still committing offenses in Birmingham?

The answer was simple—the courts had convicted the wrong man.

A Single Criminal Record Sheet: The Root of the Confusion

The criminal record sheet covering both John Giblins contained a long list of offenses, stretching back over a decade. Some crimes clearly belonged to John Giblin (1859, Water Street)—gang fights, assaults on police, pub brawls. Others pointed to John Giblin (1854, Northwood Street)—theft, disorderly conduct, and now, this robbery conviction.

But nowhere on the record did it separate them as two individuals.

To the magistrates, there was only one John Giblin—a man whose crimes had escalated year after year, who had attacked police, robbed men in the streets, and led violent gangs through Birmingham. And if the sentence seemed harsh, it was because they believed they were punishing years of unchecked criminality.

In reality, they had sentenced one man for another’s crimes.

Sent to Pentonville, Millbank, and Portsmouth Prisons

The John Giblin convicted in 1881 was sent first to Pentonville Prison, a harsh regime of hard labour, silence, and brutal discipline. From there, he was transferred to Millbank, where prisoners were often put to work in the prison’s notorious oakum-picking yards, their fingers bleeding from the coarse fibres.

Finally, he was moved to Portsmouth Prison, where convicts were put to work on the docks, constructing fortifications for the Royal Navy. For seven years, he was cut off from the city he had once prowled—serving a sentence that should have belonged to another man.

Meanwhile, the real John Giblin—the violent gang leader—remained free.

Date	Crime/Event	John Giblin (1854, Northwood Street)	John Giblin (1859, Water Street)	Errors in Criminal Record
1869	Theft of candles (14 days prison)	✔ Convicted	❌ Not involved	Should only be under John 1854
1871	Cheese theft (with William Bates, 3 months prison	✔ Convicted	❌ Not involved	Merged into John 1859’s record
1874	Attacking police to free father	❌ Not involved	✔ Convicted (with Thomas Giblin)	Should only be under John 1854
1879	Wheat Sheaf Inn – Assault on landlord, rooftop chase	❌ Not involved	✔ Convicted	Later recorded as “John Giblin” with no distinction
1880	Assault on Inspector Latte	❌ Not involved	✔ Convicted	Listed under both John Giblins' names
1880	Assault on Inspector Roby – Kicked officer, attempted to gouge out prisoner’s eye	❌ Not involved	✔ Convicted	No distinction between the two Giblins in records
1881	Robbery with violence – Sentenced to 7 years	✔ Occupation matches (Shoemaker)	❌ Still committing crimes after conviction	Wrongly convicted—John 1854 likely imprisoned

Table of Single Crime Sheet used in convicting the two John separate John Giblins proves beyond doubt that John Giblin (1854) was wrongly sentenced to seven years while John Giblin (1859) who had in fact committed the 1881 crime continued his criminal activities in Birmingham.

The Consequences of a Judicial Mistake

For seven years, one John Giblin paid for another’s crimes. For seven years, Birmingham’s magistrates believed they had removed one of the city’s most dangerous criminals from the streets.

And yet, crime reports continued to list John Giblin among the city’s offenders.

The system had failed spectacularly. The courts had not just convicted a man—they had convicted a name.

Would Birmingham have been different had the right man been sentenced? Would the Slogging Gangs have been weakened? Would fewer men have been assaulted, fewer shopkeepers terrorised, fewer officers beaten in the streets?

We will never know.

But what remains undeniable is this: The wrong man was sent to prison, while the real criminal carried on unchecked.

Final Thoughts: A Legacy of Mistaken Identity

The John Giblin case is not just a story of gang violence and crime—it is a story of a broken justice system.

✅ A single criminal record sheet allowed crimes to be merged into one identity.✅ The courts never questioned which John Giblin they were sentencing.✅ An innocent man served seven years in prison while the true offender remained free.

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Graphic - Saturday 26 June 1875

Livery street, suggested  that its name derives from ‘Livery Stables’  that before the railway was built was previously positioned opposite Brittle Street. during the mid to late 19th century, Livery street was a bustling area reflecting the city's industrial growth and its diverse community. Located in the heart of Birmingham, it ran from its southern end near Colmore Row and Snow Hill, stretching northwards towards Great Charles Street.

Walking along Livery Street

Starting from the southern end of Livery Street, near Colmore Row, you would find yourself in the midst of a busy, urban environment. Close to Snow Hill Station one of Birmingham’s major railway hubs The streets around Snow Hill would have been crowded with travellers, horse-drawn carriages, and carts transporting goods. The atmosphere was vibrant, with the sounds of trains arriving and departing, and people going about their daily routines.

Many of the houses featured small gardens at the front and were predominantly occupied by jewelers. The signboards had a distinctive characteristic, which was common throughout the town. Instead of the occupiers' names being painted directly on the façades of the shop windows, most had a bordered wooden frame outlining the window, mounted above it. Each frame rested on three or four wooden spheres, roughly the size of a cricket ball, and was topped with wooden acorns or other decorative elements. The boards were uniformly black, with gold lettering, and the same gilding was applied to the balls and acorns.

Livery St. Snow hill 1900's

Jewellery Quarters

Moving northward, you would enter a district predominantly occupied by jewellers and small workshops. Many of Birmingham’s tradespeople crafted their fine jewellery, silverware, and metalwork in small workshops, which were multi-functional, serving both as homes and places of work. The smell of metal polish and the sound of craftsmen at work would have filled the air. Many of these jeweller’s houses had small front gardens somewhat a quaint feature amid the densely built urban environment. 

As you continued along Livery Street, you would pass several workshops and warehouses. Many buildings in this area were multi-functional, serving both as homes and places of work for artisans, craftsmen, and merchants. For example, the warehouse that had been built by Boulton and Watt, notable pioneers of the Industrial Revolution, served as a showroom for their smaller goods. In the latter half of the 19th century, this building was occupied by companies like Messrs. T. Barnes and Co., reflecting the changing nature of trade and commerce.

Moving further north, the street began to intersect with other streets that housed factories and manufacturing sites. The street noise increases to a more industrial sound of machinery and hammering, and then on further northwards, the roads become narrower and more winding.

Here, you would find an eclectic mix of tradesmen's shops, small inns, and lodging houses. On one side of the street, there was the warehouse of Mr. Thornley, a druggist with a rather unremarkable-looking shop fronting Snow Hill. Opposite this was a draper's shop in a somewhat precarious-looking stuccoed house, accessible by a few steps from Steelhouse Lane.

Impact of the Giblin Brothers and Slogging Gangs on Life and Business in; Livery Street, Water Street and Northwood Street

Disruption of Trade and Commerce

The constant presence of slogging gangs could have a disruptive impact on the flow of trade and commerce along Water Street, Northwood Street, and other parts of the Jewellery Quarter. The gangs were known to engage in theft, muggings, and extortion, which would have made transporting valuable goods, such as precious metals and finished jewellery, particularly risky. This could lead to higher insurance costs or force business owners to hire private security, increasing the overall cost of doing business.

Additionally, the presence of these gangs might have made it harder for merchants and traders to trust one another, potentially slowing down transactions and limiting credit availability. Tradespeople who relied on a steady supply of raw materials and the ability to quickly ship finished goods could find their businesses severely impacted by the gangs' activities.

The workforce in the Jewellery Quarter, which included many skilled artisans and apprentices, would also have been directly affected by the gangs. The slogging gangs often recruited young men from impoverished backgrounds, offering them a way out of poverty through criminal activities. This would have created tension within the local community, as young workers in legitimate trades could be drawn away by the allure of gang life, potentially reducing the skilled labour pool available to local businesses.

Moreover, gang-related violence could spill over into everyday life, with street brawls, fights, and clashes between rival gangs becoming common occurrences. 

The notoriety of the Giblin Brothers and the slogging gangs would have tarnished the reputation of the streets where they operated. Areas known for gang activity often suffered from a negative public perception. The pervasiveness of their presence would have affected the use of public spaces, such as streets, pubs, and marketplaces. Residents might avoid certain areas altogether, particularly after dark.

although not Livery Street a cleaned up image from 1886 / 3rd Image of builders in Great King Street in 1889

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The Giblin name had long been associated with violence and crime in Birmingham’s streets, but no member of the family embodied that reputation more than Thomas "Tommy" Giblin.

His older brother, John, had already carved out a notorious legacy, his name tangled in a series of violent assaults, gang brawls, and even a case of mistaken identity that led to the wrong man serving a seven-year prison sentence. But while John was feared, it was Thomas who would become one of Birmingham’s most brutal street fighters—a man whose violent outbursts shocked even the city’s hardened magistrates.

Unlike many of his contemporaries, Tommy was not just a product of poverty and circumstance—he came from a family where violence was the norm. His father had clashed with the law, his older brothers were frequent offenders, and his childhood was steeped in aggression. But while others eventually tempered their violence, Tommy’s only grew more dangerous.

From stone-throwing as a boy to stabbing a man nearly to death as an adult, Tommy's path was not just one of criminality—it was one of increasing savagery. The question is, what drove him to such extremes?

In this continuation of the Giblin brothers’ story, we explore how Tommy Giblin transformed from a street thug into one of Birmingham’s most feared men—and what that tells us about the world that shaped him.

The Emergence of a Slogging Gang Enforcer (1880-1881)

By 1880, Thomas "Tommy" Giblin was no longer just another street thug. He had already built a name for himself—one that police officers recognised and that Birmingham’s working men feared.

His earliest clashes with the police, including stone-throwing at police-officers and minor thefts, had already placed him under magistrate scrutiny. But unlike many boys from Birmingham’s slums who outgrew youthful offenses, Tommy had gone in the opposite direction.

By the age of 16, he was fully embedded in the Slogging Gang culture, and his crimes were no longer about mischief or necessity—they were about power, intimidation, and violence.

It was at this point that he became involved in a targeted street robbery, working alongside other known gang figures.

The Charge of Extortion – June 11, 1880

On a warm June evening in 1880, a gardener named William Cockayne was walking home through Friston Street when he was confronted by three individuals: James Canlon (18) – A bicycle maker from Hospital Street, Catherine Moran (17) – A press worker from Court George Street, and sixteen year old Tommy.

Cockayne barely had time to react before he found himself surrounded.

First came the demands for money—Tommy and Canlon blocked his path while Moran taunted him from the side. But when Cockayne refused to hand anything over, the threats became physical. He was shoved against a wall, upon which he felt a fist struck to his ribs, whilst hands rifled through his pockets.

By the time he struggled free, his money was gone.

What made this case significant was that it was not an isolated incident. The police had already received multiple reports that night of similar robberies, all carried out with the same intimidation tactics—targeting lone workers, surrounding them, and forcing them to hand over cash.

When Tommy, Canlon, and Moran were arrested, they denied everything. But Cockayne’s identification of all three was immediate. All three were remanded in custody while the police linked their crime to other incidents in the area.

As the youngest member, Tommy emerged from this case with a reputation—not just as a fighter, but as an organised gang enforcer. But unlike Catherine Moran, who we have already covered in detail, Tommy would not be deterred. Within months, his crimes would take a far more violent turn.

The Attack on William Lee – May 1881

By the time May 1881 arrived, Tommy Giblin had fully embraced violence as a way of life. His latest crime was not motivated by robbery, nor was it part of a planned gang operation. It was a raw, unprovoked, and near-fatal attack—the kind of violence that set him apart from ordinary sloggers and made it clear that Tommy Giblin was something else entirely.

The victim, William Lee, was a local man with no known criminal ties. He had simply been standing on Camden Street, speaking with a young woman, when Tommy and his associate, Thomas Toaster (16), happened upon them.

The attack was swift and brutal. Lee barely had time to register the danger before a heavy object crashed against the back of his skull, sending him collapsing onto the cobbled street. The world spun as he tried to focus, but the attack was far from over.

Before he could rise, Tommy was already standing over him, a belt buckle wrapped around his knuckles, the sharp metal edge glinting under the gas lamps. He brought it down hard onto Lee’s head—once, twice, three times—each impact sending fresh blood pooling onto the stones beneath him.

By the time bystanders arrived to pull the attackers away, Lee was barely conscious. His injuries were so severe that he was unable to attend the first court hearing—he was still recovering from a fractured skull.

At trial, the house surgeon did not mince words. The attack had been carried out with "unwarranted savagery", and if the weapon had struck in a slightly different place, it could have easily been fatal.

The court was growing increasingly frustrated with Tommy Giblin. Despite his youth, his record spoke for itself—he had been before the magistrates more times than many men twice his age.

The verdict:

Thomas Toaster (16) received 12 months' imprisonment.

Thomas Giblin (18) was sentenced to 6 months' imprisonment.

Yet, while six months in prison might have stopped other young offenders, it only served to make Tommy even more dangerous.

When he emerged, his next crime would be his most serious yet—one that would finally put him away for years.

By 1882, Birmingham’s magistrates and police were well acquainted with Thomas Giblin. He was no longer a nameless street thug but a man whose mere presence could incite violence. The authorities knew that where Tommy Giblin went, trouble followed—and nowhere was this more apparent than on the night of February 14, 1882.

It began as a drunken fight, the kind of brawl that erupted regularly in Birmingham’s overcrowded courts and alleyways. But this was no simple scuffle—by the time the police arrived, the fight had drawn a mob of nearly fifty youths, each one eager to prove themselves in the chaos.

What started as a drunken altercation between a handful of men quickly spiraled into a full-scale street riot. Bottles were smashed, fists flew wildly, and within minutes, the street was alive with the sounds of breaking glass and shouted threats.

As the police attempted to break up the disturbance, Tommy Giblin took center stage. Drunk, enraged, and itching for a fight, he threw himself at the nearest constable, his fists swinging wildly.

Even as officers struck him with their truncheons, he refused to go down easily, grappling and throwing punches as the growing crowd jeered and egged him on.

Eventually, the riot was quelled, and the ring-leaders—including Tommy—were dragged away in shackles and bloodied shirts.

When he stood before the magistrates, there was no sympathy left for him. He was sentenced to three months of hard labour, but the authorities knew it was only a matter of time before they saw him again.

They were right.

Attacking the Police – February 1893

If there was one thing certain about Tommy Giblin, it was that he despised the police. From his earliest offenses, he had taken every opportunity to fight, resist, and lash out at any constable who tried to arrest him.

But in February 1893, his aggression toward the law reached a new level.

It took three police constables to subdue him that night. Three officers, each one battered and bruised by the sheer ferocity of Tommy’s attack. It was a scene that had played out many times before, but this time, there was a different edge to his violence.

He wasn’t just fighting to escape arrest—he was fighting with a rage that seemed personal. Witnesses later claimed that Tommy had been shouting obscenities at the police for hours before the attack, taunting them, daring them to intervene.

When they finally did, he responded with immediate and unrelenting violence.

The constables struggled to restrain him, but Tommy fought them off like a cornered animal, his fists swinging with brutal force. Even when they managed to pin him down, he continued to thrash, kick, and curse, refusing to go quietly.

By the time they got him to the station, all three officers bore the marks of the fight—split lips, bruised ribs, and bloodied uniforms.

Next: The Stabbing That Finally Put Him Away (1883)

At 19 years old, Tommy Giblin would soon commit the crime that cemented his reputation as one of Birmingham’s most violent men—a savage stabbing that left his victim bleeding from five separate wounds.

 "Tommy" Giblin had built a reputation that few in Birmingham could match. His name was feared among rival gang members, pub landlords, and police officers alike. He had been arrested for robbery, brawling, drunken rioting, and multiple violent assaults, but despite repeated stints in hard labour and reformatories, nothing had deterred him.

Then came the night of March 26, 1883—the night Tommy Giblin finally went too far.

The events unfolded in Summer Lane, a notorious district for street fights and gang activity. That evening, Tommy and his associates, William Farrell and Matthew Prendergast, were prowling the area when they spotted a familiar face—Edward Caine.

Caine had crossed Tommy before. Whether the dispute was over money, an insult, or past violence is unclear, but what is certain is that Tommy was out for blood.

As soon as Caine saw them, he knew he was in danger. He tried to get away, but Tommy and his gang moved fast, cornering him in a darkened alleyway.

Witnesses later testified that Tommy was the first to strike. A fist to the stomach, doubling Caine over, a boot to the ribs, sending him staggering backward and then the knife came out.

The blade flashed in the dim streetlight, and before Caine could react, it was driven into his side.

He cried out, clutching his ribs, but Tommy wasn’t finished. The next blow came to the shoulder, slicing through muscle. Another to the back. Another to the thigh.

By the time Farrell and Prendergast dragged Tommy away, Caine was bleeding from five separate wounds.

The attackers fled, leaving their victim slumped against the wall, gasping for breath.

Caine’s wounds were severe. By the time he was found, he had lost a significant amount of blood, and the doctors at Birmingham General Hospital were unsure if he would survive the night.

The house surgeon later testified that one of the stab wounds had come dangerously close to puncturing a lung, and if the knife had struck slightly deeper, Caine would not have lived.

Meanwhile, Tommy Giblin was nowhere to be found.

For days, he managed to evade capture, hiding in safe houses and back alleys, but his infamous temper soon gave him away. When he was finally arrested, it was after another drunken fight, one that had drawn too much attention to his whereabouts.

By then, Caine had survived—but only just.

The Trial: A Magistrate’s Patience Runs Out

Tommy stood before the magistrates in April 1883, facing his most serious charge yet—assault with intent to cause grievous bodily harm.

This time, the courtroom atmosphere was different.

The magistrates had seen Tommy’s name too many times before. The stolen goods, the riots, the attacks on police officers—none of it had changed him. And now, he had nearly killed a man in cold blood.

The testimony was damning. Witnesses confirmed Tommy had led the attack, the doctor confirmed the stab wounds were life-threatening and Caine himself identified Tommy as the man who had held the knife.

There would be no short sentence this time. The verdict came swiftly.

Thomas Giblin, aged 19, was sentenced to 10 years of penal servitude.

His associates, William Farrell and Matthew Prendergast, were sentenced to 7 and 5 years, respectively.

The newspapers reported the case as a warning to Birmingham’s gangs—a sign that the magistrates were no longer willing to tolerate violent street enforcers like Tommy Giblin.

But what awaited him in prison was far worse than anything he had faced in the streets.

Prison and the Discharge Record: The Physical Toll of Violence

Tommy was sent first to Chatham Prison, a grim, heavily fortified institution known for its backbreaking labour and brutal discipline. Prisoners here were not expected to rehabilitate—they were expected to be broken.

For ten years, he lived under the regime of hard labour, silence, and strict discipline, a world far removed from the chaotic violence of Birmingham’s slums.

By the time he was released in 1893, Tommy Giblin was not the same man who had been locked away. The discharge records paint a stark picture of the man he had become.

Height: 5ft 5 inches.Build:

Stocky, muscular—evidence of years of hard labour.

Scars: Multiple, including deep knife wounds and prison-inflicted marks.

Hair: Dark brown.

Eyes: Grey.

Distinguishing features: Several scars on his arms, face, and upper body, remnants of his violent past.

His release documents also listed his intended residence—he was to return to his parents' home in Hospital Street.

Many men who served ten years in penal servitude emerged humbled, broken, or desperate for a second chance. But Tommy Giblin was not one of those men.

His return to Birmingham in 1893 was not met with gratitude or remorse—it was met with more violence. Within months, he was back in court, this time for assaulting three police officers.

For Tommy, prison had not reformed him—it had simply made him even more dangerous.

The Reign of Tommy Giblin: A King of the Backstreets

There were few places in Birmingham where a man could walk without glancing over his shoulder, and none more so than the streets where Tommy Giblin ruled. From the dim-lit alleys of Livery Street to the smoke-filled drinking dens of Snow Hill, his name carried a weight that few dared challenge. He was not a man to be crossed, not a name to be spoken lightly.

For over a decade, Giblin had prowled these streets like a wild beast, his presence alone enough to clear a path through the narrow courts and back lanes where the worst of Birmingham’s gang violence brewed. Men like Tommy were not made—they were shaped, beaten into existence by the unrelenting hand of the slums. He had earned his reputation not through words, but through fists, through boots, through the dull crack of bone against cobblestone.

To the people who lived in the shadows of the factories and gin shops, Tommy Giblin was the worst kind of man—the kind who fought because he liked it. He did not need a reason to spill blood. He did not wait for provocation. His brand of violence was not calculated, nor was it driven by money or survival. It was pure, raw instinct—a need to dominate, to tear through the streets with unchecked fury, to be feared not just by his enemies, but by the very ground he walked upon.

It was said that no constable in Birmingham ever faced Tommy Giblin alone. They came in twos, sometimes threes, gripping their truncheons with uneasy hands. And for good reason. Those who had the misfortune of trying to restrain him often found themselves left sprawled in the gutter, bloodied and breathless, their uniforms torn, their ribs aching from the force of his blows.

There were nights when the streets belonged to Tommy, when the factories emptied and the taverns swelled with men who knew that if they drank too loudly, if they stepped out of line, they might find themselves face to face with him. On those nights, the police kept to the edges of the district, watching from the safety of distance as the lawless corners of Birmingham erupted into violence.

It was not uncommon to see Tommy striding down Livery Street, a man already half-drunk, his fists knuckled raw from the night before, his coat still torn from the last brawl. He fought like a man who never expected to live long enough to see old age, and perhaps that was the truth of it.

There were men in Birmingham who had crossed him and lived to regret it. There were men who had challenged him openly—some out of pride, some out of foolishness—and had been beaten so badly that they no longer spoke of him, no longer dared whisper his name in the pubs and betting halls where he once roamed.

It was these fights, these brutal, street-won battles, that made Tommy Giblin one of the most feared names in Snow Hill. He did not carry himself like a Peaky Blinder, nor did he fight for control of gambling houses or rackets. He fought simply because it was in his blood.

And yet, by 1896, something was changing.

The younger gangs had begun to rise—men in sharp suits, razor-bladed caps, criminals who played a longer game. They were the ones who could sit in a pub without starting a fight, who could shake hands in the daylight and settle debts with a blade in the dark. They were men who had little patience for Tommy Giblin’s kind—men who fought because they had to, not because they wanted to.

It was said that Tommy was losing his grip. That there were some who had started to laugh when his name was spoken, who no longer feared the old bruiser of Livery Street.

But Tommy was not a man who would go quietly. He would fight until the very end, not for power, not for money, but because it was the only thing he had ever known.

And so, the streets of Birmingham remained his battleground, even as the world around him changed.

Even as new kings rose from the alleys, wearing razor-lined caps and polished shoes, building an empire out of the violence that men like Tommy had once ruled with nothing but their fists.

He had been the worst kind of man—but he had been a king, nonetheless.

And kings never surrender without a fight.

By 1911, Tommy's long career of violence, crime, and gang loyalty had left him with few options. He was no longer the feared street brawler of the 1880s, nor was he a prominent figure in Birmingham’s new Peaky Blinders-controlled underworld.

He was 50 years old, and for the first time in his life, he was not in prison.

The 1911 census reveals that Tommy was living as a lodger with the Farrell family—the same William Farrell who had served ten years alongside him in prison for the Summer Lane stabbing.

The fact that Giblin and Farrell remained close for decades suggests that their bond of violence and survival had never faded. They had gone into prison together as teenagers, and now, as older men, they were living under the same roof once more.

The Mystery of Tommy Giblin’s Final Years

After 1911, Tommy Giblin disappears from the records. No known prison records, no newspaper articles, and no confirmed death certificate under his name.

Did he die quietly, his body unclaimed, his name forgotten?

Did he leave Birmingham, escaping the criminal world that had shaped him?

Or did he simply fade into obscurity, a man whose time had passed, replaced by a new generation of street criminals who would make their own mark on history?

The fate of Tommy Giblin remains unknown, but his legacy of violence, loyalty, and survival remains embedded in the dark history of Birmingham’s streets.

Final Thoughts: The Rise and Fall of Tommy Giblin

Unlike his brother John, who was wrongly imprisoned for crimes he did not commit, Tommy never denied his violence. His story is not one of miscarried justice, but rather the tale of a man who thrived on brutality—and who spent his entire life fighting, drinking, and resisting the law.

He was a product of Birmingham’s hardest slums, a man who saw violence not as a last resort, but as a way of life.

But in the end, even Tommy Giblin could not outlast time.

By the early 1900s, he had been overshadowed by the rise of the Peaky Blinders, his era of wild, unrestrained slogging gang violence replaced by something more calculated, more powerful, and more enduring.

Did he realise, as he sat in Farrell’s house in 1911, that his world had already passed him by?

Perhaps that is the final tragedy of Tommy Giblin—not that he lived a life of violence, but that in the end, even his violence was no longer enough to make him remembered.

Closing Reflection

From the first blog, "The Rise of the Slogging Gangs and What Made Children Such as the Notorious Giblin Brothers Become Such Violent Men in Aston and Birmingham," to this final instalment documenting each of the families intertwined with their world, I have tried to understand how boys became brawlers, pickpockets became ruffians, and childhoods turned into criminal careers.

What made children become such violent men?

I cannot answer that question in full—but perhaps this letter, published in the Birmingham Daily Post on 22 August 1871, goes some way in capturing the frustration, injustice, and entrenched poverty at the heart of it all. Written by a concerned citizen signing only as “W.L.J.,” it reflects on Livery Street—a street central to this very history—and speaks volumes about the double standards and moral failings that defined the world the Giblin brothers inherited:

LIVERY STREET AND THE POLICE. To the Editor of the Daily Post.

Sir,—Anyone whose business carries him daily into the above neighbourhood cannot fail to distinguish the "houses" referred to in the letter of your correspondent, "W. W.," in today's issue.

If the law is administered in the way named by your correspondent, its officers are not likely to command much respect among the lower classes. They will be sure to enquire, as I now do, and I think not without some show of reason—why, in the name of all that’s just, if the officers have the power, do they not begin with the larger "nests" which to my knowledge have been a disgrace to the neighbourhood for several years past?

But I suppose we must wait some time longer before the words of our poet (in his description of justice) fail to be applicable, namely—

“That little villains must submit to fate, While great ones may enjoy the world in state.”

In that poetic truth lies the harshest answer of all: justice, when it came to Birmingham’s poorest streets, was never blind—it just looked the other way.