Author Archives: Bob Robb

This came to me shaped in a traumatic but nostalgic moment from the 70s, when I was heading towards my teens. I had an ever so brief period of being a Morton fan and invented fantasy football league (another time for that full story) to deal with my anxieties which grew as my parents toxic relationship imploded.

I repurposed old school jotters to ‘manage’ a football team, sign players, win and lose games and focussed my mind on it during my parents intense arguments. I was always Benny Rooney in those moments when I was cutting out the noise, which clearly, I witnessed through the ears and eyes of a child. If you are reading or watching the Poetcast, it helps if you are 50 plus and understand the brief success that Morton had with Benny and Andy Ritchie for a few years. Football nostalgia, rolled up in 70s issues and wrapped up in pain.

Hopefully you didn’t witness the psychological trauma that many did. It took my mother 20 plus attempts to leave my father in a period when you made your bed and were often advised to lie in it. It took me a further 25 years to realise its impact on me as a person.

If you are going through a break up of a relationship, remember the others who will be impacted longer term.

Being Benny Rooney

I just remembered being Benny Rooney, through a recess in my mind, at a time of 2 bar fires and cardboard used as blinds.

Thought he’d be drinking with Andy Ritchie, toasting with wee John McNeil, like men did in the 70s, to be manly and real.

Now Ritchie he had style, when fashions changed overnight, mothers changing v necks into crew necks to stop the bullying and the fright.

Working 2 or 3 jobs to make ends meet, but it’d be easier to hope the Jonesie’s moved to another street.

The miner, he would finish his weekly shift and be on the hawf and hawfs, only be a matter of time, before the fireworks kick off.

I’m dreaming of being Benny Rooney when awakened from my sleep, siblings at the top of the stairs, wondering who’s side to keep.

Keep staring at the woodchip wallpaper, I’d tell myself each night, shake my head from side to side, try to block out the light.

Now I can just see Andy Ritchie through the ice on the window pane, just needs to lift it over my imaginary purple chopper, which I never got again.

When I awake in the morning, linoleum underfoot, I hear nicotine stained excuses, over my copy of the Shoot.

Later a bowl of mince and tatties, will get us all back on track, a new ashtray or a week in Butlins, was the normal make up soundtrack.

I’d think, now if the maestro Ritchie, can bend a ball around a wall, surely you can escape the neanderthal.

But yep its never easy, as our neighbours might testify, but there’s a better place and a future out there, where you surely thrive.

So dream on Benny Rooney, from that recess in my mind, dream on Benny Rooney, towards a simpler time.

Check out other videos at the Poetcast video

R G Robb © 2021

Who remembers TCP? Seemed to be a snake oil salesman’s cure for all and sundry, when I was growing up. And the smell. Apparently, originally it was the phenol which supported its magical cure abilities.

Memories and the emotions linked to smells can increase your happy hormone levels and trigger a positive feeling in the body, reducing stress and supporting your mental health.

Me: Golden syrup, burnt toast and Vosene acted as safe words. Kep guns as child might have made me feel less safe, the aroma is still real. And a canny bag of Tudor Pickled Onion. What about the smell of ambition like Ally McLeod passed on to all us kids in 1978?

What distant smell recalls do you have? Try and trigger your happy hormones for a better day.

1978

If you could capture a memorable smell from the 70s, or trap it in a bottle

Would it raise a smile in your mind and help you reflect like Aristotle

Would it burst, throwing stale cigarette smoke in the air, with clouded curses, like the Sweeney and Jack Regan

Or would your dad, smell like he was going out to see a man about a dug, more Brylcreme and Brut like Kevin Keegan

Would a smile be on your face as you recollect the scent of purple tooty frootys and the joy of a wet skipping rope

Or would sadness be afoot at the thought of the school gym, swimming, cross country running and pink carbolic soap

Would a whiff of burning stoor, or a waft from a cooling storage heater be a constant in the hairs in your nose

Or would holey black and white baseball boots, 2 sizes too big (but you’re wearing them), be rancid from your toes

Would you be reminded of the clinical aroma as your mum applies Vosene in yer hair and you float safely in a bath

Or would distant memories of playing cowboys and cowboys (no Indians), with keps and candy stick smokes, come rushing back

Would you rediscover sweet golden syrup and burnt toast when you visit your grans

Or a completely different aroma each time you were taken screaming to your nans

Would you be taken back to that stench of hessian sack, with boulders inside, destined apparently, for a vet

Or would there be traces of Vesta curry and the vanilla from Artic Roll in every cupboard in your kitchenette

Would you recall hints of guy fawkes, or housefires, then a weekly occurrence in every street

Or would your fridge smell of mixed fruit cocktail and that ‘leave it – that’s for dad’ type of meat

Would the distinct bouquet of Alpine limeade or Tudor Pickled Onion be foremost in your mind

Or would you remember the tang of hot summers, melting pavements and lime of a different kind

Would it be the scent of Zest or Camay, that was absorbed into the towels at your Auntie Jeans

Though, it’s a 100% guaranteed that she’s not your real auntie, but you know what I mean

Would the whiff of the crust of a plain loaf burning under the grill be floating through the air

Or would TCP, with its miracle ailment qualities fix the full families annual wear and tear

Would there be an air of new build homes or foosty derelict buildings and general urban decay

Or would essence of pages of a Kays catalogue remind you of your family Christmas day

If you could bottle a smell from your childhood, or trap it in a bubble

Would it bring back happy smiley candyfloss memories, or would it remind you more of trouble

1978 – Poetcast Video

Check out other videos at the Poetcast video

R G Robb 2021

The wording had been mulling around in various forms for a few years but 2020 felt an appropriate juncture to finalise this reflective piece.

Coping with the loss of someone or something you love is no doubt one of life’s biggest challenges.

Acceptance: The healthiest option for our Wellbeing is for us to face it, work our way through any loss process and say goodbye. It’s a myth that burying our head in the sand helps us cope, it doesn’t, and won’t help our long term health. Each grieving process will be unique to us, nothing is normal. But unfortunately we need to face the challenge.

For those that didn’t get to say goodbye. Embrace the message. Safe passage, you’ll meet again.

The Campsie Hills

  On the day you left us the earth stood still
Rain never fell, and lochs never filled
The sun didn't shine, on the Campsie Hills 
     On the day you left us the earth stood still 

  On the day you left us the earth stood still
Snow didn’t melt, ice didn’t chill
Burns never flowed, around the Campsie Hills
     On the day you left us the earth stood still

  On the day you left us the earth stood still
Butter didn’t churn, milk never spilled
Bread wasn’t baked, around the Campsie Hills
     On the day you left us the earth stood still

  On the day you left us the earth stood still
Cattle didn’t roam, sparrows didn’t trill
Lambs didn’t wander neath the Campsie Hills
     On the day you left us the earth stood still

  On the day you left us the earth stood still
Bluebells didn’t ring, around the daffodils
No leaves were in the wind of the Campsie Hills
    On the day you left us the earth stood still

 On the day you left us the earth stood still
Elation never reigned, only tears were distilled
But joy will return, I’m sure, and I will be fulfilled
    When we meet once again o'er the Campsie Hills

R G Robb © 2020

Check out other videos at the Poetcast video

Be thankful for what you’ve achieved. Grown ups of a certain age, will remember two bar fires. Fighting your sister or brother to get near it. For long periods in the 70s, a two bar fire was all we had. With ice covered windows, 2 duvets or crocheted covers and extra jaickets were how we kept tepid.

Resilient or what?

Imagine that these days, but yep it still exists in this century. I’m privileged enough to have tried to work hard to enable me not to shout at my kids saying ‘put the fire off’ for fear of high utility bills.

Yet it happened 40 years ago in a developed country and still happens to this day. For me, it helped me build a baseline to grow from. Be thankful, show gratitude.

A two bar fire for a family of six

Rin to the fire, rin to the fire, rin to the fire, old stoakin

Hopefully two bars, probably one, I hope its no still broken

A two bar fire for a family of six, takin turn and turns aboot

Meltin jaikits and burning thighs, threatening to electrocute

Maybe the convection will work this time, I’ve got my fingers crossed

While I wait for that to kick in, I make some tea and toast

Crack the bars up, from one to two, when its working, it’s a bit of a novelty

A two bar fire for a family of six, at least you’ve got it, nowhere near poverty

Turn the sounds on, turn the dial, from Radio 2, to more my scene

Grills burning, toasts on fire, gotta get the cooker clean

Kettle whistles, tea bag used again, lookin for the milk

There’s a space for a fridge, where the washins kept, milk chills on the window sill

Time for a quick No.6, no lighter, no match, I’ll try the bar of the fire

Sticks like a leach, burns like a sparkler, starts to unfurl the wire

From two bars, to one, its goosed, I’m getting it in the ear.

A one bar fire for a family of six, we need an engineer

There’s a key in the door, the miners home, after ten hours down a pit

He’ll smell the burning, the melting, the No.6, which I throw out the window still lit

Inhaling on arrival, he quizzically asks, whats burning, I suggest the toast

Not knowing which one of todays failures, he’ll rise to the most

It’ll not be a two bar fire for a family of six, so lets not pretend

A two bar fire for a family of six, every winter was discontent

R G Robb © 2021

Check out other videos at the Poetcast video

Bearing in mind what the wee ones have been through in the last few years, lets make sure they are well balanced, safe and happy. Lets ensure we acknowledge them and how important they are to us as we struggle to home school, whilst working from home.

As a kid, like many, I was bullied which impacted on my Mental Health along with a good few other challenges. Found a wee Sanctuary during the period, before I unashamedly dealt with the perpetrator head on. Consequences.

I miss those trees.

Sanctuary

Its 1970s Ayrshire, the jannie rings a school bell,

skipping along the corridor, it must be after 3

Running out of the gate, escaping from this hell,

along to the woodland covered loch, to find that sanctuary

Climb a tree or 2, hurt my pride,

graze ma elbow and ultimately skin ma knee

All to be sat astride a beast of a branch,

reaching out for a direction more heavenly

Ripping clothes on each decline, well more of a fall,

in my search, I can’t help it

Draped in natures fall and covered in bark and moss,

legs are bruised and skelpit

Now aloft, ma safe space in the air,

no playground bully, among these autumn leaves

Staring at the clouds, watching birds afloat,

is when I really begin to breathe

No one in sight, less peopley for me,

clear mind, torment has been evicted

It’s a good day, today, a good day today,

the blood dripping from my legs, is merely self-inflicted

R G Robb 2021

Check out other videos at the Poetcast video

I started full time work when I was 25, the month that a local mine (Barony, Ayrshire) closed. My father worked at the mine for most of his working life until retiring a few years after the miners strike of the mid 80s. He like many miners, steelworkers, fitters and others based in the heavy industries of the 50s,60s,70s,80s lost his way after that period.

The A frame from the mine is now a heritage site which I ashamedly visited for the first time in 2020 and that visit inspired the words below.

Whatever we went through over the last few years, be it furlough, job loss, panic or our restrictive lives, give a thought for those men and women who lost jobs, camaraderie, sense of community, income and focus who weren’t treated with anything near the compassion or support they deserved. My father like many before him and after started work in the mining industry when he was 14. Now just imagine that for our kids. Let’s show some gratitude for what we have.

Just imagine 14.

Imagine the energy

Just imagine the energy it took,

To mine the energy it gave, To allow us to cook, Sustain and save

Imagine the mouths that were fed,

The pubs that were filled, Milk, meat and bread,

The lour of the yill.

Imagine the miles that were walked,

Underground and beyond, The conversations talked,

That brotherly bond.

Imagine the tons in the hutch,

Ripped from the earth, Carrying the can,

Expected from birth.

Imagine the props being cut,

The shafts being built, Grafting down and up,

To the hilt.

Imagine the dust inhaled,

The sweat dripped, Knuckles scraped and impaled,

The doubts being nipped.

Imagine the tumbling roar,

The din from the face, The gas from the floor,

Making it back to base

Imagine the shifts night and day,

Showering afresh, Awash with your pay,

An inevitable dusty sesh.

Imagine the jam on the piece

The sugary tea, The sweet elation, 

The energy, Imagine

Imagine the Energy- Poetcast

Check out other videos at Poetcast video

R G Robb 2021

Happy fulfilling relationships come to us all. You may have to crash through a few waves first, but its just water, so bide your time, you’ve got this. A happier you, moves you along the positive spectrum of your mental health continuum, and connects with other health benefits for you. A Better Tide is about finding happiness.

Keep believing and being optimistic about the future (your future) helps push you positively up that mental health continuum.

A better tide

Tides may leave you stranded or bring you gently to your shore

Provide you with safe passage,

To find your happy evermore.

Filter through the sunset, across the shivering sound

Through the swells of love and life,

To that love which can be found.

Why our stars collided, near the banks of the Clyde

Destined in my eyes,

To life in a better tide.

Though my tide will ebb before yours, of that, I am fairly clear

I’ll leave a light in our sunset,

For you to shine, my dear.

The light, though not an eye, is a memory of our time

When you set me free,

Nourishing this mind.

The time we have together, are of the best for me

Seems only yesterday,

A tide brought destiny.

When we have no more tomorrows and there are no more todays,

Filter through the sunset,

To see our yesterdays.

A better tide – Poetcast

Check out other videos at Poetcast video

R G Robb © 2021

Bit of fun about the humble Tattie Scone

Its a F***** Tattie Scone

Lets start off the way we mean to go on

It’s a tattie not a tottie,

It’s a scone not a scone (scawn).

It should be thin and not thick, and kinda triangular in shape

Never ever ever round,

It’s a tattie scone, not a crepe.

Best served lightly fried, like the delicacy deserves

Presented within breakfast or brunch,

But never hors d’oeuvres.

You may, garnish with sauce, should be legally brown

If you must, try some red,

But you’ll be run out of town

Wash down with some tea, in the mug that you trust

The humble fried tattie scone,

Is really a must.

So to summarise, when you are in the zone

Fried, brown sauce and tea,

Its not a farl, it’s a f***** Tattie Scone

Check out other videos at the Poetcast video

R G Robb 2021

Penned to a conclusion during Covid 19 in 2020. The wording had been mulling around in various forms for a few years but 2020 felt an appropriate juncture to finalise this reflective piece.

For those that didn’t get to say goodbye. Embrace the message. Safe passage, you’ll meet again.

The Campsie Hills

  On the day you left us the earth stood still
Rain never fell, and lochs never filled
The sun didn't shine, on the Campsie Hills 
     On the day you left us the earth stood still 

  On the day you left us the earth stood still
Snow didn’t melt, ice didn’t chill
Burns never flowed, around the Campsie Hills
     On the day you left us the earth stood still

  On the day you left us the earth stood still
Butter didn’t churn, milk never spilled
Bread wasn’t baked, around the Campsie Hills
     On the day you left us the earth stood still

  On the day you left us the earth stood still
Cattle didn’t roam, sparrows didn’t trill
Lambs didn’t wander neath the Campsie Hills
     On the day you left us the earth stood still

  On the day you left us the earth stood still
Bluebells didn’t ring, around the daffodils
No leaves were in the wind of the Campsie Hills
    On the day you left us the earth stood still

 On the day you left us the earth stood still
Elation never reigned, only tears were distilled
But joy will return, I’m sure, and I will be fulfilled
    When we meet once again o'er the Campsie Hills

R G Robb © 2020

Check out other videos at the Poetcast video