The Street Poet of the Schemes.

Readers, once more have we endured the recitations of the self-confessed 'poet of the schemes' Gary Robertson. Today he harangued on stage for two hours, enthusiastically bawling at us a great many of his poems. All the while, sadistic and thick-wristed male nurse Pugg Muckle, with cotton wadding in his ears to avoid hearing Robertson's poesy himself, laughed as we writhed and squirmed in our seats.

For those of you unfamiliar with Robertson, perhaps a brief introduction would not go amiss. He is a 'street poet', who claims to write in an authentic Dundonian accent with brutal honesty about Dundee life. A denizen of one of Dundee's innumerable council house schemes, he claims to speak for all the poor 'schemies' who presumably do not possess the wherewithal to speak for themselves. I suspect he may be working class.

Though I do not feel comfortable making my readership suffer as I have suffered, I feel I should give you a flavour of what we inmates must endure. Here is an example of the verses today we heard:


Scheme Fowk at the Riverside Switches

Mind thon switches doon at Riverside?
Ken, when yis wur young an' starry-eyed,
They wis pure beezer. Eh, they wis magic,
Till the dodgems birled ye an' made ye sick,
A' ower some auld wifie and her bairn,
A' ower its heid an' bobble hat it wis wearin'.

Mind, when ye wis young, the switches were rare?
Toffee aipples stuck on sticks an' then yer hair,
As ye dunted the big 2p machines wi' yer erse,
Till the tinky carnie came ower lookin' a fierce,
Bawlin' at ye till ye started tae greet,
And ye got a skelp on yer lug and flung oot on the street.

Eh, ken, mind thon switches were braw?
A' the scheme bairns were taken by their maws.
Ye kent weel that the coconut shy wis a con,
But ye paid onywey fur a shottie then a play on
The puggies (but if yis won, a big lad aye stole it
Then bought baccy and a Rizla and then he would roll it).

But ken, when yis got older, ken, a teenage schemie,
Yis would still go tae the switches wi yer pals, twa or three,
But it wisnae rides yis had on yer mind,
At least, no rides on dodgems. Naw, yis wanted tae get entwined,
With some daft burd ahent the goldfish stall,
An' ******* **** her up against a wall.
Yer scheme pals and ye would get totally pished,
On cider and Buckie and, Christ, yis wished
Tae hae a fecht wi' the rival gang,
The 'Douglas Munters' or some ither bams.
Mind, you and yer pals wid chib them and batter their pusses
Wi' a length ae pipe an' they'd shout oot cusses.

See scheme fowk? The salt o' the ******* earth.
I'm fae Fintry ye ken.