written and posted by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society

Saturday, 5 July 2025

But

It's a bit of a strange theme. I've looked at various definitions of the word but (adpositions, adverbs, conjunctions, nouns) and I'm going with the Scottish noun meaning: an outer room, especially in a two-roomed cottage. The term 'but and ben' describes the basic design of a residential building plan, in this case a simple crofter's dwelling, in which the outer room, used as an antechamber or kitchen, is the but, while the inner room is the ben. The word but here derives from Early Scots/Middle English "bouten" or outside, and ben comes from "binnen" for inside.

a Highland crofter's 'but and ben'
And that's your meagre lot, but for a slight comic poem. The reason is I've written quite a few fairly lengthy blogs in recent weeks, so I'm reining it in this time. Think of the prose part as the 'but' and the poem as the 'ben'. In fact, that's as good a title as any...

Ben
Birthed in Cuil Dubh, black nook,
by half-moon light and his mother
didn't make it, marked down early

as a troubled child, dark in looks
and temperament, for what could
highland isolation offer that lad 

only the unearthing of badness?
McColl hated sheep and wool
and school except for football,

would spend his free hours out
on the heather moor, leathering
his prized possession, dreaming

of turning out for Tain Thistle or
even Ross County one day, knew
he had to get away. For some it's

boxing, but his feet did the talking,
for others the army, and he did get
murderous thoughts, though you'd

have to be barmy, wouldn't you?
even with a dirk down your sock.
So he kept on practising penalties

against that crofter's wall beneath
forbidding hills until a hiker spied 
him, a scout for Inverness Caley

on a summer break, the day that
changed Ben's life. Random fate.
A trial, youth terms first, in time

a regular in the league squad. He
soon grew into a weapon of a man,
became worth an extravagant fee.

Still has dark thoughts, still hates
sheep, keeps a dirk in his locker, 
lives in Spain these days, a legend. 

Hola! The fans call him El Asesino
and he's making a killing as a striker 
in La Liga with Real Sociopath.








Thanks for reading, S ;-)

10 comments:

CI66Y said...

Real Sociopath - brilliant, Steve! 😂

Jen McDonagh said...

Most of the crofter cottages are tarted-up holiday lets these days. I liked your Ben poem but surely Real Sociopath isn't a real football club? (Tain Thistle and Ross County are.)

Ross Madden said...

Splendid nonsense. 👏

Adele said...

Och - the poem is hilarious. Well done Steve

Pam Winning said...

I love this. I was introduced to The Broons at age 6 or 7 and still love them. My favourite stories were their trips to the But 'n' Ben, which I would have based a blog on if I'd got onto it last week. Things got in the way. 😊

Stu Hodges said...

Very droll Steve. Where did you find the Real Sociopath crest?

Boz said...

Real Sociopath? You slay me, la!

terry quinn said...

I used to watch Inverness Thistle when I lived there.
Splendid poem.
Love the logo.

Anonymous said...

I enjoyed your murderous footballer poem. How can anyone hate sheep? Loved the name El Asesino. See you soon. Cynthia

Steve Rowland said...

Stu: that crest is of my own devising.