Keep The Heid

09/10/2025

Sunglasses in the Rain

He walks alone, hood up, face plain,
Dark shades on in the pissin’ rain.
Folk don’t ask, they never do

Alright mate? Aye, if only they knew.
He bottles it up, keeps it tight,

Smiles by day, screams at night. Sertraline kicks in, pint-glass pain,
Still wears his sunglasses in the rain.

Come Sunday, at Keep The Heid,
Men like him just sit and bleed.
No shame, no front, no mask, no game
Just real talk revealing personal pain.

So if you see him and he’s not okay,
Don’t walk past, ask anyway.
Could be your mate, your Da, your wean,
We all wear sunglasses in the rain.

J. J. Whelan

09/10/2025

Feeling down, need someone to talk to, come along and join like minded men.

29/09/2025

Great new podcast.. tune in now..

Nicky asks Paul how his journey to keep the heid started . What the group has brought to Paul’s life. How he started bagging munros and jumping in rivers and...

25/09/2025

Watch till the end.

25/09/2025

Come along and join us, it’s good to talk.

18/09/2025

Part 2..

Iain and nicky tell us how being in the group has helped their mental health. How friendships have been made and how they see the group growing on the future .

18/09/2025

Have a wee listen.

Kris asks Jimmy how KTH came about and how he enjoys going to the meetings.He loves how the group has helped other members grow throughout the years and sp...

17/09/2025

New logo…

16/09/2025

Part 2… podcast

Iain and nicky tell us how being in the group has helped their mental health. How friendships have been made and how they see the group growing on the future .

16/09/2025

Worth a watch.. Part one.

Kris asks Jimmy how KTH came about and how he enjoys going to the meetings.He loves how the group has helped other members grow throughout the years and sp...

07/09/2025

Feeling down, come and share with us and enjoy the tea and biscuits and meet some fantastic guys✊✊✊

14/06/2025

Cooncil Nights and Shattered Dreams

Dragged up in a town of disarray,
P**s smelling closes, post war houses depressingly grey.
Held up at knifepoint for the price of a score,
Dreams were things we had no more.

We weren’t sipping Champagne in no fancy spa.
We necked Buckfast, Vodka wae coke fae a jar.
Frosty Jack cider in a sh*t-hole gaff,
Sniffing glue, magic mushrooms, ecky as junkies laugh.

Cooncil lines from card or key,
Bombed out minds, just trying tae feel free.
Prop in the bogs, head full of steam,
Half of us chasing some dead man’s dream.

No dads around, no trust in cops,
Just maws on shifts and corner shops.
Hunners of schemes all copy and paste.
Same young boys trying tae escape from waste.

We danced wae death on parapet heads,
Utopia high, but no one cares for wasted pissheads.
One pal gone, next on a tag,
Another just vanished, Police body bag.

The nights were long and possessed,
Gouching out or pure obsessed.
Telly on mute, paranoia in bloom,
Getting the heebies in your Ma’s spare room.

It wisnae glamour, it wis hell in disguise
White dust lies and bloodshot eyes.
We chased it hard, that high, that spark,
Even when it dragged us through the dark.

Few got out and found their light,
But plenty more are ghosts at night.
Still sniffing, still drinking, still chasing steam,
Still trapped inside that Cooncil scheme.

J. J. Whelan ‘25