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Hi Tony Robinson OBE here. Ive been writing poetry for 50 years but the hardest challenge by far was to put someones whole lifetime into a short poem. Especially when it is someone who  I cared for a great deal and felt lucky to share some of his life with him. 

I drove my business partner and best friend, Clare, half crazy with my constant redrafts over years not months. Clare helped greatly. Anyway I hope you think we nailed it in the end and you find the poem of interest. 

 Uncle Ron was a very bright man, a friend and a docker.  I miss him. Im pleased I took the freedom from bosses forever route over 30 years ago. It allowed me to move back to Yorkshire to be nearer to Uncle Ron after his sister, my Mum, died.
(Filmed at Scarborough, North Yorkshire, UK). 

There are more videos with survive and thrive tips for your business here:

All the information,  know how and research on start ups and micro business owners in the UK and links to the work of the Enterprise Rockers is here:

More of my writing - all free to read - including poetry, satires and my latest novel Loose Cannon is here:

Poem below:

ME UNCLE RON by Tony Robinson OBE

Me Uncle Ron raced me Uncle Trev
From pillow to lamppost to field
To feed horses, then raced back
Before school

Me Uncle Ron and Uncle Trev
Saw hills of rubble
Next to their street
In Hull. Friends dead.

Me Uncle Ron measured the same
As Randolph Turpin and jabbed
And feinted and hooked and ducked
Day in and day out.

My Uncle Ron was sickly forever
Pound a round was good money then
Sick of boxing, sick of being hit
By a drunken Dad.

Me Uncle Ron fled to the medical corps
Jab, jab, faint, faint
Blood on canvas and death
Bucket loads

Me Uncle Ron met me at my house
He lived there with his sister, me Mum
Me Dad couldn’t breathe – sawdust and cigs
Dad kicked him out

Me Uncle Ron lived in the biggest block
Of flats that you’ve ever seen
He killed a man once with his fork lift truck
On the docks he was known for never drinking,
Never smoking and never having mates.
He was my hero.

Me Uncle Ron had skin like tissue paper
Every knock meant he bled and bled
One day he bled enough to fill his bath
He drank whisky that day.
He told me he would
In the crem there was me and Uncle Trev and
Uncle Ron in a box – no service or nothing.
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