A Scruffian Christmas Carol 3

Only two days till FABBLES: 1 is officially launched in trade edition, with copies going live on Lulu and hopefully available to buy at my reading at The Old Hairdresser's on Sunday 1st December. There will definitely be copies of Caledonia Dreamin' there for sale on the merchandise table--they just arrived today--but I'm on tenterhooks waiting to see if the Lulu order makes it here in time. I have me doubts, but fingers crossed.

But hey, even if you can't nab yourself a copy of the chapbook there, you'll get to hear me read "A Scruffian Christmas," and them scruffs do make for a good fabble to listen to, if do say so meself. So come along and hear me channel Gobfabbler in a sweet wee seasonal tale of sausages and shivs. Also on the bill: Alexander Abraham; Stephen Goodall; Craig Collins; and of course, headlining, Caledonia Dreamin's very own Douglas Thompson.

In the meantime, we're down to single figures on the lettered copies of the speshul edition. And if the Lulu order for the first batch of those arrives in time, while the order for the trade edition doesn't, if letters whatever through to Z are still unsold by Sunday, I might well take the spares with me (along with crayons, glitter and glue) in lieu of the trade edition. So while the speshul edition will still be available for Johnny-come-latelys, if you do fancy the extra wee bit of collectibility that comes of getting one of the very first run of 26, hot off the press, get yer order in now.

Anyhoo, so's this post isn't entirely a BUY MAH BOOK shill , here's another wee Christmas carol, Scruffian style, for your enjoyment. Sing along if you know the tune.

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter
Not so long ago.

Sticks and stones can't hurt us
Nor grub sustain;
From our woes we'll flee away
When we breaks our chains.
In the bleak midwinter
Shines a Scruffian crib
Safety from the stickmen,
Sausages and shivs.

Enough for us what masters
Worked night and day,
A bottleful of gin
A sip for every stray;
Enough for us what groanhuffs
Stamped to do their chores,
The scamps and scrags them bastards
Fixed forevermore.

Hellions and urchins
Gathers round the waif;
Scallywags and scofflaws
Throngs to keep yer safe,
Harking to the fabbler
Fabbling his fib.
In the bleak midwinter,
Welcomes to the crib.

What can we gives yer?
Not a bleeding lot.
If Mary had a little lamb
She'd be in the pot.
If we was all la-di-da,
We'd have such a spread.
So what can we gives yer?
Here's the bastard's head.