An Unfortunate Rake

So I was watching the second season of Ripper Street t'other night, and it reminded me of that scene in season one where all the coppers sing "The Unfortunate Rake," which sadly isn't on YouTube, although if you need a reference this is:

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A Scruffian Christmas Carol 4

What folks don't know these days is that aktcherly that Burl Ives song about Santy Claws coming to town... it were a rewrite of an older Scruffian song as weren't about Santy Claws at all. It were about Bold Nick Scantilaw, the Rake as all em groanhuff legends were based on. We used to sing it all through the streets, see, in the run-up to Christmas Eve, so's all em groanhuffs what owned Scruffian slaves would catch a snatch of it as they passed, only they'd turn and, why, it would just seem like some harmless nippers playing hopscotch, singing pattycake, pattycake, baker's man or somesuch. Strange, they'd think, but they must've been mistook, yeah?

So on they'd walk, but then they'd pass another waif, one what had a hoop and stick or summat, and he'd be singing it too. Leastways, that groanhuff would've sworn he was singing it, the moment before he whirls on the nipper to find him singing something else. Or just not there. We's good at vanishing sharpish, like. Squirlet's especially good at it, natch, even when's she's wearing the brightest red duffel coat.

Sometimes we'd pick one particular bastard, and we'd makes it so's he couldn't go nowhere in the whole city without hearing that song, or even just the tune of it whistled. Every day from the First of December. We used to drives em crazy, we did. And I mean proper Bedlam crazy. Oh, it were a right lark!

Anyways, here's that little song for yez. Best hope yer don't ever hears it sung, as that'll mean some crib has it in for yer, and has passed on yer partic'lars to Bold Nick Scantilaw. And the pressie he'll be bringing yer on Christmas Eve... well, it ain't like to be one as fills yer heart with joy so much as empties it of blood.

You better stay safe
You better not buy
A Scruffian waif
I'm telling you why
Scantilaw is coming to town

He's making a list
And checking it twice;
He's gonna find out
What buggers to slice
Scantilaw is coming to town

He'll shiv yer when yer sleeping
He'll bleed yer till yer dead
He'll dance a jig upon yer corpse
Till his coat is stained bright red!

O! You better stay safe!
You better not buy
A Scruffian waif
I'm telling you why
Scantilaw is coming to town
Scantilaw is coming to town

Gobfabbler on Black Friday

Back in em bad old days, our Black Friday was when's the scrufftraders'd do their rounds, end of every week, looking to make a pretty profit off the poor as was starving and on the edge of being turfed out on the streets. Ain't that much different now, I suppose; it's still the merchants and masters rooking the desperate for all's they got, in coin or credit. And the rest of us, beggars and buskers and outright burglarisers, cause sod it, we's only stealing back what they stole from us, eh?

Guinea for a gamin, that were the going rate. Give me a child until he is seven, so they says, and I'll give yer an indentured worker what's Fixed in his hunger and misery, and like to do anything for whatever sorry scraps yer throws at him. If them fuckers still had the Stamp, like as not all yer Walmart workers would be scofflaw slaves, they would, chained behind their counters and with a cattle-prod at their back to make em smile ever-so-politely and tells yer to have a nice day. Healthcare? Oh, we'll Fix yer right up, they'd say. Food stamps? Oh, we'll give yer Stamps alright! The way they treats their so-called human resources, ain't no question as they'd still be trading us in chains if only they could get away with it.

And oh how them groanhuffs would slaver at the store doors, and rush inside to squall and scrabble in greed, to snaffle up the scamps and scrags at bargain bin prices! Black Friday, eh? Day after Thanksgiving. They oughts to celebrate Fucksgiving, them American groanhuffs. Like, one day a year all em groanhuffs as has already sorta sold their own kiddies in a way, sold em for a song as sounds good but ain't got an ounce of truth in it, one day a year them groanhuffs could actually give a fuck. And maybes even not go right back, the next day, to hoarding all em fucks, keeping all em fucks to themselves.

That's the thing about fucks. They ain't worth nuffink if yer don't gives em. Ain't worth fuck all.

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.

A Scruffian Christmas Carol 2

I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas Day in the morning.

And what was in those ships all three,
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day?
And what was in those ships all three,
On Christmas Day in the morning?

A host of Scruffians off for sale,
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
A host of Scruffians off for sale,
On Christmas Day in the morning.

Pray, whither sailed those ships all three,
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
Pray, whither sailed those ships all three,
On Christmas Day in the morning?

O they sailed for the colonies,
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
O they sailed for the colonies,
On Christmas Day in the morning.

And all the bells on earth shall ring,
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
And all the bells on earth shall ring,
On Christmas Day in the morning.

And all the auctioneers shall sing,
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
And all the auctioneers shall sing,
On Christmas Day in the morning.

And all the whips and chains shall sting,
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
And all the whips and chains shall sting,
On Christmas Day in the morning.

Then let us rise and slit their throats,
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
Then let us rise and slit their throats,
On Christmas Day in the morning.

Scruffians Celebrate With Ice Cream

And afters, Vermintrude gots us all ice cream! Give us some bleeding ice cream, says she, or I'll cut yer knackers off! That's her in front, the littl'un. Yer don't wants to know what she's saying to that groanhuff on the left, the one what doesn't have his hands tied behind his back.

A Scruffian Christmas Carol

Away in a sewer, no crib for his bed
The little scamp Icksquick laid down his sweet head
The rats in the brickwork looked down on his plight
The little scamp Icksquick asleep in the shite

The rodents are squeaking, the scamp he awakes
But Icksquick's a Scruffian, no crying He makes
He digs out a morsel to feed to his chums
A ratcatcher's hand what is missing its thumb

Be near me, sweet Icksquick, them rats squeaks to say
Close by me forever, and feed me I pray
Feed all the dear rats, till we're plump as can be
And when you are hungry, then we will feed thee.

Documentary Evidence on the Existence of Scruffians c. 1771

"Employing a linkboy could be dangerous, as some would lead their clients to dark alleyways, where they could be beset by footpads."

Well, duh! If yer employs a scamp what's clearly a bleeding hellion, a Scruffian as has only gone and tweaked his Stamp to give himself sodding bat wings, what does yer think is like to happen? Oh yes, Mr Reynolds, sir! You just foller me, Mr Reynolds, sir! I'll lead yer right! Lead yer up right Black Boy Alley and right into Clerkenwell Rookery, that is! And then there'd be Flashjack Scarlequin stood in the shadows, sparking his pipe with a flame as he fingersnaps from his thumb! And like as not the rest of Foxtrot's crew'd be behind that poor nob now, so's there ain't no escaping. That's what yer gets for following a Glym Jack with bleeding bat wings, ain't it? Yer twat.

Scruffian Rhymes

Ratatat Dan, the butcher's brat,
Give him a drum and a soldier's hat,
A Stamp and a shilling and half a cup.
We all fall down, but Dan gets up!

***

The cowboy was an Indian.
The princess was a knight.
The pirate and the ninja
Sailed a ship upon a kite.
The ship it had a tree as mast,
The tree it had a house.
The pilot was an astronaut
Who used to be a mouse.
One with his peepers open,
Four on the skive.
One Scruffian, two Scruffian,
Three, four, five!

***

What are Scruffians made of, made of?
What are Scruffians made of?
Knives and chains and elephants' brains
That's what Scruffians are made of.

***

Guinea for a gamin.
Tuppence for a tot.
Thruppence for a thump, sir.
Penny for your thoughts.

***

Girls and boys, come out to play,
The moon in the sky's as bright as day;
Leave yer supper, and leave yer sleep,
And follow the Scruffians into the street.
Come with a whoop, come with a call,
Come with a mischief or not at all.
Up the ladder and down the wall,
A ha'penny roll will serve us all.
You nick milk, and I'll nick flour,
And we'll have a pudding in half an hour.

***

West of sunset, east of dawn
Where the hours fly,
Norther than the Pole Star,
Souther than the sky,
Hidden from the groanhuffs,
Hidden from their God,
Outside, inside,
In the Land of Nod.

***




It's a hard life being a Scruffian, eh?

A List, Apropos of Arsing About

Slickspit Hamshankery (scrag)
Quippersnapper Wreathquiff (scallywag)
Straggler Bratsprat (scofflaw)
Wipeguddler Fitzgigglin-Chimpudence (scrag)
Rebelladonna Scrapegrace (scofflaw)
Tadpolka Cadgeskin (scamp)
Scally Ali Axinfreak (scallywag)
Squigglish Jesterfield (scamp)

Other than the first two, not sure where I'll use these, but it's always handy having em.