‘Twas the week before Christmas, when nobody stirred
Except some weird runners, abroad, and absurd
In tinsel and glitter and Santa Hats (red)
And one with a Christmas tree stuck out of his head.

These nutters were running as part of a club
Not up hill and down dale but from pub to pub
With bathos and banter and not a few cheers
They ran and they cantered in search of some beers.

Their leader, the bleeder, in lights head to toe
But blessed with the knowledge of which way to go
Led up Hill and down Dale (they were both surprised)
With car drivers tooting at the breadth of their guise.

One fast, zippy, lady in cutty sark dressed
Seemed happy to be both caroused and caressed
 As probably so too were all of the rest
But with some less chance (as you probably guessed)

So KB, then Braidburn (our Wednesday haunts)
Then out in the darkness for further wee jaunts
Up to Double Hedges and the Rugby Club; 
the cheapest of all rounds (without even a sub).

Then downhill, then uphill, passed the former Rob Roy
(T’was flats pre the Pub Run and so we avoid)
But so to continue in search of our quest
We runners (and cyclists) hit the Robin’s Nest.

Where all those assembled could but stop and stare
As Robin and Gordon exchanged underwear
Then off-road through dark woods was the place to be
Being mislead, with false tread by a bright Christmas tree 

But our leader stayed true, like a beckoning light
And led them quite gently out into the night
By Southfield to Northfield where more beer was quaffed
and old George at the bar said Carnethy were daft

Through rain to the Marmion, each mile just passes
But a change to the order (there’s no half pint glasses)
Long glasses, tall glasses, some with full pint pots
Its whole pints for real men (although some like their shots)

The Waverley all done up and looking quite posh
Some runners are done in and looking quite sloshed
So out in the night to a pub that’s not there
To drink up Old Bordeaux in the cold evening air

Our way now is quite simple for those still with sense
Except that some eejit’s built a whopping fence
That just for a moment had caused us to stop
Then b*m slide to the river avoiding the drop

We continue the long run through mud that’s knee deep
In rain-soaked ploughed fields in which running shoes seep
Then stop at the farm, where some are now “fleein’”
To find that we’ve a problem, we’ve gone and lost Ian

“He’ll be at the Fairmile”, it was widely supposed
(Except that the Fairmile has been three years closed)
But the “Feast of Steven” (some nicely chilled beers)
Is there safely awaiting to allay all our fears

Our great thanks to Steve Fallon, our barman superb
Dispensing the ale from his car at the kerb
But Ian is not there, so a quick mobile call
Finds that he’s gone the long way via Mortonhall

Its farewell to Steven (he’s one in a million)
Then uphill to Frogston and in the Pavilion
Now though we are slowing, we drink (who are able)
Then wend on our way, through the woods to the Stable

Not led by a star but by a being of brightness
Bedecked in lights of unbearable whiteness
Unerringly leading through Buckstone and woods
Safely to the Stable Bar to enjoy the goods

Their last is the Balmwell, (it’s the last but not least)
Then all off to Nick’s house to enjoy the feast
And as if it’s needed, some drams with more beer
Then all off to their warm beds with dreams of next year

Except Nick & Alison, cleaning up all the crud
What’s this on the carpet?  Its chocolate and mud …