Muddied But Unbowed

Caboose Bomber Posh Whinge TC Twanky Mr Blobby C5 Iceman ShutupWally Matt Joe Cerberus Nutcracker LoudonTasteless Spex Uplift Utopia Motox Tinopener Lilo and dog Emma Dwight Centaur Quack Little Stiffy SlackBladder Ms Whiplash Salome BlouseBlazer Slippery Hitchiker Spot Swallow Donut CabinBuoy Pat Trainspotter FannyBag BogBrush Chopstix Shandyman OldFart Itsyor Florence Zebedee ArthriticTit SillyCow Sam StinkingBishop Grommet Barry

A New Pub! Hurrah!

1Expiation – I feel I should perhaps mention, ahem, last week’s, er, Hash. As Iceman put it, so concisely, on the website “No Hare, No Scribe, No Pub, No Beer and No Gobsheet”. Apart from that I believe it went quite well. Depending on your point of view the entire affair was either a disaster of Old Testament proportion, or a dazzling example of true Hashing organisation. From a slightly pugnacious, M.P. under television interview attack viewpoint I could say that: Hares had been organised, two of whom were new and therefore benefited from the learning experience (they all receive my grateful thanks for a job well done); the Scribe was alive and well (glad to hear it I’m sure you’re thinking) albeit 4,000-odd miles away, but joining in from afar; the pub was indeed there – closed for renovation perhaps, but certainly every brick and tile in place and ready to welcome the thirsty traveller… in a couple of weeks; beer, there was plenty – not at the pub everyone expected it to be at but certainly a mere step away down the road; Gobsheet – the Scribe had arranged for the recorder to be made available to a willing volunteer but, surprisingly, no-one stepped forward – one can only try. From a more realistic viewpoint I can only apologise unreservedly, wear the hair shirt and indulge in a little personal flagellation (no, Ms Whiplash, I do not need any assistance). Luckily, there will be a chance for me to make up in October. I trust you will all join me for the (second) best Hash of the year? And let’s hope it won’t be p***ing down like it was last week.

2 Precipitation – It rained. And rained. Then rained some more just to round things off. We approached the pub via what appeared to be a deserted coal yard (idiosyncratic? Oh, yes) streaming with water, sloshed to a stop and were greeted by a well-wrapped Simple who informed us that, “There’s no shiggy. It’s all under water.” Oh joy. At the Circle, we greeted new boy Joe. He was introduced by Wally who informed us he had met the poor deluded fellow while swimming. This blatant out-of-the-closet explanation had several male Hashers blanching at the mental image. Several shuddered as they attempted to banish the nightmare thought. Personally, I felt quite sorry for the lad. Not only did he get fooled into running all the way up one of the first steep hill Falses but, towards the end of the Trail, he had obviously not managed to shake off his béte noir, Wally, who clung to him verbally for mile after mile as tenaciously as baby poo to a cellular blanket (trust me. I know what I’m talking about).

At least this trail had any number of stiles between the puddled tarmac and shoe-sucking fields and this considerably slowed the FRBs and kept the Pack together. Though, of course, many Hashers were only too aware of the forthcoming Fun Run next week. The proximity to Motox of anyone who might be in with a chance of running well in the race caused many a sudden mud-slide braking and a sedate trot puntuated by a pathetic cough as the previously sub-4 runner realised (s)he was next to the handicapper. The finest exponent of this tonight was CabinBuoy, who appeared to be suffering from an extreme form of man-flu. His pale, stooped form stumbled bravely across the slippery sward. He looked so pathetic Comic relief could use him in one of their charity vids desperately appealing for aid for ‘boatmen fallen on hard times’. I almost gave him a shilling myself, but settled for helpful advice – “Always keep your rowlocks dry. Or they’ll squeak.” For those unaware of the concept of the ‘Fun Run’, this heart-attack inducing 10-12k off-road race is a non-stop treadmill of laughs where the faster runners are set off at increasing time intervals and is designed to provide a feast of enjoyment for sadists and masochists alike. If you haven’t taken part before, my advice is… don’t.

The Hares had very kindly included a series of fiendishly complex Checks that foxed most of us at one time or another. One of my favourites was the one just down the road from the farm with the immense dog (or was it a small horse?). The footpath sign next to the Check appeared to indicate a path in a field. This was backed-up by three, four flour blobs. Everyone set off gleefully until, half way down the field, we found a Bar-6. Ok, we thought, let’s carry on down the track we had been on. ¼ of a mile down that we realised that everyone else had carried straight on across the field next to the one we had gone through originally!

Centaur and I sought forlornly down a steep, off-road track that led down from a Check on a perfectly good, flat road. Lord knows why. There was certainly no flour down there. Fannybag Bogbrush and Spot later pasted up a steep road for no good reason at all. Threee blobs and no ‘F’ were all they found. Apart from some circular white road marks with a ‘3’ next to them that confused poor Fannybag no end. And then there was ‘stinging nettle alley’ next to a barbed wire fence where those in shorts entered it with white and slender legs, only to exit looking like someone had rammed several kilos of King Edward potatoes roughly under their skin. My, there was an itchin’ and a scratchin’ after that. The rain began to sprinkle down again. Both Caboose and Shandyman were in race mode. So we did. Why not? It got us back to the pub quicker.

3 Deviation -

Why, we wondered, was there a police car parked next to the pub as we finished. The explanation was that ‘a couple of old cows’ had been seen running loose and the police were after them. Whinge and I spent an entirely guilt-free couple of minutes trying to figure out who they might be before realising we were being a trifle politically incorrect. So what were the police there for? Dunny and I finally figured it out. Many of the Hash were in various states of undress and sweating heavily. Of course! Newbury Doggers, incensed at this mass invasion of their prime outdoor humping ground, had called in the Fuzz to rid the area of the clutch of amateurs who had dared to penetrate their patch.

We must give grateful thanks to the Hares for laying this trail on such a dismal day. And especially to Simple who was going under the knife the very next morning. No, not another vasectomy, they’re trying to find a brain in there. Best of luck, Simon, we are all thinking of you.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Stand-in RA Mr. Blobby presented the following :-

They drank. They were unimpressed.

Up and Coming