Cats and Dogs

BGB Twanky Hashgate Motox Iceman Nick Honeymonster ShutupWally with rat Bonny Dan Septic Dumper Spot Snowballs Potty Spex Loudon Tasteless OldDog Cloggs Nonstick C5 Vertigo Lonely Bootsie CabinBuoy Glittertits Pissquick Itsyor Cheating

The Berkshire Splash (Well, not quite Berkshire)

“Why am I doing this?” I pondered, as I made my way gingerly along the A329(M) with the windscreen wipers sweeping manically across the rain-lashed glass like a demented curler with a broom in front of the first stone of the day. Bee Day Hash? Hmm. More like Bidet Hash given the amount of water being hurled around. At least I got there early, parked near the pub and enjoyed a pleasant ½ hour in the car watching Hamlet (with cigar and sandwich) talking amiably to a cloche-hatted Iceman in the pouring rain. Quite how the cigar stayed alight and the sandwich didn’t become bread pudding I don’t know. Fukawe, having already got soaked and cold laying the Trail earlier, wisely opted for the relative dryness of the car. This being Bee Day many of our (not surprisingly small) group were wearing black and orange in honour of our furry friends. I might add that none of the furries put in an appearance today though who would blame them. The rain would certainly put them off but so, too, the sight of people vainly dressing up in what they pathetically believe are bee costumes and running around the cold countryside in the pouring rain. You can sympathise with those bees who’ve decided to call it a day. After all, what’s the point of keeping the human race going if it’s composed of lunatics like this? According to Einstein (maybe) we have only four years left.

I was quite impressed with Twanky’s deeley boppers, suspended on the end of which were little cardboard flowers. At least, until they got pulled off (Spex described him as having been de-flowered… ooer) when he attempted to enter a somewhat overgrown woodland path, following the also lost Iceman. The kind fellow gave me one (of them, I hasten to add) which I have just found still in the pocket of my running top. It doesn’t look quite so jolly now. But then, it has been through the washing machine.

And after five minutes of sploshing about in the downpour we felt like we had, too. Though it was curious that new lad Dan wore only shorts and T-shirt. Must be a rough, tough fellow I expect. Certainly a very amiable chap and I don’t say that purely because he bought me a pint in the pub later. Due to the weather, our general out-of-condition condition and group wish to get things over with as soon as possible the Pack stayed pretty much together until the Regroup. I say the Regroup. There were actually two. Or one, depending on your point of view. BGB and I fetched up at what we fondly imagined was the Regroup though I had had to run hard to catch up with BGB even though two minutes before I had lucked out on every Check and got well ahead of everyone else. Lord forbid that you might think he had taken a short cut! So there we were next to two low, flat-topped concrete posts with a floury ‘R’ and an ‘X’ in a circle, respectively. (Hamlet had been at pains at the gather Round to indicate to us thet the Regroup would be marked with an ‘X’ in a circle.) BGB attempted to shelter from the rain under a finger post sign. Not very successfully. Itsyor turned up. Then Dan. And a few others. And then we saw everyone else splintering off the wet-leaved track we had arrived by and racing off away from us calling ‘On On’. Hotly pursued by Fukawe. I finally caught up with her. “Um. Fukawe.” I wheezed. “Isn’t that a Regroup where we were?” “Oh that.” She replied airily. “That’s from another Hash. Barnes possibly. On On.” And she skipped off lightly leaving Itsyor and me dripping and gaping like two goldfish out of water.

So we all ran off down a largely unmade road, led by C5 and Dan. Until we realised there was no flour at all, and ran back again. Despite this minor setback things were beginning to improve. The rain was easing and though a tad nippy, it was ok if you kept moving. Even if it was in the wrong direction. And so it was that we got to the second (or first!) Regroup. A gate next to a field with a longish track leading over it to what sounded like the M3. Hamlet, having waited all this time and with plenty of previous opportunity for privacy, sprang off his mountain bike and decided now was the time for a wee in the bushes. Glittertits, Snowballs and I turned away in gentlemanly fashion and discussed BMI. Not the airline. Body Mass Index. Glittertits informed us that when he got married he was 9 stone! Somebody once told me that tenseness and worrying was a good way of keeping the weight off. Given the length of time GT has been married I’m surprised there’s anything left of him. He must be very happy.

So where did the Long trail go from here? Over the blasted M3 and through the arboretum. Which ShutupWally seemed toi think he owned. No, I don’t care know why either. I was actually quite impressed with the footbridge over the motorway which was paved with rather springy, green tiles. Very pleasant and in complete contrast to the shoe-sucking sludge we were about to ‘run’ through. C5, Lonely etc went off left, following flour and were rather surprised when screams of ‘On On’ came from our right. We slopped back along the lake side, frightening the fish and annoying motionless anglers who had been enjoying themselves hugely, sitting for hours on a cold creel under a dripping umbrella and catching nothing. Curious, our different leisure pursuits, aren’t they?

It was a longish loop with a fair old hack back up the wet slopes almost to the Regroup. With a small herd of horses to frighten on the way. They were a curious mix: carthorse, arab, couple of ponies and something that looked vaguely Siberian. But they all got on very well. They probably thought along the same lines about us.

Getting back to the pub with Nonstick, we found that Spot had been there for ages. He had had one of those days when he couldn’t get a Check wrong and had flown along the Trail like he was being chased by a rabid puma. Trouble is, of course, when you do that you don’t get to talk to anyone. Bit like the Cheating method of Hashing.

The pub had been ‘gentrified’ in the minimalist style. Stripped wood. Nice bit of prison grey paint on the walls. Couldn’t fault the bar staff or the selection of beers but it did seem a tad bare. Just as well there was a huge crowd of friendly Hashers in there!

Many thanks to Hamlet and Fukawe for laying this Trail on such a manky, cold day.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Since I had to beast off early to apply a mustard poultice to the ill Donut who was languishing with a cold and graveyarder cough (at least she’s down to thirty Woodbines a day) I asked the inimitable C5 if he would kindly record the Down Downs. The reliable gent and scholar duly came up with the goods and I reproduce his report below verbatim, as it were. How can one improve on perfection?

RA Glittertits presented the following :-

• Cabin Buoy - stretching at the regroup and kicking a senior citizen (ME!) in the groin in the process. Only wanted a half but dispatched it adequately.

• Bootsie and Lonely - being late. She had about 1/8th of a pint and he had the other 7/8ths. He was beaten by a woman.

• Spex - wearing a Hilda Ogden head band. Quaffed a half like a true working class woman should.

• Old Dog - walking in the rain. Mercilessly efficient.

• Hares. Hamlet was, like Lonely, beaten by a woman.

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