Run Number:

1335 23/06/03

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The Plough
Little London



Woodland Nymphs and Fairies

BGB Chopstix Utopia Uplift Hashgate OldFart Fiddler Itsyor Iceman Cap’n Haystax HeyBabe TT2 Simon Shandyman John Krystyna Linda(to be named aka since I have trouble getting her name right) Lou James Gavin WrongCircle HeadBoy SlowSucker Linda Emma Sonia Phaedra and little doggie Dotty Ben Ruth Kevin Cloggs Lonely and dog Beaver Karen Simon Tim Stranded

Through The Trees And Into The Woods

Alas, poor Hamlet. The poor sod laid a none too long trail all by himself and informed the landlord of the pub that tnight’s Hash would be a small gathering, reckoning so since a number of BH3 had gone on the trip to Cornwall. By the time I got there (quite early) a million cars had crammed into the car park and large numbers of athletically clad (if not athletically shaped) Hashers lounged about. Having stopped slightly off the road to ask the beer-swilling Hamlet politely where I might park, some a**e in a car obviously beyond his brain power to control stopped behind me and started hooting and gesticulating. Talk about Stressed Eric. The veins throbbed in his miniscule forehead as he wrenched the wheel over and accelerated away, soft toys and the book ‘Reading and Writing For Dummies’ spilling from the open window. I saluted him on his way with one finger – I felt he was worth no more – and surmised to Hamlet that the fellow had a first class degree in onanism.

But to the Hash. Many of the ‘old guard’ were ensconced in deckchairs on the front at Bude, trousers rolled, handkerchiefs knotted on heads, mouths open, eyes closed and half-licked ice-creams fallen from somnolent hands. By contrast The Plough teemed with youth, vitality and new people. Particularly up for a mention is the delightfully named Phaedra. Phaedra, of course, is best known for her role in Euripides' play, the Hippolytus. As you know, the plot follows a pattern of sexual intrigue and betrayal that has parallels in ancient Mediterranean myths. And from pathos to bathos since she had brought Dotty, her little dog who was so knackered after the Hash that she could only just raise a snarl of derision when I stroked her instead of a needle-toothed leg chomp. Since the GM and RA were absent Hamlet did the welcomes and the On Out and we duly headed off in exactly the opposite direction to usual! So much for tradition!

The early dash to the woods was in sylvan sunlight and the pack was initially headed by Shandyman. Unfortunately for him, he took a detour, allowing Lou and Simon to take over. Lou seemed to be FRBing it quite a lot early on and SlowSucker and I had a job to catch up. Especially when HeyBabe essayed a deliberate step out and elbow that would have earned her a red card at most Premiership grounds. But this early speed through the woods was countered easily by Hamlet’s masterful trail laying. James and Simon zoomed back from a false. BGB shot off only to return. The entire pack reversed at one point due to lost flour (Hamlet said it had been scuffed out!). The only one perfectly at home in all this headless chicken environment was Lonely’s dog, Beaver. He rolled and cavorted in the leaf-mould, chasing backwards and forwards with delight. There were bars and checks aplenty and the various trails had been laid very close together. Somehow we didn’t mix it all up and Itsyor, Kevin and SlowSucker reached the Regroup first, although the rest were not far behind.

We chatted awhile in the steamy forest and OldFart regaled us with the story of his drug-sodden excesses in South America recently, while absent-mindedly ripping down chunks of dead tree. We presumed he was on cold turkey and thought it best to listen politely rather than remonstrate. It seems the locals either chew the leaves of the coca plant or mash them to make a tea (makes a change from the Twinings mathé I suppose) and OldFart thought he’d sample a couple of brews. Had he been able to predict the effect I’m sure he would have declined the steaming liquid. However, when proffered a cup he sipped, he slurped, he Down Downed. “‘Nother por favor.” He burped, in his best Spanglish. The second cup went the way of the first and OldFart sat in the hot, dusty café to await enjoyable and mildly hallucinogenic effects. Unexpectedly, the first effect came from rather South of the brain area. His stomach emitted the watery growl of a dugong with its flipper caught in some dense vegetation. An echoing response came from the same area. There was a scrape of chairs as hardy, leather-faced gauchos rose to their feet and made cautiously for the exit. Across the street a number of raven-haired mothers hurried their urchin children in and slammed their doors. OldFart felt a slow, wrenching twist in the belly. His eyes began to open wide. There was a clatter of birds taking flight in alarm outside, a light swirl of breeze; then… silence. Sweat trickled down the side of OldFart’s nose. A pulse beat in his temple. With the sound of a ruptured gas main, Old Fart let rip a snorter that blew him off his chair and left the natty leather gaucho chaps he had bought at the market in tatters. The finest sprint start and yodel by a Brit for years saw him cannon through the door of the Gents, not to be seen again for some long time. So let that be a lesson to you, all you would-be Kevin Keseys and Timothy Learys. Stick to bottles of Bud. You get the same effect but at least you know it’s coming.

“Turn left on to the path and see what you can find.” Called out Hamlet as we started off again. Fiddler, Kevin, Itsyor and SlowSucker whizzed off and largely blew it on Falses. There was a crafty blob that, when you stopped to look, led off right, into the forest. A number of us took it at a great pace only to be called On Back by Fiddler. We turned, at great pace. Itsyor called forward to us “On On”. The phrase ‘make yer bleedin’ minds up’ floated above SlowSucker and I as we exchanged glances and turned once again to run at pace down the trail. Half a mile further on we found a dallying Hamlet and promptly lost the trail. We thought we’d go around and cut off the other FRBs but this proved easier to decide rather than do. Eventually, we heard the calls and headed across streams and through the matted undergrowth towards them. For some reason SlowSucker, Itsyor and Fiddler decided to do a bit extra while OldFart and I took the real trail. We finally popped out into the well known rough, uphill pasture that led us back to the pub and some very decent beer indeed. This was spoiled only by the sight of TT2 and Iceman racing each other back to their cars. You’d think that people of their age would know better.

Many thanks to Hamlet for a fun Hash. Since he had expected fewer numbers it wasn’t the usual 14 mile slog but an enjoyable thrash amongst the bushes. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Since Motox had buggered off to Cornwall with the others, Chopstix brightly agreed to be RA. Her début was only slightly spoiled by the new people sloping off early and she recovered well to award the following:-



Style points


Road rage! It wasn’t me. It was that other b*****d!!!!

The excellent quality beer was too good to hurry. So I chucked a bit of it.



Leaving wimmen to fend for themselves in the wood.
Not leading the wimmen out of the wood.

An excellent pint by one and a tiny orange juice by the other. I’ll let you guess which.

Cap’n Haystax

Drug-induced tree abuse.
A virgin.
We never saw him on the Hash!

Jolly fine effort by all. Nice to see the Cap’n enjoying his Down.


Actually helping the wimmen!
Having sex with Cloggs in the Circle.

Kevin did quite well despite his excited condition. TT2 tried to throw his pint over me, the swine. He missed.


Tonight’s Hare

Ooh, it was a close one. The upturned glass on his head just had a circle of beer in it.

Up and Coming

Run Number


Grid Reference






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