Run Number:

1338 14/07/03

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The Elvetham
Hartley Wintney



Down-Market Hashers

John Krystyna Iceman Honeymonster Hashgate Septic Dumper C5 Karen Premature Cerberus BumWiper Steve HeyBabe Ms. Whiplash Salome OldFart TinOpener Bev Twanky Christian Cheating HarryPotter Baldrick Spex Bob Motox Dwight Centaur Spot HitchHiker Fiddler Itsyor Mr and Mrs Blobby Utopia Cap’n Haystax Dorthe SlowSucker Zebedee Florence 2Bob Puddleduck Phaedra and dog Dotty Sonia Mike Simon Foghorn BGB Cloggs

Up-Market Hashing

Something of a sea-change of venues tonight. Rather than the usual spit and sawdust, jug o’ rough ale, pig on a spit, who’re you looking at squire pub that we usually infest this turned out to be a grand house that was built in 1860 surrounded by 35 acres of gardens and 4,000 acres of land. Mind you, this was only after the previous house burnt down in 1840 after three centuries of continuous use and a visit by Queen Elizabeth I with 500 hangers-on in 1591. This was according to the copious historical notes that ShutupWally handed round. The hot sun shone on the stained glass, the red brick with black stripes, the Gothic stone of the private St. Mary’s church… and Utopia’s almost grub-white skin. She had stood next to Premature, whose colouring is like a medium teak (no, I haven’t missed the ‘S’ off) and people like Septic, Steve and BumWiper were taking the mickey. However, they failed to realise she blended in perfectly with the Elizabethan/Victorian surroundings since ladies of those times were well known for using arsenic to achieve a similar porcelain finish.

Quite a number of us had gathered expectantly in the courtyard. I half expected to see a fine carriage and four draw up, footmen hurry to its side and a distinguished Elizabethan gentleman step regally from it. In the event it turned out to be a late and less than distinguished Foghorn, carrying his smelly old trainers. We walked past him as we On Outed. Walked because it was far too nice to rush on such a pleasant evening, and we fancied a bit of a chat. Not rushing turned out to be a clever move for some since most people went left through some large iron gates into a grassy area where not even the tiniest speck of flour had ever been laid and ran about all over it for no reason at all. When we finally got out of there Dwight and Centaur found the early bar check and Spot and I followed the flying Cheating down the track that led off from the one-blob-back. Cheating reached a barred gate and edged around the side, next to some barbed wire. There was immediately a wonderful tearing sound and a disgustingly large portion of spotty buttock appeared. I could feel the Elizabethan ham rise up in me as Spot and I collapsed with laughter. “Ho Lord Spot. I fear yonder churl hath rent his breeches.” “Verily, Lord Hashgate. ‘Tis fortune indeed he was not turnèd round. The fellow’s meat and two veg may have felt the pricking of the wire.”

We blundered on up a lane, eventually finding flour (in common with many of the checks the blobs were spaced about 500 metres apart) and Spot and I, closely followed by Zebedee, turned left into the field and up the hill. Wrong! Although many others started to follow they were soon called back and turned right. All except SlowSucker, Premature and Itsyor who figured that running around the top of the hill (aka cheating) would give them an advantage. Well it didn’t. Spot and I ran all the way back and still beat the buggers to the little wooden bridge. Being at the back, of course, gave us a chance to chat and we encouraged the manly Mr. Blobby as he tried not to run. Sounds odd doesn’t it? But he’s gently easing his knackered calves back into it at the moment and there’s no point in rushing. Phaedra and Dotty coasted vainly around an old barn, joined by Motox, C5 and Florence until they realised the Regroup was only just up the track by the road. BGB, Dwight, Centaur and Fiddler had got there first and we all joined them to steam gently for a short while in the high humidity among the forest. The On Out led us over the road and into the forest for a bog walk and underfoot branch crackle. Phaedra failed in an attempt to drown little Dotty in the former and 2Bob and Puddleduck (this year’s Fun Run winner) walked slowly through the fallen dry wood with a sound like a fusillade of pistol shots that had every four-legged animal (except Dotty) scurrying for deep cover.

We hit some pine forest that looked suspiciously like parts of The Lookout, Bracknell (our original venue for tonight) but figured we hadn’t come quite that far. We passed HeyBabe half way up a steep, forested hill, and followed the fleeting figures of Simon and Sonia as we beasted through a narrow trail that threatened to either trip you up or rip the nose off your face with springy pine branches. Fortunately, everyone emerged on to a wide trail with both nostrils intact only to dart off down a narrow sandy track, following the flying Spex. Incredibly, despite her lung-wracked progress, the good Spex threatened quite eloquently to have me sued for alleged defamation of character following the Gobsheet revelations regarding run 1336. Since she had dragged her husband Bob (carol singer and table thumper extrordinaire) along this evening and he had not given me a damn good thrashing I assumed he was perfectly happy with the content. So I suggested politely that Spex went and boiled her head, pushed her into a bush and passed at speed. Don’t worry. She likes that male domination stuff. Show her a firm gland hand and she’ll be happy as a pig in s**t.

Cloggs turned up from out of nowhere and duly climbed over a well burnt fence – despite there being a hole in the hedge next to it. Simon also missed this and carried Dotty over it. And then we were off down a massively long track without any flour. “It’s an awful long way without any flour.” Intoned a mournful Foghorn… just before someone called the On further down. As we pasted over hill and dale I notice SlowSucker was holding something that looked like some bleached wood. “What’s that in your hand?” I queried. “I’ve got the horn.” Came the reply. I left him like a bullet from a gun. It was only later that I realised he held the tip of a deer antler. We caught up with Cerberus and watched Itsyor and Fiddler get it totally wrong by going left. So we followed SlowSucker away across the cornfield. Then watched him get it entirely wrong at the road by interpreting one of ShutupWally’s floury C’s (warning of a ‘C’ar) as an O for a check and running off right. Zebedee and Fiddler nipped over the stile, after the latter had attempted some severe Cerberus-abuse by trying to trip her up – the cad, and we saw the On In sign. There followed the most pleasant trot down by the church (where we met Cap’n Haystax, who actually led the Hash for a bit), across some well-mown sward and through that stunning avenue of Irish yew bushes that led to the grass and huge greenhouses by our car park.

Top marks to ShutupWally and T.A. for a trail from a delightful location through some excellent country. The Hash later adjourned to a nearby hostelry for refreshments and some well-earned grub.
On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Motox presented the following :-



Style points


Whose hand that she uses to wipe the bum of her dog was duly kissed by ShutupWally

Some ‘gentlemen’ of the Hash were very impressed with BumWiper’s style – you know who you are!


Tearing about the countryside

His usual rapid sinking


Assisting the ladies who were hanging on to his shirt tails

Very fine indeed for a newcomer


Calling “Dot. Dot.” To Dotty so that people mistook this for “On. On” and followed her

Excellent effort


Awarded by Foghorn

He just envelopes it!


Turning up late and going off in the wrong direction

Not bad for an oldcomer


Marking a check out the wrong way and short-cutting!

Excellent start that fell badly apart. Motox had to pour the rest over him


The Hares

T.A. just got there first. Foghorn ‘assisted’ ShutupWally by pouring beer over him while he drank.

Up and Coming

Run Number


Grid Reference






The Swan Inn, Inkpen

Centaur Stan




The Cricketers, Yately
Joint with Sandhurst Joggers

Cloggs, Chardonnay