Run Number:

1344 25/08/03

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The Wheatsheaf


Honeymonster – the King of Sting

Nettle Warriors

Cerberus Premature and dog Molly Hasghate Claire and dog Elsa Baldrick Nutcracker Potty Gutbucket Twanky Ben Muff PissQuick Glittertits OldFart Hamlet Cap’n Haystax SlowSucker Foghorn Spot Dumper Septic C5 Bomber Posh Yank Spex Bob Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Cheating BGB Ms. Whiplash Motox Fiddler Itsyor Cloggs Kevin(but see Down Downs)…and later DragonLady

A Sting in the Trail

I do feel that if BH3 expect us to undertake hazardous trails the Committee should issue each Hasher with the kind of protective clothing seen in this week’s picture. I know with certainty that certain people would welcome the squeaky rubber pleasure of sweaty restriction. C5 had cleverly extracted himself from the role of Hare tonight with the excuse that his (old?) boiler had packed up, leaving the task to Honeymonster. “There are some quite large stinging nettles!” He announced brightly, while clumping round the Circle in a rather stiff manner. We put it down to the enormous leather motorcycling trousers that groaned and squeaked as he moved (not surprisingly, Ms. Whiplash was groaning and squeaking too as she viewed her favourite material in motion). We found out later that Honeymonster was walking strangely in order to reduce the pain of several thousand nettle stings that had blotched and swollen his legs until they looked like a pair of post-nuclear fallout King Edward potatoes – with hair. Little did we realise that we were in for the same treatment. “Carry a big stick to beat ‘em down!” He exhorted. “On Out that way!”

Certain people, like C5 and Mr and Mrs Blobby had prior knowledge and had covered their members (as it were) in suitable clothing. The rest of us bounced off on pink, brown or mottled legs all the way up to the Long/Short trail split, which must have been a good thirty metres down the trail. Even Spex was too embarrassed to take the Short and lurched off across the first dusty, ploughed field that saw people like Dumper suddenly heave sideways as a foot gave way in the crusty clods. Most amusing it was too although the miserable old git standing like a mournful stuffed weasel outside his house on the other side of the field could not see the funny side. “’Evening.” I gasped amiably as Premature and I drew level with him. I said it again, a little louder in case the hair sprouting from his ears was denying him full use of his aural faculties. Not a flicker of sociability. I suppressed the desire to ask him politely why he was such an anti-social b*****d and trotted off down one of the long tarmac bits behind SlowSucker and OldFart. We went through the first rash of nettles rather gingerly and found ourselves on a railway line. There were two points of interest here. The first was C5, viewed from behind. Apart from the nettles and brambles the thicket had contained a lot of those little round brown seed pods with masses of hooks and C5 was festooned with them all over his track bottoms. It looked like a Salvadore Dali suit or a more outrageous Alexander McQueen creation. Twanky should have been with us – he’d have loved the theatre of it all. The second point of interest concerned a wavering light, way down the track. “Do you reckon that’s a train?” I asked OldFart chattily as we trip-trapped over the track. Just as we reached the other side the ground began to shake, a two-tone honk like one of Foghorn’s “On On”’s ripped through the air and a train the size of Cardiff thundered past several Hashers who suddenly wished they’d brought a spare pair of shorts and a trowel.

A small group consisting of Itsyor, Fiddler, Muff, Glittertits, BGB and Slowsucker got the next tarmac check right and padded silently past the razor wire and silently swivelling cameras of some security establishment. I was just reading the sign prohibiting cameras and sketching materials when I realised I was speaking into my shiny dictaphone while viewing the secure area. Thoughts of the sudden appearance of very large blokes wearing black balaclavas and overalls with their weapons in their hand brought me out in a cold sweat. However, the thought that some of our lady Hashers might regard this event with the same delight as a lottery ticket holder who finds all the numbers match brought on a smile and I followed after the leading group for a couple of miles down the highway.

We only stopped when we reached a kicked-out check by the railway bridge quite near to the pub. Itsyor freely admitted kicking it out, despite then returning from a False. Something about ‘not wanting us to get lost because we were so far behind’. The supercilious sod.

And so to the nettles. The narrow track was deeply rutted, though covered in thick grass and the mighty nettles were head height. Premature, Dwight and Fiddler staggered and lurched ahead of me. SlowSucker cursed and yodelled behind as the stingers took their toll. There were two sections of this, along with a very narrow woodland trail where brambles and hawthorn spiked the bits of flesh that had not been brushed by the nettles’ barbed caress. I have heard that some (strange) people get sexual gratification by applying stinging nettles to their bits. I cannot imagine how, or indeed why. Personally, I shall stick with the old cheese grater. Better the devil you know, eh?

We eventually staggered, screaming and cursing, out of the track, to see Ms Whiplash standing by the beer stop looking rather excited at the sight of so many half-naked blokes in severe pain. Luckily, some of us had grabbed chunks of dock leaves and set to furiously, rubbing them up and down the sore, tingling flesh until the stinging subsided a little. Some big wusses, like Cheating, ignored the nettle trail and arrived via the adjacent field. They were roundly jeered and ‘punished’ later.

Darkness began to fall so Honeymonster urged us on our way, most of us taking the Long Trail over another field of seismically upended clods. Cerberus thoughtfully kept her distance behind me in order to be able to swerve round my prostrate body if I had fallen in the ankle-breaking terrain. Luckily, the rest of the Hash was a reasonably fast cruise in a group with BGB, C5, Ben and Itsyor. Everyone was watching their feet (when they could be seen in the rapidly falling dusk) and following a fairly straightforward trail. Only the lunatic Fiddler and SlowSucker risked serious injury by plunging past our caravan while we slipped through a dim field of some crop or other. Luckily, they got away with it and the On Inn appeared shortly after.

Our thanks must go to the well stung Honeymonster. When C5 pulled out he certainly grasped the nettle! On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Motox presented the following :-



Style points



Having their own ‘Posh Tent’ sign for next year’s Nash Hash

Bomber well beaten by young Posh (I believe he likes that sort of thing…)


Awarded a sleeveless gilet for her 200 runs. Well done!

A surprisingly good demonstration by the fair Septic


Renamed Non-Stick after throwing his netle-bashing stick away just yards before the first nettle patch! Silly boy

Cerberus applied the flour. The lad did extremely well and managed to finish the flour pint

Cheating Glittertits Potty Spot Cloggs

Not going through the nettles

Last to finish was to be awarded another pint so Potty took his time. But only got a small extra dribble.


The Hare

Excellently downed in fine style

Up and Coming

Run Number


Grid Reference




* 19:00 *


The Reformation
Gallowstree Common



* 19:00 *


The Lamb, Theale
* The AGM - why not join the Committee? *



Get your photos to Cheating now if you want to enter ‘The Best Photo of the year’ competition which will be staged at the AGM.

The September Walk – will be around Windsor Great Park, River Thames and Eton. On Sunday, September 11th at 11:00am from The Rangers Gate gridref SU954734. Bring a picnic or eat in the pub. For more details contact Motox or Honeymonster.