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Fox and Hounds
Farley Hill


Spex, LoudonTasteless


SlipperyNipple Hashgate BlowJob Amanda Tony and Barney the dog TinOpener Miranda and Emma the dog HitchHiker Motox Hamlet Fukawe Justin Pissquick Glittertits Dutchcap Donut Simple Simon Soreskin Flash Spot Shitshoveller Lemming Mother Theresa Baldrick Iceman ShutupWally Florence Cloggs Nonstick Lonely Itsyor Steamer Cheating Chopstix Effin BGB SlackBladder

Up To Our Necks In Sh… It

I’m surprised you came.” Said Spex in the car park. “It’s a sh*t trail.” This turned out to be a prophetic statement in both senses. There was indeed lashings of poo to be sloshed through on this damp, grey, cold morning and certain parts of this lengthy odyssey foxed even the most experienced BH3 Hasher. At the Gather Round Hare LoudonTasteless had prattled on endlessly in a drooling, unfocussed, Alzheimic way about bar checks with a sheet of A4 paper pinned nearby. No-one either understood or took a blind bit of notice and Spex had to lead him gently away before calling the ‘On Out’. More of the ‘B’ check later…

Figure 1 – Spex’s elastic fails in the car park after laying the muddy trail

Spattering down the wet, tarmac hill I recognised a gentleman built along the lines of a brick sh*thouse and, not knowing his name, I asked him. “Er.” He gasped (we were running fairly fast). “Not sure.” He panted. “Don’t know.” He wheezed. We were getting nowhere. Nice enough chap, I thought, but obviously more of a reader of The Dandy than the FT. I left him with a friendly smile. Running and trying to remember his name were difficult enough. God knows how he would have coped with idle chatter too.

Now you see a few strange sights on the Hash but nothing had quite prepared me for the white van that clattered past me being driven by a Jack Russell. Or so it seemed. Due to the light on the dirty windscreen and a short, wizened occupant in the driving seat the little dog standing on his lap with its front paws on the steering wheel seemed to be making excellent work of navigating the roads. Certainly better than Spot, Tony and I who had found a check with a bar 20 metres to the right of it and another three blobs to the left. We all met back at the check for some head scratching and tongue clucking before realising the bars were pseudo Falses. We finally found another check further on to the right and hurtled down the shiggy muttering curses and fulminating. Incredibly, we found ourselves behind Lemming as we splashed through a slippery wood. Since, of course, we were now running very slowly and had plenty of breath I asked him why he was at the front. “I always like to come first.” Our very own Hash Gollum replied innocently. “Ask Mother Theresa.” Thinking back to Mother’s occasional expression of resigned frustration I understood perfectly what he meant. We ploughed on and met LoudonTasteless standing by a large check with a sly grin on his face. This meant he either knew something we didn’t or had a particularly hirsute weasel stuffed down his trousers. Since there seemed to be no obvious movement in his groin area (Spex later confirmed this to be a long-term condition) I assumed the former. Following a lengthy, muscle-sapping uphill slog in slippery conditions I found this to be true. I let Spot and Glittertits catch up to enjoy the thrill of seeing a bar, a ‘B’ on the ground and an A4 sheet of paper with a ‘B’ on it pinned to the stile. Amanda, BlowJob, Hamlet, Motox, Soreskin and others all arrived to share in the event before retracing our path back one, two, three blobs with no success. A far-off ‘On On!’ from the opposite direction saw us streaming all the way back to the forest check where a flour arrow pointed the opposite way and Steamer wandered ‘lonely as a cloud’. It was a long hack to get back with the other half of the pack. When I caught up with Loudon Tasteless I asked him what the ‘B’ had stood for. “Boll*cks?” He suggested. Quite.

There was an awful lot of delightful shoe-grabbing, foul smelling shiggy on this Hash and none more so in the track that Spot and I squeezed and sucked our way down (hmm, that doesn’t sound quite right for a couple of fiercely hetero chaps who wear big boots and smoke pipes). Enjoyable though it was, there were those who eschewed the trail and ran over a bar to skitter lightly ‘cross the green sward on their dainty little tootsies – Donut and ShitShoveller being two of them. Though Donut had already got her come-uppance by tripping over a whacking great piece of wood and only just prevented herself from embedding her front teeth in the adjacent stile. Pity she didn’t in a way. We could have straightened her out and used her as a handy plank to guide the unsteady of foot.

We finally reached an impromptu regroup by a swollen ford and stood about yacking and steaming in the cold. Effin appeared and started wittering on about the ‘food’ in her delightful Hibernian burr. Lemming and I agreed that we could probably manage a pasty right now. “Och. Ye wee, cow’ring, timorous sassenach beasties. I’ll fetch ye a clump upside yer heed. So I will!” The fusion of Highland and hip-hop was too much for Lemming and he skittered off on all fours muttering something about “My precious” under his breath, before leaping into the ford, presumably in an attempt to catch a fish. It was then that it dawned on me we had misinterpreted Effin’s pronunciation and I backed off uttering profound Southern apologies. Lemming wasn’t the only fool to brave the ford. SlackBladder had gone through and ShutupWally had waded across, forcing his rat (aka Megan the cairn terrier) to swim for her little hairy life. Poor creature, not only is she nearly drowned but she has to endure the incessant prattlings of ShutupWally while strapped into the front seat of his car both to and from the Hash. Perhaps she was Stalin in her previous life. The gentleman with the brick sh*thouse physique loomed up. “Turd Shredder.” He intoned, grinning horribly. I reeled back from this heinous accusation before realising he had remembered his name and was rather pleased about it. Fortunately, Spex pointed us back on the trail – not through the ford; so those who had braved the swirling waters had to re-brave them. Silly boys.

The second Long/Short split appeared soon and Tony, Glittertits, Justin and I seemed to run for ever through rather nice (if sludgy) countryside frightening only a few horses on the way. We met a group ‘led’ by Iceman and Simple Simon wandering disconsolately through a field, looking for flour. We only found some accidentally when we ran quite quickly away from Glittertits who was, for reasons best known to himself, running towards a large herd of bovines who were running towards him. Fortunately he got away with it and after an eternity of running upwards through boggy ground he, Spot, Iceman and I staggered wobbly-legged into the pub car park where Spex stood in the same position as when we started. “I’m surprised you came.” She said. “It was a sh*t trail.”

Actually… it wasn’t a bad trail at all and the various elements of confusion reminded the FRBs that it is sometimes best to hang back a bit. Well done Spex and Loudon Tasteless. It worked for me.
On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Glittertits presented the following after Spex, wearing black leggings and long, pointy boots, did a very passable imitation of Max Wall when she got her feet caught up in some string:-



Style points

Justin (Fukawe’s son)

Today’s visitor

Damn good. The lad could go far.


Yet another birthday

The slab of cake did for him but a damn fine effort


Arriving late and lone running

Only minor spillage

SlackBladder Lemming ShutupWally

Unnecessary fording…

But no unnecessary spillage


Wearing harlequin running tights

Not a bad effort for someone so sartorially challenged

Spex Loudon Tasteless

The Hares

Nice one Loudon. So very sad, Spex. Even slower than me

Up and Coming

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