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The Black Horse


Spot C5

The Joke Was On…

Ladybird Simon FullTerm NickiLouder Iceman Steamer Baldrick Foghorn Chopstix Ms Whiplash Salome Mother Theresa Lemming Sue4 Jon PuppyPenis Motox PissQuick Spex LoudonTasteless ShutupWally and dog Bonnie NonStick Donut DutchCap BGB TinOpener Miranda and dog Emma Stuart Lonely Florence Yank WetConnection Bomber Posh Shep and dog Gnarler Daisy SlackBladder OldDog Andrée HeadBoy Caboose

Coaching BH3

While we stood shivering in the grey, cold car park five pea hens squeaked and wibbled their way out of the undergrowth inadvertantly mimicking our revered GM Spex’s attempts to call the rabble to order. At least Spex didn’t have superb, mottled plumage on an over-large body, a proportionately tiny head and long scaly legs that propelled her to the top of a five-bar gate nearby to squeak and wibble louder, thus frightening DutchCap who was on her way to the loo. Curiously, Spot and C5 were very eager to ensure everyone left at the same time so we waited for our slightly late friends from New York to arrive before On Outing. There was a good reason for this, although we were unaware of it at the time. Spot confided to some of us later that the Hash had been planned with ‘military precision’. However, this did not prevent Hare C5 from becoming utterly lost 100 metres from the pub in the forest…

However, before we begin I must thank Mother Theresa for a highly illuminating (fully clothed) demonstration to Chopstix, Lemming and myself of how she managed to perform a backwards whizzer in the outside gents while standing up. She adopted the posture of a mother goose straining to release an over-large egg. The sight was almost too much for Lemming. It obviously affected him greatly since he was seen running manically at the head of the pack for a good ten seconds as we rushed off into the muddy, wet forest. Which is where a small group of us (Florence, Andrée WetConnection, Lonely, Yank, Ladybird, Lemming, HeadBoy) made the mistake of following a dazed and confused C5 who uttered the breathtaking line: “There must be a trail here somewhere.” I recommend a drop more Sanatogen with the cornflakes and a browse through the useful pamphlet, ‘Age Without Senility – A Senior Hasher’s Guide’.

The trail began to take us further and further away from Checkendon. We thrust through thick leaf fall (try saying that quickly!), meandered through mud and mire and tramped along tarmac. Always heading away from the nice warm pub. And seemingly always uphill. PuppyPenis and I were slogging our way up yet another forest track when OldDog (who had just slipped over in the mire – a cabaret turn guaranteed to light up a smile) latched on to the idea of latching on to me. Grabbing the tail of my T-shirt she clung on like a Celtic leech as I struggled to maintain pace with a chunk of Scottish womanhood attached to my nether regions. Not an easy task on a 1 in 4 hill. I began to know what Gnarler feels like when she’s dragging Shep. Though Gnarler has to work considerably harder of course…

After the next check by a road two more Scots, Baldrick and Iceman, had a spot of luck and got on the trail while the rest of us nattered and Daisy kindly found a warm place to put my (dictaphone-holding) frozen hand. I finally got hold of the bouncing pair (Iceman and Baldrick, that is) after a fast catch-up run that took us to another check whereby Shep loitered casually, calling ‘False Trail’ to the steep, uphill muddy track. It may have fooled Ladybird but it didn’t fool us. We took it and suffered all the way to the top where we sucked in huge lungfuls of oxygen, spooned our eyeballs back in and rolled our ground-dragging tongues away. Down from the nearby check I noticed a sign on a cottage wall which read ‘We have old dogs, young dogs and stupid dogs. Please drive carefully’. Substitute the word ‘Hashers’ for ‘dogs’ and BH3 could have found a new motto.

We finally, finally hit the Regroup in a farmyard where a freely perspiring Shep opined that he only came on the Hash because he was ‘a glutton for punishment’. Some may feel that is a description with two words too many. I leave it to your discretion. In order to keep the pack together C5 led the ‘Long’ runners a few hundred yards in the opposite direction of the true trail before announcing we were running along a False trail. Hmm. Thanks. On the way back Foghorn swore blind to Motox and me that he could see a blob on a tree a long way off to the right and led us off in that direction before C5 called us back in utter amazement that we could be so daft. If there had been a white blob on a tree I can only think it would have been there courtesy of an owl with an explosive digestion problem – “To sh*t… To Whoo Hoo hoo!!!

It now all began to get rather painful as we slapped our heavy-legged way along wet tarmac in the company of Bomber, NonStick and Florence to meet up with Caboose who had magically appeared. Rather like BGB usually does. We turned left on to the Ridgeway path which was a narrow, slippery mud trail atop a fearfully lengthy earth bank known as Grim’s Ditch on my map. Grim it was and there were certainly a couple of times when we nearly slipped into the ditch. In the worsening weather it was a long, cold haul past ShutupWally and Bonnie, Hare Spot and a well-running Donut, Mother Theresa and Chopstix to pop out by a main roundabout at the aptly named Icehouse Hill by the Wallingford Road. Urk! We began to realise just how far away from Checkendon we were. We dived back into the undergrowth to follow the Ridgeway path all the way to the river and, gulp, the sight of Wallingford bridge. The beer stop was just the other side of the bridge, manned by Ms Whiplash and Salome. Most of us were thinking a) if I stop running I’ll get too stiff-legged to start again, and b) how many bloody miles from Checkendon are we? There was a distinct air of Hash dread among the drinkers. Apart from Shep and Daisy who were trying to coax, cajole and threaten Gnarler out of the mighty Thames where she was vainly chasing ducks far more suited to the environment than she was. They arrived with the dripping hound just as Spot dropped a very welcome bombshell. “This way to the coach, everyone.” He called gleefully. We could barely believe it. A coach to take us back to the pub. Fan-bloody-tastic! Now we knew why we needed to be kept together. We crowded muddily in, to disapproving glares from the driver, sat down in a warm, comfy seat and enjoyed the view as we tooled along the highway.

So a very well done indeed to Spot and C5. Not an easy task to organise the whole thing, keep us all together, get us there on time and not let on what was happening. A good trail, a great joke on us and a nice drive back. 10/10 chaps. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Motox stood in for Glittertits who was busy organising builders and presented the following :-



Style points

WetConnection Martin NickiLouder FullTerm

Welcome visitors

Excellent halves by all


Awarded his 50 run badge

Only tiny spillage


Awarded a tea mug of beer for his 500 runs. Well done Spot!

Quaffed daintily with pinkie raised

Mother Theresa, Spex Miranda

Awarded silver goblets for 100 runs

Very ladylike sipping from the goblets

C5 Spot

The Hares

Despite Foghorn’s attempts C5 beat Spot who snorted some up his nose in a successful attempt to make us all laugh

Up and Coming

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Grid Reference






Pack Saddle, Chazey Heath

Posh, Bomber




* Christmas Lunch *
St Johns (Mortimer) Village Hall