Men (and women) About Town

Iceman Hashgate Baldrick Hitchiker Luke Lauren BGB Pinky Greg HeyBabe Kayak Motox Spex Twanky Salome Dolly TinOpener Foghorn Amanda SlipperyNipple Bomber Posh Katherine Potty Nutcracker Dumper Septic C5 Effin Krystyna TurdTreader HarryPotter DutchCap

Cakes and Trail

Who could possibly cavil at a trail that not only contained miles of tarmac and a sojourn behind the industrial wasteland of Rosekiln Lane, but a trek past the waste-strewn desert of Reading’s Environmental Recycling Centre (aka the town rubbish dump). One can imagine Ms. Whiplash and Spot as they planned the route one night in Ms. W’s purpose-built dungeon… “Mmf. ‘ose ‘iln ‘ane. ‘ubbish ‘ump. Spot, dangling perilously from the ceiling by his ankles, naked but for a piece of string holding an egg cup to preserve his modesty, sought desperately to articulate. Ms Whiplash, in skin-tight black rubber tottered squeakily over to his suspended body on her 8-inch heels, staggering slightly. She leant forward to loosen the gag that was causing Spot to speak like a Kalahari bushman with a bad cold. Spot inhaled deeply. “Rose Kiln Lane and the rubbish dump could be good.” He spoke as casually as anyone could in his position. I.e. suspended upside down. “Not a bad idea!” Hiccoughed Ms W. enthusiastically, holding a half-empty gin bottle in one hand and using the other to deliver a stinging blow to Spot’s pimply left buttock with a riding crop. “Thankyou Mistress.” He squealed. Ms W. woozily strapped the gag back into place and turned to head for the curiously shaped plastic objects glistening shinily in their rack on the opposite wall. Unfortunately, the pointed toe of her left PVC boot caught in the wristlets of a pair of discarded handcuffs. She tripped, took a giant squeaky step forward and stamped down hard on an opened, jumbo-size tube of KY jelly which spurted its slippery contents backwards all over the floor. The boot that had been caught jerked forward, slid on the jelly and up she went, almost in slow motion, a whirl of arms, legs and riding crop. Luckily, a blow-up doll saved her, airbag-style, as she plummeted face-down to the floor. She landed right on top of it, causing the air valve to fail and knocking herself unconscious. The doll’s arms and legs wrapped around her in a loving embrace and the lasciviously grinning plastic face appeared over her shoulder. With a whistling, raspberry sound the doll began to deflate, the face getting sadder and flatter by the second while Ms W sank slowly to the ground. Spot swung moodily from the ceiling. “’Ugger.” He mouthed, anticipating a long wait.

The On Out and early part of the Hash was spent a) watching Krystyna arriving late in her car wondering where on earth to park in the double-yellow lined, one-way street, and b) meeting up with a relieved Potty and Nutcracker emerging from The Oracle car park as we trotted past on our way to the river towpath. A long, long trip by the river edge awaited us and we bumped into Florence coming from the opposite direction half way along. How’d she do dat? After a mile or so a splendid check confused us all. A False led off to the right and C5 found no flour straight on. The pack gathered and lurked, awaiting the call. None came. I suggested to Effin that she might like to check across the river but was given the old fish eye. Eventually, Foghorn found the trail which led through what, during wetter times, would be a swamp. Spot followed and Amanda, Greg, Dolly and I followed him since he was supposed to know where he was going – which, of course, was eventually back to the path which led under the dual carriageway and a further check. One of the trails led up a dogleg footpath on to the dual carriageway and I suggested to Twanky that it might well be that direction if he wanted to check it, despite everyone else legging it in the opposite direction. “Oh no it isn’t!” He replied theatrically. He was very surprised when we checked it out and, ‘Oh yes it was!’ People like Spex short-cutted up the embankment and my mild remonstration was met with one of those “Get stuffed, Hashgate” looks from our revered GM. It was around this time that virgin Katherine was beginning to understand that the more you run at the front, the more likely you are to find yourself at the back – which was precisely what happened as she followed me over an unseen, washed-out ‘F’ round the back of the ‘Recycling Centre’. This happened a few more times during the Hash and I guess she won’t be following me ever again. Pity. I like being chased by attractive, fit women.

About this time, as we caught up with the likes of Potty, Nutcracker and TurdTreader in a frightfully boggy field, the batteries on my recorder gave up so the rest is from memory. Apart from inconveniencing a cyclist who was trying to get over a narrow footbridge as we meandered over from the other side I remember chasing Bomber around the edge of a very large, wet field being closely followed by Iceman who, having realised this was just a loop back to the path we had left several eons before was loudly slandering Spot’s claim to legitimacy in a forceful Hibernian manner. Bomber and I concurred in our tacit, English way – “I say. That fellow Spot’s an absolute bounder don’t you know.” Kind of thing.

After forty days and nights (or so it seemed) in the wilderness we began to find our way back to the urban conglomeration that is Southcote. Largely by following Ms Whiplash, who was riding her bike in front of us. I remarked to C5 that this was a marvellous way to Hash and rather reminiscent of the indoor pursuit cycling where the pack follows a little motorcycle round the track. Except, of course, the participants are considerably younger, fitter and have larger helmets.

And now came the surprise the Hares had mentioned at the Gather Round. A Cake Stop chéz Ms Whiplash courtesy of her, in honour of her 32^nd birthday. The sun shone, Hashers steamed in the cold, various excellent cakes were were variously stuffed into gobs (Foghorn), munched thoughtfully (C5), nicked from other people’s plates (Florence), or picked at delicately while wearing lace gloves (Posh). It was a very civilised affair apart from Dolly who was trying to eat Ms Whiplash’s bush (having reread that last statement I may withdraw it from the final publication). Katherine, who is used to serious training sessions and racing, was surprised and delighted that she could stop mid-run to enjoy a bit of cake and a drink. And so were we. Thankyou Ms W.

The very last bit took us up a very steep road where C5 and I followed Florence’s mad dash for the summit. That is before C5 uttered the word “Bo**ocks!” and decided discretion (walking) was the better part of valour (troubling the emergency resuscitation unit at the Royal Berks Hospital). Congratulations to the Hares for making what could have been a boring run round Reading into a bit of fun with one or two puzzles. And the Cake Stop was great!

Incidentally, before we started I asked Spex where husband LoudonTasteless was. “He’s hurt his wrist.” She replied. A wicked smile crept on to my face. Another crept on to hers. “No, no, Hashgate.” She explained “He got totally out of his tree at a Burns Night supper and fell over on it.” What a man! Even if it has ruined his sex life… On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA for the day, Dumper, presented the following :-

Up and Coming