Mortimer Meanderers

Hashgate Jon Spex LoudonTasteless Shirley Bryan Potty Nutcracker TurdTreader C5 Sue5 Iceman Trembler Donut BGB DutchCap Mrs Blobby Utopia Hitchiker Spot Gutbucket Vicki Lemming Mother Theresa Caboose ShutupWally Flash SlackBladder PissQuick Glittertits Baldrick Septic Dumper Hamlet Handful Ross Effin ShitShoveller Bomber Posh Motox Centaur Anorak2 Slowsucker Matt Florence Lonely Bootsy Itsyor

An Uplifting Trail With Mr Blobby

The Blobster has returned! After not having seen his shapeless, spotty, pink form lumbering round the Hash for some time he suddenly pops up and lays a trail with the also rarely seen Uplift who, despite my assurance to the crowd gathered at the Down Downs later, does not have a hairy bum. Erm, I am given to understand. Yet another rare bird, the lesser spotted Gutbucket flew in for today’s jamboree with virgin Vicki who enjoyed the experience immensely. This says little for her mental acuity but a lot about her credentials for becoming a regular Hasher. Now I’m not going to bore you with the news that there were a lot of people at the event or that we On Outed the usual way or that the pub sandwiches were as manna wrapped in stoneground excellence – for example, HitchHiker seemed to be on the verge of, shall we say, physical ecstasy while masticating (that’s masticating) gorgonzola and redcurrant on brown, and Dutchcap gave me an eyelash-fluttering, breathy “Oh yes!” when she was similarly enjoying a salmon and caper sandwich and I asked her quite innocently if she enjoyed a caper. So let’s get on to some dirty stuff…

Lemming. Need I say more. Now some members of our Hash fraternity (and sisterhood) shudder in eye-rolling horror at the very thought of chucking mud about and indeed any of us with a bit of sensitivity (not many, I realise) understand that there are certain people you just don’t sling a handful of squidgy stuff at. For instance, The Tremblers. I know at least of them’s Scottish which, when you’re writing down the pros and cons gets written firmly in the pros column with a line underneath it (only joking Iceman and Baldrick – please don’t paint yourselves blue and show me your bottoms before giving me a skirl of the pipes…). Then there’s Mrs Blobby and Utopia, a couple of lovelies who wouldn’t hurt a fly. As opposed to Posh, who can blast the horns off a charging water buffalo (or the trousers off any erstwhile mud-slinger) from fifty yards with the merest flick of an aristocratic eyebrow. But Lemming has strayed beyond the pale on many occasions and on this was heaving shiggy around with the abandon of an out-of-control muck spreader free-basing on cocaine. Glittertits, C5, Bomber and Ross decided to do something about it. Mother Theresa and I were gently trotting along a small rise below which a pellucid stream ran idly by, dreaming its dreams and going about its business, little realising that a small, hairless sub-human object would soon be joining it, however unwillingly. Mother and I stopped as we heard the muffled screams and cursing, and turned to see the previously mentioned four each holding tightly to a corner of the struggling Lemming. You would have thought, given his remarkable similarity to Gollum (both in looks and personality) that Lemming would have been pleased to return to the watery depths but he certainly wasn’t giving that impression, attempting to bite his way through the hair on Bomber’s leg to the flesh below. Mother looked on contentedly. She is obviously used to groups of people grabbing her husband and attempting to drown, smother or otherwise snuff out his candle of life. Just as the wriggling Lemming was dragged to the stream bank something long and spindly flew down the grassy slope past Mother and me, slid on a patch of mud and fell on to Lemming, almost butting him into the water before grasping him in a tight embrace. It was Lonely. “Twenty quid!” He gasped, clutching Lemming even more tightly. The little fellow looked aghast. Not only were four hefty blokes preparing to dunk him in a ditch but Lonely was offering money (though it was a reasonable sum, he thought) to give him a good rogering first! Even Mother seemed somewhat surprised that anyone would pay to play ‘hunt the sausage’ with Lemming. Luckily for us all Lonely was merely joking that if Lemming gave him £20 he would save him from his fate. Of course, he had no money on him and Lemming was duly submerged, annoying several guppies and a small pond skater. It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving chap. Lemming almost got some of his own back later when, while flapping wetly through the woods he spied C5 doing his bit for the environment by watering a tree. A spring appeared in his step as he rushed towards the gently steaming Hash elder who, all at the same time, realised his peril, turned off his emergency stopcock (causing a nasty backup and internal swelling), screamed in fright and pain, and waddled off into the woods as fast as he could. I’m thinking of renaming him PissQuick II or FatBladder.

Talking of which, I must mention Glittertits, our revered, RA and his good wife, PissQuick for a couple of incidents. First, PissQuick, since her name follows on so naturally from the last snippet of information above. The lass is a steady runner known for few excesses apart from being daft enough to marry Glittertits so I was rather surprised at her manic behaviour at one particular check. A number of us had already been there for a while when she arrived. We were chatting, smoking our pipes and discussing Nietzschian philosophy, as you do. She pounced on the little flour circle. “Check!” She yelled, pointing at it and running about wildly. “Check! Check! Check!” It took her a while to run out of steam and she sat down breathing heavily with just a little foam at the corners of the mouth, trying to stop her eyeballs rolling about. Unlike the phlegmatic Glittertits who strode relaxed and godlike over a clear ‘F’ by the edge of a lake despite the leading FRBs being clearly visible on the other side calling ‘On’. I remonstrated mildly with him, reminding him of his position on the Hash Committee. “B****cks.” He replied casually. “I’m the RA. I’ll do what I like.” Now the old saying, ‘pride before a fall’ was never so true as then. Glitter stepped on some particularly slippery shiggy and lurched sideways towards the lake with a squeal. Somehow he stayed upright albeit with a requirement for a fresh pair of tracksuit bottoms. The God of Hashing had delivered a warning. I’m sure Glitter will never do it again…

Now I realise I’v been rather self-indulgent with this Gobsheet and have not mentioned the actual trail very much. Less than two pages just ain’t enough to describe everything. For instance, I didn’t mention HitchHiker’s massive bruise – ask her to show it to you. Or Flash skidding wildly down a muddy bank and cuffing Mother Theresa’s ear on the way down. Or ShutupWally generously offering to rub down Nutcracker with the towel he had just used to clean his feisty terrier Bonnie. Or the unnatural, bright-eyed interest shown by Donut and DutchCap when I mentioned that sex could be a low weight-bearing method of exercise (perhaps I’ll explore this one further). Let me just say that the Hares laid a superb trail through excellent country and the flour checks were stupendously well drawn, obviously by a true p*ss artist.
On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Glittertits presented the following :-

Following the Down Downs Spex attempted to tell us a joke. I’m not sure whether she finished it off or it finished her off. Either way, a vision of an empty Wild West township with tumbleweeds blowing through it sprang to mind as she ground slowly to a halt. Stick with the political science, love. You’re better at it.

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