Hashvestites

Amanda and dog Barney Baldrick BGB Lemming Mother Theresa Iceman Simon Chopstix Foghorn Spex LoudonTasteless Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Sue5 Dumper Dutch SlipperyNipple Salome Ms Whiplash Potty Nutcracker Bootsie Lonely TurdTreader Jon(finally got your name!) HarryPotter Glittertits PissQuick Motox Ratshit TinOpener Miranda and dog Emma Handful Ross Zebedee Cheating Bomber Posh

BH³ Valentine’s Day Red Dress Run

Not that easy driving in a miniskirt without flashing your drawers is it ladies? Luckily I had only to drive a mile or so from my house via backroads but constantly pulling the damn thing down was indeed a bit of a pain. I settled for a knees-together driving style and prayed I wouldn’t have to execute an emergency stop. So having reached the car park on this freezing cold day I saw absolutely no-one else from the Hash. “Oh good.” I thought. “Here am I, fairly well known locally, sitting in the middle of Henley in a skirt. I could see the headline in The Henley Standard – ‘Local Committee Chair and Father In Women’s Clothing Nabbed By Police’. And in The Transvestite Times – ‘Hooray Henley – Skirt Wearing Local Resident Strikes A Blow’. Thank God I saw Baldrick (now recovered from trying to slice himself in half with the same telegraph pole bracing wire as Mr Blobby) also hiding in his car. As we sat there an assortment of BH³ slappers, tarts, trollops and vamps parked blatantly around us. And there were a number of gentlemen Hashers too wearing a varied collection of allegedly female garments. ‘Wardrobe malfunction’ doesn’t half describe the scene. Alexander McQueen on opium would have difficulty conjuring up some of the ensembles. Motox wore his familiar red shift and beret offset perfectly with his privet hedge moustache. Lemming (and Mother T) wore cerise net tutus with multi-colour hooped over-the-knee socks. Ross wore the spangly top half of Handful’s ankle-length split skirt. Simon, who had never Hashed before, had bravely turned up in a fetching knee-length ruched tulle number which went well with the fearsome tattoo on his well-muscled shoulder. C5 was a sultry Eastern concubine in red and yellow Turkish trousers, bra top, multicolour tinsel wig and tulle yashmak, frightening both us and any kids who spied him as he ran round the town. Curiously, HarryPotter, a member of the legal profession, eschewed the wig and gown. Unlike Baldrick whose curly brown wig had obviously provided a comfy nest for more than one family of mice over the years. Perhaps the worst moment and one worthy of a photograph was when LoudonTasteless (in one of Spex’s castoff flowery dresses and mauve floppy hat), Iceman (in a tasteful shift and boobs that even Jordan would eye enviously) and myself adjourned to the local gents for a pre-Hash comfort break. We suddenly realised what we were doing and wondered how on earth we could explain to any passing local plod. We wasted no time in adjusting our dress(es) and getting the hell out.

So off we minced, to many broad grins from the local populace and “look at that funny man mummy” as first Foghorn in flowing blonde wig and beard with red pyjamas(!) minced past, closely followed by Lonely in that strappy red knee-length he loves so well. As we reached the main square who should join us but Zebedee in a multi-coloured wig and geisha-style split skirt. Typical that we don’t see him for months then he suddenly appears on the day we all dress up in women’s clothing. Never misses a chance that one. Now since I know Henley very well it didn’t take me long to get far out at the front, accompanied only by TurdTreader. I suddenly realised this was a mistake and those headlines loomed large again. I waited for the mincing masses, urging them on with all speed. Until Glittertits hove into view with an Ace ventura wig on. I sped away with all haste.

The Hares led us a, dare I say, gay dance by the Thames with loops out into the fields and past the Rowing Museum. Very pleasant actually and warmed us up nicely since we were by now pacing along after the bounding Zebedee. Poor Iceman was having quite a bit of trouble with squeaking boobs but he felt better when Lemming told him Mother Theresa has exactly the same problem. We eventually fetched up, breathless, near the lock where stood a Cheating. Why, I don’t know. But there he was. Foghorn and I strode off towards the main road, calling the blobs “On one… two… three.” As you know Foghorn can be heard quite a way so we were both a tad surprised when, after we had called “On three” some prat behind immediately called “Are you?” And not a ShutupWally in sight.

After a fairly lengthy stint around the outskirts of town we found ourselves going uphill into a wood behind the golf course. Damn fine wood. Bit of sunshine. Stiff breeze. Got lost. Or rather Motox, Simon, ShitShoveller and I lost everyody else. Now Motox has the same genetic makeup as a bloodhound when it comes to finding a trail. He stopped and sniffed, eyes narrowing, moustache twitching. Then with a mighty “Woof!” he was off. “It always goes this way!” He bayed, crashing through the thicket in his red dress and beret. It did too and we soon bumped into a vacant-looking BGB wearing a rather natty Aquascutum knitted top. Of course we soon hurtled out on the hill on the golf course where an Arctic wind ripped at any bare flesh (particularly those wearing mini-skirts). Curiously, the posh golfers completely ignored the tatty gaggle of frozen trannies poncing limp-wristedly over their greens. I must say I was tempted to scream “On On!” by a flour blob as I passed a gent in mid-backswing at the tee. However, just the thought of his driver flying o’er yonder tree as his crossed legs corkscrewed into the turf was enough to raise a grin. And I really did not want to be arrested wearing a skirt…

Now one of the features of this Hash was the way we all kept meeting different Hashers as the Pack reversed or we got lost, hit a bar, ran back from a False. Damn fine laying by the Hares and none better than the last multi-pathed wood where Zebedee, Jon and BGB turned back from a check in confusion, Iceman stumbled squeakingly on the trail and he and I found ourselves at a check with five possible ways to go! Definitely a contender for ‘Check of The Year’ that one. Iceman lucked out on that too. A pretty rapid legging along the foot of gardens by our close-knit group – Lonely, Mr Blobby, Jon, Simon et al saw us pop out opposite the late George Harrison’s estate. Bet you didn’t know there is a stream running through the middle of the house did you? The facts that the road now led steeply downhill and that the car park was less than a few hundred yards away had not escaped Motox. He screwed his beret more firmly on, woofed a bit and shot off, ears flapping and tongue lolling wildly in the slipstream. There was beer to be drunk and a girl gets thirsty on the red Dress Run.

There was indeed beer in the car park along with excellent hot soup, sausages and buttered french bread provided by Glittertits and PissQuick. The soup’s warming glow alleviated the bitter wind that ripped through us so many thanks to our providers.

Our Hares deserve a medal for laying this excellent trail during heavy freezing rain and hail. About that time in the morning I was just climbing back into my warm bed with a hot tea thinking, “I bet Florence and C5 are enjoying this.” Well done you two. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Glittertits presented the following :-

Slurped like a true slapper

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