Hooray Henrys and Henriettas

Dutch C5 Dumper Spex LoudonTasteless Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Utopia Uplift Hashgate Steve Lucy Julie OldFart Abi Porky ShutupWally SlackBladder Quack SlowSucker SimpleSimon DunnyStumbler Soreskin Caboose Twanky Blowjob Shamcock Jon Nutcracker Potty TurdTreader Zebedee Florence Anorak Trainspotter HeyBabe Kayak Leonora Baldrick Cheating Lord Lucan Motox Foghorn LeVoisin Glittertits ShitShoveller HeadBoy Kristine OldDog Bombing Along In A Rather Posh Area

The second (was until recently first) most expensive place to live hosted BH3 this evening and before I go any further I must congratulate Florence, Bomber, Anorak and Zebedee for not only completing the London Marathon but turning out for the Hash this evening. Anorak managed a 3 hour 6 minutes finishing time while taking only two black cabs and a short tube ride, which puts her in the elite women category. Florence should also be put in this category for simply doing the damn thing and Bomber and Zeb go in the effete category to stop them being big-headed. Since Anorak was the only one sensible enough not to run on this Hash you have to wonder what exactly the other three are on and why random drug testing has not picked it up. They were all skipping about like spring lambs on angel dust.

Our picture shows Zeb in his Marathon running outfit. No change from the usual Wednesday night stuff really. Less rubber maybe. And no donkey.

Loads of summer Hashers returned tonight, wide-awake and raring to go after their winter hibernation. We hadn’t seen Shamcock (who sucked down two pints before we started) for ages and even Lord Lucan got dragged out of his Henley homestead by ShutupWally for a pint in the pub. SimpleSimon screeched to a halt in his car with DunnyStumbler and Soreskin, the latter who reeled from the motor looking various shades of her surname, Green. “I feel sick.” She announced next to me with her usual sunny smile. I shifted my voice recorder to the hand furthest away and tried to remember if I had a scraper in my car. It turned out that a lack of food, coupled with Simple’s ‘I can do this with my eyes closed’ driving style had led to the nausea and a bag of crisps resolved the problem.

A casual Gather Round was followed by a lackadaisical meander up the hill by the Pack who strolled nonchalently across the playing field to a chorus of support from the local chavs – “I say you fellows. Jolly well done.” “Chin up you chaps. Straight bat and all that, don’t you know.” Well it was Henley! By the time we started running TurdTreader was so surprised to find himself at the front that he ran right across a Bar and really didn’t want to come when we called him back.

Once clear of the town we began to run West, the Pack staying together as a result of cleverly confusing trail laying and rank stupidity on the part of the FRBs. Thus I got to chat with Julie, Steve, HeyBabe, LeVoisin, Florence, Kayak etc; all sorts of people one doesn’t always see, and ended up running with TrainSpotter. There were two drawbacks to this: 1) he’s damn fit and it’s a problem to keep up with the bugger, 2) we couldn’t see a damn thing because of the sun. The massive copper orb sat low on the horizon radiating eye-stunning light. Not too helpful on uneven ground. Fortunately, SlowSucker had hit a purple patch where he lucked out on every check so we just had to follow the sound of his calls and hope we didn’t trip over any unseen sheep. Sadly, one of his calls led us up a rather massive grassy hill and poor DunnyStumbler and I were unlucky enough to be treated to ShutupWally’s company most of the way up. I’m not sure if we’ll ever see her again.

After a fairly long stretch and a bit of confusion by Mr Blobby (or was it Baldrick…) at a check on a road I found myself in the pleasant company of Caboose and Zebedee as we stumbled across a wet field pock-marked by cows’ hooves towards the Regroup just inside the forest. The cows in question were mainly mummies with youngsters and were not best pleased at having a bunch of largely middle-aged cretins wearing ridiculous clothes and shouting inanities staggering and cursing through their field. They uddered it up the hill and stood there mooing loudly. They were like a crowd of middle-aged women factory workers in the 1940’s. Headscarves with rollers peeking out, gingham pattern wrapover smocks, arms folded beneath well corseted busts that heaved with indignation. And in the clipped working class tones of the time, “Well I never ‘ave Lil. Not in all my life.” “Oh I know Betty. No respect these days they don’t never ‘ave. Wouldn’t surprise me if they was from broken ‘omes the lot of ‘em.” “Moo.”

We fetched up at the Regroup with SlowSucker and were shortly joined by C5, Baldrick, Soreskin clutching her emergency bag o’ crisps and late starter Foghorn. Soon everyone was there including our co-Hare, Posh, who began to give us our instructions for carrying on. C5 had not paid attention and requested a repeat. Oh dear. It went deadly quiet. It was like Oliver Twist asking for another dollop of gruel. Posh was a little above the rest of us (of course!). She turned slightly so that C5 came into view. He winced as her glacial gaze fell upon him. Had he been wearing a cap he would have whipped it off and tugged his forelock. Her perfect eyebrow arched a little as she viewed him, much as a fine Persian cat might view a small rodent that has inadvertantly wandered her way. Posh took an elegant, sweeping step towards him, tapped her long and finely enamelled cigarette holder so that a soft ball of ash fell and burst on C5’s bent head. Leaning towards his cowed and quivering form she whispered in a voice that could split a diamond; “Check.” She breathed menacingly. “It.” She paused for the full effect. “Out.” Extending the ‘t’ so her sharp, white teeth showed. C5 started. “Yus ma’am. Right away ma’am. Thankee ma’am.” And tugging everything on his body beginning with “fore” he sped off through the forest in a cloud of relief and something that smelt a bit like cow poo… but wasn’t.

Now came the absolute worst moment of the Hash for me. Having decided to backcheck through the forest just in case the Hares had been really sneaky (they had) I found myself on the right trail but with Cheating ahead (how the hell did he get there?!) and ShutupWally close behind. Words like ‘rock’, ‘hard place’, ‘nightmare’ and ‘scenario’ came to mind. Nothing for it but to hurtle onwards and hope for the best. Luckily I managed to wander down Bomber’s steep downhill False. It was a long way down and he said later it hurt to lay it. Hurt me too pal. However, the stunning view of the countryside over towards Fawley hill and Assendon valley in the lengthening shadows was well worth the diversion.

We eventually began to head back into town, following Mr Blobby, Zebedee C5 et al through the golf links, round the back of George Harrison’s place and down past Henley College. Only problem was, we had to head back up the hill to the pub – where HeyBabe leaned nonchalently against her car! Never mind, it was worth it for the friendly welcome and good beer. But it was nice to stop… as I’m sure Bomber, Zeb and Florence would agree!

Despite tired legs, Bomber managed to lay a pretty challenging course through superb country and we must thank Posh for giving him the odd piggyback ride on the uphill bits.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Glittertits presented the following :-

Very stylish indeed

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