The Cold Huddled Masses (ok, maybe not so many)

Caboose Hashgate SlackBladder Krystyna Iceman Scarlet Pimpernel Lucy Judy Abi Baldrick Posh Spot Hitchiker SlowSucker Glittertits Foghorn Snowballs Nutcracker Itsyor OldFart HeyBabe Kayak Florence Leonora Shamcock Ken

Cheating Pulls It Off (so to speak)

We should give Caboose a BH³ award for dedication. On this cold, blustery, grey clouded evening the lad hops on a train to Henley then cycles all the way up to Ibstone. And I mean up. It’s just about uphill all the way, albeit with some stunning scenery – I stopped just before Ibstone to enjoy the variety of greens in the valley far below. I had come upon the grim-faced, labouring Caboose in Skirmett and decided to give him a friendly double-toot to speed him on his way. As he pointed out later people driving cars don’t realise quite how loud a car horn can be. I did rather wonder about the sudden involuntary front wheel wobble and dive towards the hedge before he managed to regain control while I accelerated away in a cloud of carbon monoxide and goodwill.

At the pub I was treated to two heart-stopping sights. The first was a couple of kites wheeling and circling in a wonderful display of aeronautic freedom, their wingtip feathers ruffling, speeding effortlessly below the rumpled clouds. The second was SlackBladder getting his trousers off as he changed into his running kit. I decided to concentrate on the kites. This being a Cheating-organised(?) event there was some initial confusion as to the placement of the beer and food stop so Glittertits and PissQuick were seen speeding back and forth in their mobile kitchen before Cheating disappeared with them, leaving the rest of us to shiver in the October-like conditions. I must say that PQ and GT provided a fine repast for us later. The hot soup, cheese, fresh bread rolls, wine, beer and sweets were very welcome after a fair old run and with the light fading fast. We finally started after Cheating had informed us we would need ‘a bit of savvy’ at the Checks and that any Bar Checks we found would be marked in Roman numerals. Those of us who had ‘enjoyed’ a Cheating trail before groaned inwardly. We remembered the flour blobs that went down one side of a road and back up the other. Looking forward to the delights we dashed stiffly into the forest after apparently traversing someone’s drive. Of course, one of the advantages for the Pack was that Cheating, determined to view the confusion, seemed to be ahead of people much of the time. Rather helpful to us, if surprising, since he has rarely been known to follow any trail correctly. SlowSucker, Zebedee, Itsyor and Spot made much of the early running in a forest full of criss-crossing trails but, amazingly, the Pack was really not far behind thanks to a myriad of Checks with numerous Falses. Following a fine Check that left Spot and me somehow cutting a corner before surprising Shamcock in the act of getting his leg over a stile, Zebedee and Foghorn hurtled through a soaking wet, long-grassed field towards the M40 before finding the Bar-IV cunningly laid. They catapulted back from it and joined the rest of us dog-legging back across the second soaking wet field. As Foghorn said, at least it gave our running shoes the first real clean for a long time.

The Hares had a couple more surprises in store. The first as we sped downhill to a check which left OldFart, Itsyor and Snowballs to scratch heads as each obvious track ended in a False. Zebedee figured it right. It went back on the trail we had just come down and lurched off to the right before looping round to rejoin the original trail. It was all far too cerebral for us and Cheating crowed with delight like a rooster on a dunghill. The second surprise involved a long traverse down and across an open field to the forest edge before a Bar-III brought everyone back. I was chatting with Cheating way back from the Pack at the time and I agree with him that trail-laying tricks that keep everyone together most of the time are helpful to the middle-paced Hasher who can get a bit miffed at not seeing the action and who continually has to strive to keep up with the FRBs. A fearfully long hill through the forest awaited us next. I can only think that Cheating sent ShitShoveller off to lay this bit. A sensible move. I staggered up with Florence who, despite a probably broken little toe, attempted to break into a trot for a couple of metres before collapsing into the bushes like a panting hart worn out by the chase. We reached the Check at the top with Lucy and Posh, the latter, of course, barely out of breath and concerned only that there was no footman present to provide a spot of restorative Assam in the Staffordshire. Ah well. One has to make sacrifices one supposes.

Zebedee now provided us with the night’s cabaret as he headed miles off along an obvious False towards the brow of a small hill. We watched from a distance as a dark herd of young bulls gathered on the skyline before him, their tails swishing as they edged forward inquisitively. One dashed towards him. We gasped in horrid anticipation that bits of bank manager might come flying squidgily our way. But no. Zebedee dashed back at the beast who, overcome by surprise at this motiveless charge (it was a bank charge…) defecated volcanically, turned on its several heels and broke the bovine 100 metres record. The last we saw, before someone called On in exactly the opposite direction, was Zebedee disappearing over the hill towards the startled creature. Quite what he had in mind I have no idea… The trail went down a wickedly steep and slippery off-track downhill and I edged gingerely downwards, following the manic giant steps of Snowball who almost became an out-of-control avalanche. I was followed closely by OldFart who, rather surprisingly, said, “I’ve never seen you mince before, Hashgate. It’s quite attractive from behind.” Oh dear. I think the old pouf’s about to burst from the closet.

I decided to take the next short cut in the company of Glittertits and PissQuick (who were hurrying to set up the picnic for us), HeyBabe and Snowball, who was flaking (a ShutupWally-type pun) out with an injured calf – it may have been the one Zebedee chased earlier. We knew we had to head for the road and, after a bit of fannying about Glittertits announced, “Look. We can’t be far. There’s all these litter bins.” I gently explained the purpose of pheasant feeders. You can take the bloke out of the town…etc. We finally got back ok and scoffed as much soup and food as possible before the rest of the Hash arrived. Since it was so cold we all followed HeyBabe’s suggestion and milled like Emperor penguins – those with hot soup being pushed to the margins while the rest flapped and waddled towards Glittertits, who was dispensing the warming gruel. Afterwards, bloated like voluptuaries, we staggered off across the common to the cars before the cold and rain did us in completely.

Cheating informed me he expected a good write-up. I reckon the Hares deserve one for laying an interesting Hash through great countryside. Though I suspect the calming influence of ShitShoveller and LeVoisin reined in some of the more extreme ideas of Cunninglingus. E.g. using only 2lb of flour for the entire trail…

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Tonight’s RA Motox presented the following :-

Cheating first, of course. But the others close behind with no spillage

Up and Coming

BBQ Hash on June 6^th…

…is at Glittertits’ and PissQuick’s. Cost for food is a mere £2 per head. Please byo drink and glass.