Meadowlarks

Pyro Hashgate Lucy ScarletPimpernel Dwight Centaur Soreskin Simple DunnyStumbler Viv Iceman Honeymonster Cerberus Premature with dogs Libby and Molly Quack Chopstix Potty Snowballs Shitshoveller TurdTreader Leonora OldFart Itsyor Motox Posh Bomber BigStiffy TinOpener Mrs Blobby Utopia Uplift Twanky ShutupWally Ms Whiplash Florence HeadBoy HarryPotter Cloggs

Putting On The Stile(s)

OldDog and SlackBladder. If ever a couple of names needed saying in a piratical West Country accent these are they. To complete the theme we had Long John Bomber hopping around one one good leg (nice to see him back again after his ankle injury) and OldDog looking for a jolly roger. All we needed was for Spot to be black and we’d have had the makings of a good story. The weather had certainly been nautical with a Sou’ Westerly blowin’ hard and sudden squalls during the day. We all stood around in the full to bursting car park and enjoyed the spectacle of Premature trying to control his two excited red setters as they bounced around in auburn glee. I made the aquaintance of BigStiffy, who generally runs with OH³. TurdTreader, who was nearby, must have overheard his name since he immediately came across and bent right over in front him in a thinly disguised pretence of doing up his shoelace. I think we know the real reason young Mr Treader. Oh, and I must mention Utopia and Mrs Blobby who were very keen to show me their originality of sartorial choice in their different coloured T-shirts after I had made fun of their sisterly apparel in an earlier Gobsheet. Thank goodness they weren’t out to duff me up. It would have been “Attack Of The Clones” all over again…

At the Gather Round the Hares told us there would be about three Long Trails, damn all shortcuts and a fish-hook, which was not to ShutupWally’s liking apparently. This was a new one on me and it took two explanations by SlackBladder for me to grasp the concept. I believe the idea is that the first ten FRBs who reach the fish-hook go back one blob in order to keep the Pack together. The fact that only ShutupWally ever saw such a sign and got rerouted is good enough for me to support the idea wholeheartedly. We On Outed into the damp forest and towards the first of countless stiles – OldDog had earlier tittered that tonight we would have the opportunity to get our leg over more times than a hamster on Viagra. An orderly queue of ageing Hashers began to form, each holding their 50p between finger and thumb; but they were doomed to disappointment. Apart from Spot, who had more crumpet tonight than your average Lyons bakery. It’s always the quiet ones.

Early confusion in the forest presaged a well-laid trail. Soreskin, DunnyStumbler and Simple came crashing muddily back from a long False before hurtling off in the opposite direction to follow the rear of the Pack where HarryPotter had appeared (you guessed it) as if by magic. I must mention Soreskin’s legs at this point. A fine pair of well-proportioned, smooth-skinned chaps they are too. They have knees, ankles, everything. However, she had chosen to clad them in parti-coloured running tights, perhaps to frighten off any predatory woodland creatures with the violent diamonds. I certainly didn’t see any when I was near her. Then again, maybe she just has a motley collection of running gear… Either way, they didn’t stop some vicious stinging nettles getting through as she, Bomber, Posh and I took one of the Hares longer loops. And talking of Posh, what a caring person she is. As we lurched towards the serene Greys Court, seeing that I was running(?) like Toulouse Lautrec after a particularly convivial evening on the Pernod, she enquired as to whether I had an ankle injury, then followed up with some sage advice. Very kind, I thought, as we began to descend a slippery hill towards SlackBladder and some of the Pack. From behind me came her next question of concern, “Do you wear a support?” Now that’s not something I have been asked by many ladies of breeding and I was so surprised/laughing like a drain that I nearly ski’d down the last muddy bit and landed on Chopstix. I just managed to answer politely that such an article has never sullied my person as SlackBladder, spotting his co-Hare above us, called out loudly, “OldDog! OldDog!” To which she replied, equally loudly, “Woof, woof!” Now I know it’s none of my business but one has to wonder what goes on in the privacy of their own kennels. Does she dress up in one of those little plaid coats and wear a collar? Does she fetch his balls if he tosses them in the river? Does he give her a juicy bone each week? I think I’d rather not know.

Talking of dogs, Premature and Cerberus gave us a bravura performance every time they got to a stile. Many of the stiles had no dog gate so we all piled up in a crowd to watch one or the other of the the animals intelligently reasoning that if they could get their head through a square of the deer fence the rest must naturally follow. Eventually, Premature would scoop up the confused creature under chest and legs and heave it bodily over the stile. Cerberus usually managed to land on all fours…

We ran through any number of beautiful, sloping meadows filled with gently waving soft grasses, flowering clover and brilliant yellow buttercups. It made that slogging through mud, back-checking and stinging nettles all worthwhile. It’s one of the things that makes Hashing so enjoyable. Another thing is the unexpected humorous moment. Iceman and I had just stopped by (surprise, surprise) a stile as Florence bounced up. I had just picked up a most curiously shaped piece of wood. The eight inch length was knobbled as though several wooden balls had been fused together, giving it a very unusual and, to Florence anyway, exciting shape. “Coo.” She breathed. “That’s unusual.” And made to touch it, a sly, wide-eyed expression on her face. “That’s quite enough of that my good woman.” I reprimanded her and heaved the article into the undergrowth where Florence’s eyes followed it rather wistfully. At least she didn’t ask me for the batteries out of my recording machine and go searching for it.

Apart from the fish-hook the Hares had laid a wood full of Bars, Back Checks, a wade through a pond and a lot of False trails. Also, a trot through a field of young bulls (rather like last week but without Zebedee this time) and all this was taking quiite some time to traverse. So much so that SlackBladder was occasionally calling us On to the trail to get us back before darkness fell and the bears came out. We all managed to miss the Regroup which I believe had been eaten by some wandering beast with a penchant for McDougalls. Various other Checks had disappeared (according to SlackBladder…) due to either rain or voracious flour-eating creatures but I found that walking with OldDog seemed to do the trick as she had at least a vague idea of the route although she did mention that they had specifically laid the trail to take in Scotland! Twanky and I took that with a pinch of flour until she showed us the name place on her local map.

One other peculiar happening needs recording. Pyro, Quack and I were trotting through a dairy farm yard when a fairly youthful gent with rather a lot of black hair suddenly appeared and began combing it like a certain American singer who, though long since dead, has allegedly been sighted in various places throughout the world. As Quack said wryly, “Elvis is alive and working in a dairy.”

We should congratulate the Hares on their hard work that gave us a good long trail through some excellent country. Oh yes, and catching ShutupWally on the fish-hook.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA (and GM) for the night Motox presented the following. Ms Whiplash also showed him how to reduce a crowd of unruly Hashers to stunned silence when, to quieten us down before her Romeo and Juliet tickets notice she announced, “I’m pregnant.” Bloody hell.

A stunning lemonade pint by Dwight and a smooth Down by Centaur

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