It’s Summer; Everybody’s Here

ScarletPimpernel Lucy Spot Sue5 Honeymonster Hashgate Robert Iceman Dwight Centaur Flash OldDog SlackBladder Nutty Potty Chopstix OldFart Dumper Septic Itsyor PoisonedChalice DragonLady Foghorn DunnyStumbler Soreskin LoudonTasteless Spex Dutch Donut Lilo and dog Emma TinOpener Gabby (aka SillyCow) Viv BGB Barry Utopia Mrs Blobby Uplift Motox Lonely and dog Beaver Gnomealone Florence Zebedee Aqua Ms Whiplash Glittertits PissQuick Anorak2 Posh Bomber Ann SlowSucker Cyclogical TurdTreader

The Beer Stop That Never Was

You may wonder why we have a picture of a pine cone leading today’s turgid text. Curiously, the pub sign at The Pineapple displayed a picture of one. Perhaps the sign painter misheard the instructions. Someone else who (may have) misheard instructions was Sue5 who, with the DragonLady, was due to deliver the booze to the Beer Stop half way round the Hash. Having reached the end of an enjoyable forest dash by a floury ‘BS’ (Beer Stop) sign we ambled down a little track to a road, salivating at the thought of a drink. However, no beer wagon was in sight. “Ou est le booze?” We queried as Hare C5 dashed up with a bag of flour and more lines on his perplexed forehead than a tram station. “We drove here last Friday!” He squeaked as more and more thirsty Hashers appeared. “Anyone got a mobile phone?!” He screeched hysterically, grabbing the shirt of anyone nearby. Flecks of foam appeared at the corners of his mouth. A vein throbbed at his temple. Remember that iconic picture advertising the film ‘Platoon’ where the fiercely muscled bloke is down on his knees, arms aloft, head thrown back, beseeching the heavens in his soul-tormented agony? Take out the muscles and you have C5. We smiled in friendly resignation and left him biting the tarmac. One can only imagine next morning’s breakfast chèz C5 – bet Frosties described more than the cereal…

As you can see from the list of participants above (slightly truncated due to a recorder malfunction; apologies to anyone left out) a mass of people turned up including a number of ‘proper’ runners known to Soreskin. Flash also turned up on his racing bike looking like the peleton had long gone. I don’t think Lance Armstrong has anything to worry about. The On Out took us immediately into wet bushes, stinging nettles and flesh-puncturing gorse. Florence initially found the trail, got suckered by some loon (possibly SlowSucker) calling On down a False – although it allegedly had four blobs before it, tracked back only to find she had been right all along and was mown down by the Septic, Utopia, Mrs Blobby and Uplift juggernaut and just about everybody else. Unfortunately for Mr Blobby and C5 the afternoon’s heavy rain had washed out some of the Checks, which was great for keeping the pack together but meant they had to rush about like scalded cats trying to keep everyone on track. The rain had also made the forest floor pretty slippery, particularly on rutted tracks and uphill/downhill. I found myself almost cannoning off Mrs Blobby during one sideways whirl of arms and legs. However, this was nothing compared to Glittertits, whose spectacular slide, skid and legs-in-the-air pratfall resulted in a dislocated thumb. Nasty. Not quite a full Baldrick but nearly. The tough fellow merely winced and wrenched the errant digit back into place before carrying on. Crikey! What a bloke. Don’t anyone dare criticise his soup. SlowSucker also managed to twist his ankle and was seen later at the pub with a small swelling. However, this had nothing to do with his ankle and I’d rather not talk about it.

The trail twisted and turned through the damp woodland and Florence and I bumped into walkers Ms Whiplash, Dutch and Posh as we backtracked to where Mr Blobby was laying a flour ‘W’. He was kind enough to point us in the right direction. Incidentally, Bomber told me that poor Posh has a bit of an ankle problem at present. Hence the walking. One can only hope she can still fit into the Jimmy Choo’s. Sooo tedious balancing on the Axminster in them at one’s society functions.

It was very noticeable that, despite the afternoon’s downpour the land was generally as parched as we were after the Beer Stop. The Hares had laid a couple of Bar Checks on bridges over non-existent streams so, although we duly trotted through them people like Foghorn had to content themselves with shouting, “Splash, splash. Har, har. Got you.” In a display of virtual aquatic tomfoolery. It’s not quite the same. Still, Simple managed to find one puddle and stamp his size thirteen in it, dampening yours truly and almost soaking my equipment. Luckily, as Foghorn pointed out, I had it in my hand. But one person was not so lucky as we reached the Regroup. RA Glittertits had decided to give Gabby her Hash name and produced two bottles of water and used the Hares’ flour to christen her ‘SillyCow’. This was a self-nomination since, a couple of weeks ago, she had been daft enough to try and call people back from what was obviously the trail and then called herself a silly cow right in front of me. I was bound by journalistic code to report the matter – I do hope she forgives me. She took the naming in good spirit like a true Hasher – not like a silly cow at all!

We bashed on through the forest, the virgins and visitors enjoying their off-road experience. Now Soreskin has always struck me as a sensible type – apart from when she forgot her running shoes the other week – so I was somewhat surprised to see her in front of me in a thicker part of the forest heading for a hanging loop of vine. It was about her neck height, painted in fluorescent colours and with a large, flashing neon sign stating ‘Beware! Vine!’. It was fascinating to see her blunder through it before being brought to a neck-wrenching stop by the strangling weed. “Ooer.” She said. Ooer indeed.

While all this was going on LoudonTasteless was being lured into the bushes by Donut who fluttered her eyelashes and informed him in a helpless manner, “Oh lawks. I’ve lost an earring. Will you be a fluffy bunnikins and help me find it?” Flutter. Flutter. Well, I mean, the poor goof was helpless wasn’t he. “I’d be more than happy to my dear.” He replied in an avuncular way and dropped to all fours like an aardvark seeking out a particularly evasive ant. Onlooking woodland creatures must have been amused at the sight of the two poring (and pawing) around in the leaf mould. I am unable to say whether the object was actually located but I can reliably report that LoudonTasteless managed to find the following: a set of folding doors, a turnip shaped like the head of the Queen, a cinema ticket (used) to see ‘The Cockleshell Heroes’, a leg (untrousered), a brace of Polish sausages, Shergar, one mashie niblick, oil, an entire company of drunken Marines and sixpence. So not an entirely wasted effort.

The final leg back to the pub was across a fine field of tall grass where I was following Gnomealone and was being followed in turn by Baldrick. Very peaceful it was too until we reached the stile. Having just blundered into the gorse-lined path Zebedeee zipped past in a moment of half-remembered testosterone stimulation only to be blocked on the narrow path by the Gnome. However, he got his own back when we reached the road and the two silly sods sprinted for the pub. Zeb finished first then collapsed, desperately trying to roll his tongue back in and spoon the eyeballs into place while gasping harder than the entire Discovery Channel team trying to keep with Lance up one of those Pyrenean mountain roads.

C5, Mr Blobby – we didn’t really mind the lack of beer at the Beer Stop and the trail was excellently off-road. The only mistake we made was in not taking the pub landlord’s advice and going into the rather fine garden with its newly built, extensive decking with little blue lights and patio heaters until the Down Downs. But that’s Hashers for you. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Glittertits presented the following :-

Enjoyed his ale from the presentation tankard – with no little spillage

OldFart passed The Sheep to Simple for admitting he missed ShutupWally on the Hash and for wearing a garter! This is a black band he wears just under his knee. Perhaps he’s in mourning for something – a dead leg maybe?

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