Run Number:



Visit the website –
Website Email –


The Golden Ball
Lower Assendon



Fool On The Hill

ScarletPimpernel Abi Glittertits PissQuick Hashgate Baldrick Salome Ms Whiplash Spot Hitchiker Simple DunnyStumbler Premature Cerberus Robert Steamer Iceman Motox Utopia Dumper C5 SlowSucker Soreskin ShutupWally Potty Nutcracker Donut Dutch Cloggs Jenks Florence Trail(Blouse)Blazer Cheating Itsyor Fiddler Zebedee Bomber Posh Whinge TC Lonely and dog Beaver SlackBladder OldDog Chopstix HeadBoy

Shortish… And Sweet

And so we came to the beautiful, lush green valley wherein nestles Lower Assendon just North of Henley, to The Golden Ball, known to the more snobbish locals as Le Spheroid D’Or. Highly appropriate this evening since the golden ball of the evening sun lay directly behind the pub, ready to dip below the steep hill behind it. This 400-year old pub allegedly had Dick Turpin hiding in its’ priest hole. I believe he has now left. Ms Whiplash and Salome crunched into the pebbly car park for the last time in Ms W’s MG. She announced she will be replacing it shortly with an MR2, and proceeded to show me a brochure detailing the seductive delights of the new machine. Apparently, she had whipped down to the garage to lash out on the car and had beaten the salesman down before tying up the deal…

Before the On Out Shitshoveller had told me he had spent a thoroughly enjoyable day walking slowly round the course, laying the trail, taking in the scenery and listening happily to the cricket on his radio as England stuffed the Aussies to win the Ashes. In celebration of this event, Fiddler turned up, and ran, with a St George’s flag streaming from his back. Jolly nice to have something to celebrate on the England sport front, what? Perhaps the football team could learn from the event. Our picture today shows the good Mr Shoveller, covered in flour after laying the trail, and with his golden ball in his hand.

Of course, we all kind of knew that we had to start off running up one side of the valley or the other. It turned out to to be the narrow track up that damn great hill that Bomber had so kindly laid a False at the bottom of a couple of months ago. Great. However, the Hash set to with clenched teeth and buttocks and the first 30 metres up the 1 in 2 went well with everyone actually running. I followed the bouncing Abi who was following the apparently unstoppable Simple. However, the clogged arteries, wasted muscles, cirrhotic livers, arthritis, lumbago and group lethargy took over and the gasping group toiled slowly upwards at walking pace. And up. And up. More than one fell by the wayside feebly croaking, “I…can’t…go…on.” We left them to the buzzards. It was a bit like listening to RadioHead’s ‘Paranoid Android’ (or any Leonard Cohen for older readers). The longer it went on the more welcoming were thoughts of personal defenestration, being buried up to the nostrils in sand or merely spending an entire day in the soul-shuddering company of ShutupWally. Eventually, the torture ended and we crawled across a floor of last year’s beech nut shells to a very welcome Check on the sparsely wooded hilltop. Cerberus, SlowSucker and Jenks staggered off to find the trail and the rest of us curled up for a kip.

It was odd to notice that people who had not been at the Gather Round suddenly started appearing. OldDog hove into view. SlackBladder crashed out of the undergrowth with a surprised expression and no idea where to go. Bomber rushed by. Posh trotted genteely past, one’s ankle mending nicely, thankyou kindly dear Hashgate. Then Yankit popped in the periphery! Where the hell did he come from? Yes, I know New York but it was a surprise to see the fellow. Others I didn’t see who were following in our wake were Lonely, with faithful, eager Beaver and TC with the faithful, tongue-lolling Whinge. These two were late due to petrol panic-buyers. Whinge was highly ticked off with the unthinking gent in front of him who petrolled up and strolled casually to the ATM to get some cash, leaving his car in place and ignoring the queue. Whinge pointed out to TC that, since they were at a filling station he felt it only right that he should fill in said gent. A perfectly rational debate argument . I entirely agree with the logic. Well worth a charge of GBH.

For some reason the Hash was fairly hammering along. Even Cheating was running fairly fast. Perhaps it was the long straights between the Checks. We eventually slipped out of the darkling forest into a lighter paddock where a small group of family members watched in astonishment as we trotted after SlowSucker, Steamer and the caped crusader, Fiddler, a long way up the tiny road leading to and from their house (completely missing the ‘F’ that lay quietly ‘pon it). A slightly larger family group then watched us return along the track, wave them a friendly ‘hello’, trot back across the paddock and finally disappear back into the bosky wood to meet Potty finally reaching our exit/entrance, shouting ‘On On’ in his Brummy accent. Surreal or what?

Cerberus, Premature and I almost tripped over the bypass that runs past Bix and the now run-down Fox pub where we ran one Christmas and Lemming had hot and cold water poured on his naked, erm, parts by certain gents who shall remain unnamed (and in the closet). Happy days. By now darkness was beginning to mantle the land. Greens were turning to grey and a bronze half-moon hung lazily in the sky. Just as well we were turning for home. Though we nearly didn’t make it when there was massive confusion on a piece of common land. There were Hashers everywhere. It was only by pure chance (so no change there) that Premature found the trail on the opposite side of the green and even then certain people didn’t believe the call. Cerberus and I decided to follow the old fellow anyway since a) he’s her husband, and b) I knew the pub was in that direction. A long, winding and pretty dark single track road led on and on and down and down. It was great fun trying to see/avoid the potholes although Dunny stumbled past in a cloud of moths with a nice bright light. Fiddler flapped past. C5 sailed past. ShutupWally yakked his way past like a fishwife on speed. After that it was a nice gentle tootle ending in the pub garden marred only by overhearing Premature boasting to DunnyStumbler how much he enjoys dressing as a woman and running half-marathons. I believe he enjoys the first part much more than the second…

Congratulations to Mr Shoveller on a well-timed final Summer trail through splendid country. Ta muchly.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Newly elected RA Simple did an excellent job of presenting the following :-



Style points


Losing a shoe in the shiggy

Nice, smooth action (so I’ve heard)


Ungentlemanly conduct. Chucking Chopstix’ shoe further into the mud after…

As swift as ever


she fished it out

A finely taken half


Fettling! i.e groping, grasping, gripping, clutching – you get the idea

Very nice by our previous RA


Being improperly dressed

He doesn’t hang about


Crop trampling. Shame!

Steamed through it


50 runs. Well done!

A superbly executed pint


Tonight’s Hare

Sunk with stunning speed

Cerberus was presented with the Sheep by C5. For what I have no idea.

Up and Coming



Grid Reference






The Black Lion, Woodcote

Florence, Zebedee




The Railway Tavern, Hungerford

TinOpener, Lilo

A Note From The Scribe

I was brought up with a bit of a jolt in the pub after the Hash when a couple of ladies refrained from moving our conversation to a more personal level because they thought I might report it. Please note that while I am happy to make good-natured fun of Hashers I will never, ever write anything personally embarrassing to or nasty about anyone and if someone asks me to treat a particular conversation as off the record, it will be. ‘Nuff said. Anyway, turning to that unfortunate rash on the gonads of …