The Cold, Huddled Masses

Potty Nutcracker Vlad Drac Hashgate Lemming Mother Theresa OldDog SlackBladder Premature Cerberus Donut Dutch Caboose Motox ShutupWally and dog Bonnie Chris SillyCow ArthriticTit Iceman Spot Foghorn SlowSucker Hamlet Hitchiker BlouseBlazer Whinge TC Effin Cloggs NonStick Neil Kerry and baby Aidan (hope I spelt that right – he is Lemming’s grandson!) TurdTreader Flash Shirley Quack Lonely Bootsie Baldrick Cheating ShitShoveller

“Oh Fish Hooks!” Said Jennings. (Thanks Anthony Buckeridge)

Firstly, my thanks to C5 for plugging the minor breach in the Gobsheet dyke with perhaps one to many fingers – you may have noticed that there are two Gobsheets for OldDog and SlackBladder’s sojourn through Old Windsor. Luckily, the factual items largely coincided, proving either that both C5 and I reported accurately or that we both made the whole thing up and have a similar mindset. I’ll leave the decision up to you.

Today was notable for two things. 1) the rime and freezing grey fog – which matched certain gentlemen Hashers’ hair colour perfectly, and 2) OldDog standing in for the unwell Florence (hope you’re better now Flo) by collecting the Tick money. Let me deal with the second first (er, as it were). OldDog, as many of you are aware, hails from Scotland, a country and people known for their grit and determination. The lass certainly displayed both qualities in abundance today as she strode about the car park post-Hash, clipboard, list and pen at the ready, pouncing on exhausted, half-frozen gentlemen Hashers with one leg in their trousers uttering staccato Gaelic barks of, “Gie me yourrr muny the noo or ye’ll find ma boot up yere trussocks laddie!” And to the changing ladies, “Ah dinna care that yere titties are oot in the braw. Hand o’er the cash.” Or something very similar. I certainly heard her words, “You tight fisted…” from the other end of the car park. I paid up rapidly with a smile. Come back soon Florence.

As to the rime. Well, the air was pretty Arctic and anywhere in the shade (luckily the fog parted and let the sun shine through) had been brushed by the white hand of Jack Frost overnight and showed no signs of shaking off the delicate lace that adhered to the grass and hung heavily on the spiders’ webs. Beautiful it certainly was, and a complete contrast to the slippery, damp shiggy that had been slightly warmed by the weak sun. Glittertits and PissQuick had set out to give us the full benefit of their vast Hashing experience by including a ‘Field Check’ and a number of ‘Fish hooks’ along with the usual Checks and some very sneaky sudden right or left turns while one was hurtling pell mell down a forest track. The ‘Field Check’ is, as the name suggests, a Check in a field, there being no obvious track. So the Hash has to investigate every inch of the clumpy sward. Or rather people like SlowSucker, Whinge, Iceman and Spot do. While everyone else stands and watches. Including the amused Hare. The ‘Fish Hook’ theory goes thus – the first Hasher to the Hook (a reversed ‘J’ shape) waits for the next four to arrive before leading them all back to the rear of the Pack. Quite an interesting idea that slows the fast runners and keeps the Pack together. Although Premature found the concept too difficult for his brain cell and just ran straight on. Unlike Spot, who, though in possession of a couple more brain cells, actually stopped and kicked out the flour hook before stampeding onwards! Those of us who got caught by these Fish Hooks (SlowSucker, me, Vlad, Chris, BlouseBlazer and others) invented an abbreviation of the new verb ‘To Fish Hook’. “Oh no!” We wailed. “We’ve been f ‘ooked.”

Hamlet, of course, was oblivious to these drawbacks since he was actually riding his bike round, citing shin splints as the reason. This might seem the easy method of Hashing but he had reckoned without the frost-heaved and frozen hoofmarked paddocks, let alone a series of curious ‘stiles’ with nothing to climb on, merely a medium body-sized gap through which those without bikes squeezed and Hamlet heaved and sweated to lift his mud-spattered mountain bike.

Of course, whenever Lemming appears at the Hash you can bet on an event or two. Apart from when he stuck a handful of ice down Cloggs’ back the first occurred while he and I were trotting along a road, chatting. Just as we passed an ancient, dessicated tree stump it suddenly keeled over into the ditch of its’ own accord. It’s shock at the proximity of BH3’s resident gnome was obviously too much for it. The little fellow was almost as shocked and nearly jumped into my arms. Fortunately, he didn’t since we were close to his son-in-law, Neil, who Lemming had just informed that I was a woofter. The second was the sight of him opening a lady’s car door to loom goggle-eyed at the infant strapped therein. I was rather taken aback by this until I found out the lady was his daughter, Kerry, the little lad his grandson (crikey!), Aidan. “Gan Gan! Uttered the youngster excitedly, or something similar. ”Spying ShutupWally loitering loquaciously nearby with his cute little dog, Bonnie, Lemming pointed the furry fellow out. “Look.” He said, pointing. “Doggie.” Unfortunately, Aidan caught sight of ShutupWally. The lower lip began to quiver. A silver tear gathered in his perfect eye (like most Hashers being thus approached). Mother Theresa jogged up, viewed the situation and interposed herself between the youngster and the object of his distress. His expression changed to glee. A smile lit up his little face. “Slapper!” He observed. Out of the mouths… Or maybe I misheard.

Now I must thank ArthriticTit for a spot of cabaret in the forest as we crackled through cold, bone-dry leaves and bits of fallen tree. Directly in front of me she stepped on a fallen branch. It was no thicker than Lonely’s leg. i.e. three inch circumference. Her other foot caught the end of it and she plunged earthwards with an eerie squeal and a seismic crash that totally denuded several trees of their meagre covering of leaves. They squealed too, hid their naked bits with a limb or two, gathered up their roots and skittered off to hide. Oops, a bit of surrealism slithering in there. Back to normality. SillyCow, tittering, asked the faller if she was all right and when she nodded we picked her up under the armpits and flung her roughly to one side. Nothing stops the Hash.

Blast! I’m running out of space and there’s a lot more to tell. Not least the electric shock effect of a pheasant rocketing out of a frozen cornfield next to Cerberus and me. Fresh trousers please. Or Glittertits leading quite a lot of the time. Meeting friendly parents out walking with a little girl dressed all in pink while on a frozen and brilliant white forest path. Cheating suddenly appearing at the regroup. The huge volume of people who short-cutted in that last field. So let’s summarise – a fine Hash on a snappy morning. Quite liked the f ’ooks and the trail was sneaky enough to fool the FRBs much of the time. Thanks Glittertits and PissQuick (with assistance of course from Spex and LoudonTasteless).

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

LoudonTasteless stood in for Simple today, attempting to create yet another Committee position takeover precedent. Since his last essay as RA took an hour or so, Iceman and I timed him. On this freezing cold day he began like a snowball rolling down a mountain, slowly and hardly noticeable at first but gathering speed, volume and noticeability. Drinks were dispensed frenziedly and miscreants were shuttled to and fro to drink them rapidly. The snowball smashed onwards mercilessly, crushing any objections and barracking in its unstoppable path until it finally ran out of victims and lay smashed (well, lightly soused) and gasping against the pub wall. 16 minutes, 26 seconds. Not bad.

Stunning by Spot. Dismal by Premature

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