The Cold, The Tired and The Hungover

Effin Hashgate Simple Baldrick OldDog SlackBladder Shandyman Chopstix C5 Dumper Septic Cerberus Iceman Spot Foghorn SlowSucker BlouseBlazer WhiteFang HeyBabe CIAC TinOpener Lilo and dog Emma Jenks and dog (of unknown parentage) Dylan Itsyor Spex LoudonTasteless Motox Quack Mother Theresa Lemming Pyro Stuart Uplift Cheating TDA Matt Cloggs NonStick NoPatsy BigStiffy FuzzyFlamingo. Daisy and dog Gnarler appeared briefly but opted for a hot coffee at home having already been for a run.

Plenty Of Flour – But Where’s The Trail?

Absolutely top marks go to Whinge and TC for laying an excellent trail on a gonad-wrinklingly cold morning the day after they had joined us for a sojourn to GBH and Circuit Breaker’s which included a frighteningly long run up and down mountainous Welsh countryside where snow lay round about followed by rather a lot of chilli, chips and beer. I think Cloggs had the right idea this morning. She had to be hauled out of her warm, snuggly sleep nest by NonStick who plainly prefers cold, vertical to warm, horizontal jogging on a Sunday morning. Curious.

I felt rather sorry for Lemming and Mother Theresa who, after the long day in Wales, had been entertained chez C5/Sue5, legendary p*ss artists both, and only got to bed about 2 o’clock after a night on the brandy. Their car arrived; the door opened. Lemming poured out like a toilet flushing. Mother staggered out of the back seat and held on grimly to the left windscreen wiper while things settled down. C5 bounded out like a spring chicken. How does he do that?

Spex and Loudon Tasteless had opted sartorially for white, snooker referee gloves for some reason and these, along with those black, calf-length trousers Spex wore brought to mind an image of Max Wall which I found it hard to shake. She called us to order while Foghorn acknowledged her authority as GM with a mighty puddle splash over her back. Nice one, Foggy.

The first part of the trail gave us a taste of what was to come. We looped and circled up and down slippery shiggy hills – then ended up a hundred metres from the pub and no idea where to go next. Largely because a ‘P’ for Petrol looked more like an ‘F’ for False and the Hares eventually had to lead the whole confused bunch across the road and usher us gently on our way. Shame then that I wandered off toward a distant postbox with what looked like flour on it while everyone else went the opposite way. We hurtled onwards towards the golf course where we met four bemused lady walkers standing by a Check. Baldrick went left. Itsyor went right. SlowSucker and Stewart went straight on. Various others tried various other paths. It was no good. We were truly stumped until Whinge stepped up with a grin and pointed out the way. It was around here that Jenks exploded like a verbal landmine after the umpteenth person had asked him the same question. The fellow had, on this grey, damp, bitterly cold day opted for a quiet trot out with BH³ and his springy, bouncy furry little canine friend, Dylan and earlier I had said to him, “Remind me. What type of dog is he?” “He’s a cross between a Bedlington terrier and a whippet.” Came the reply. Unfortunately for Jenks this was the first of many more such enquiries and half way through the golf course he’d had enough. “Right you effers!” He screamed, driven to manic distraction. “This effin dog’s a cross between a Bedlington terrier and an effin whippet. The next person who asks gets shagged by the dog!” I was standing by Cerberus at the time and mentioned quietly that I was glad I had already asked Jenks. She smiled enigmatically. “What a shame.” She replied, leaving me to pick up my jaw from the shiggy. I hadn’t realised Cerberus was an ‘animal lover’ voyeur…

A long, long trail wound on from here with Spot and Itsyor leading our group – until we realised there was a flying Chopstix up ahead of us. The lass has obviously benefited from her Welsh connection. i.e. Shandyman. Trouble was, there were others even further ahead than she so we never got any rest at the Checks. Spot, Jenks and Dylan, Itsyor, Iceman and I sped like cats out of Hell (apart from Dylan, of course) across the springy carpet of pine needles through the forest, leaving fiery footprints smoking behind us. I swear we gained a couple of minutes on the rest of the world. Fortunately, we reached the Regroup a few lung-searing moments later and stood around gasping and steaming as Dylan and Emma sniffed each others bits and chased around while Hamlet brazenly lobbed out his bits to water the fence. “For goodness sake, Hamlet!” Exclaimed OldDog, affronted by his effrontery, yet gazing steadfastly in that direction. OldDog, incidentally, was later to reprise her role as Tick collector in Florence’s absence (knackered no doubt after yesterday’s Welsh trip) and it was no surprise to me that everyone paid up immediately with no prevarication, hesitation or deviation. Some even tried to pay twice just to keep in her good books! I was in the car with my kecks at half-mast when her gimlet eye caught mine. She slithered bleakly over like a Dementor who’s just caught sight of Harry Potter sans wand and announced, “It’s nae gud waving yerr wullie at me Hashgate. Hand oor the cash.” Frightening. But very effective.

We split to Long and Short with Stewart and SlowSucker leading us foolhardy Long Trailers. Although I knew exactly where we were (I live but a stone’s throw – if you have a good arm – away) I was damned if I knew where we were going and made the mistake of following SlowSucker up a damn great hill in the opposite direction to the real trail, which went all the way up the damn great hill opposite. Having exhaustedly caught up with the tail-enders I was surprised to find myself in the company of Cheating, who was actually following flour. All down to his dodgy knee I guess. Too much unexpected lateral movement. I get that too when I’ve had too much to drink. The next to last were the now drooping and fearfully hungover Lemming and Mother who staggered through the cold cabbage field looking as though they hoped someone would bury their bodies when they fell. Luckily, we had only another half mile or so to go, even though Jenks tried to lead us off the road to a garden rubbish dump. Very interesting I’m sure, but not very helpful when every nerve end is screaming, “I have just about had enough of this you silly b*gger.” The frayed muscle groups are muttering of mutiny and the brain is gasping, “All I need is a pint. Get me a pint you b*gger.” Thank goodness the On Inn appeared. The muscle mutiny subsided slightly and the rest staggered on automatically to the mantra, “Pinta beer, pinta beer. Gotta get a pinta beer.” A short, leg-dragging step to the car. Grab the clothes. Muddy stuff off. Kecks half way up. And that’s when OldDog appeared.

Fine trail Whinge and TC. We’re up for more any time you like (as long as it’s near my house again).

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Simple presented the following :-

Eventually, NonStick polished it off

Up and Coming