Long Trailers – One And All

Iceman Hashgate Simple DunnyStumbler Snowballs Potty Nutcracker Lemming Mother Theresa Honeymonster Drac Vlad Hamlet Dutch Donut Twanky Karen Margaret BlowJob heyBabe CIAC Baldrick Foghorn Caboose Posh SlackBladder Hitchiker Spot OldFart SlowSucker Spex LoudonTasteless SlipperyDick Glittertits PissQuick Motox BlouseBlazer Trembler Dumper Septic TinOpener Chopstix ShandyMan GnoweAlone Fiddler Itsyor Cloggs NonStick

Will It Never End?

On this cold, grey, damp day it was difficult to pick out the most humorous moment. Was it Dumper and Septic attempting to manouver their car into the car park via a lane only two thirds the width of their car? Was it Iceman sliding gracefully sideways into deep and sticky shiggy towards the end of the run? Or was it Simple driving his massive new Audi gerfattenauto and failing dismally to insert it neatly between the parking lines? Or it may have been Premature’s headgear, an upturned blue felt flowerpot. And he had the temerity to accuse me of looking like a begging East European asylum seeker in my zipped black puffer jacket. Come to think of it, he may be right. Spare a copper for an Estonian cuppa tovaritch?

Surprisingly, for such an unpleasant day, lots of people turned up. The rarely spotted SlipperyDick, for instance. Even OldFart, who had purchased a special awayday pass from ‘er indoors and wore his special psychedelic leggings to celebrate. Rather wish he hadn’t. If you didn’t see them, think of gaudy deckchairs. Since so many Hashers appeared the BH³ subscription enforcement heavies, Donut and Dutch stomped round handing out renewal sheets and demanding the pitiful sum of £10 with menacingly sincere smiles – velvet glove/iron fist stuff. I should pay up now; you wouldn’t want a knock on the door in the middle of the night only to find when you opened it these two wearing sunglasses, big boots, black leather and serious expressions would you? Or maybe some of you gentlemen would…

So the title of this little script is ‘Will It Never End’. No doubt a thought running (or rather dragging itself wheezingly along) through many Hashers’ minds by the time we got to the beer stop after about an hour and a half. Since Cerberus and Premature do a bit of running now and again they had decided we out to do some too, so they laid a trail of inordinate length through woodland and suburbia that even tested the legs of young Fiddler. We sped through damp glades and along muddy trails, the pace so invigorating that even Hitchiker and NutCracker were spotted jogging along. Perhaps they were hurrying to enjoy the sight of certain individuals like SlowSucker, who was running part of the trail backwards with a couple of other shortcutters. This kind of maverick activity directly follows on from last week when he arrived at the New Year live trail just as we were finishing, then went out and took two hours, ten minutes to find/run round it. Takes all sorts I suppose.

Other mavericks included BlowJob, Twanky, BlouseBlazer, Itsyor and others who had also managed to run part of the trail backwards and had arrived at the Regroup atop a large muddy mound in the forest well before SlipperyDick and I stamped gaspingly up its’ slimy sides. Motox also turned up quite early and I’ll put this down to his newly smooth upper lip which has reduced his drag coefficient by 0.275%. No insignificant figure I’m sure you’ll agree. Motox had some time ago decided he needed to do something to speed up his progress since he is currently limited to power walking rather than running and he suddenly hit on the idea that less hair might mean less wind resistance. But how to prove it? Wind tunnels and smoke streams are used to check the aerodynamics of cars and wings, he thought. Surely he could rig up something similar. An idea slowly bubbled to the surface. Fifteen minutes later he stood in his hall. A full length mirror was to his right, a vacuum cleaner with its’ hose taped halfway up a hatstand was in front of him, the long, narrow slit of the carpet tread tool pointing towards him. He carefully lit the two joss sticks given to him for Christmas by a distant relative and picked up the broom leaning against the wall. The idea was to check the facial wind turbulence level caused by the moustache by setting the vacuum cleaner to ‘blow’ and letting the joss sticks’ smoke drift across his face while looking at the mirror out of the corner of his eyes to check the smoke flow. Foolproof. Nothing could go wrong. He stretched his face forward towards the expected breeze, looked sideways at the mirror and grinned optimistically, held up the joss sticks and reached forward with the upturned broom towards the ‘blow’ switch on the machine. The best laid plans… Unfortunately, the smoke meandered up the Motox nostrils, causing a violent nasal explosion resulting in an even more unfortunate jerk forward. The end of the broom missed ‘blow’ and hit ‘suck’. Oh dear. It was a powerful machine. With a roar the joss sticks disappeared into it. Closely followed by Motox’ top lip. “Uuuuurgggghhh! Ge’ i’ off!” He gasped, struggling to push the damn thing away and succeeding only in exposing rather a lot of his upper incisors. From the side he looked like one of those African ladies who like to wear saucers in their lips. Realising that the longer this went on the more likely that he would later be renamed by the Hash as ‘Anteater’ Motox took a renewed grip on the lip-sucker and with a mighty wrench managed to tear it free and throw it on the floor where the thing writhed like a demented snake for ten seconds before attaching itself to the neck of a nearby stuffed mongoose, determined to give the glassy-eyed creature the mother of all hickeys. Motox’ hand naturally strayed to his tender top lip and he gasped as he realised that his manly ‘tache had disappeared into the black hole along with the joss sticks! Soon to be followed, he mused, watching the furious struggle at his feet, by half a mongoose. A look in the mirror confirmed that the upper part of his shaving region was indeed smoother than a plucked chicken’s bum. He liked it. It felt good – well, a bit raw. Job done! Years younger. I could pass for sixty three, he thought and gave himself a sly, sardonic, man-o’-the-world sort of look. “It’ll knock ‘em dead.” He said out loud and strode towards the front door, ready for the fastest power walk of his life.

I just shaved mine off. It was a lot easier.

I seem to have neglected the trail somewhat. Sorry about that but facts have to be reported in a reputable journal such as this. Bearwood College was built in Victorian times by John Walter III who made his fortune from The Times newspaper. At the South-facing rear, the 100metre long terrace overlooks the sweep of the lawns down to the man-made lake. And here we had our excellent beer stop with a selection of beer, lemonade and necessary warming mulled wine (Cerberus’ own delish recipe). I can imagine this would be a superb and romantic place on a warm summer’s evening. Although it was a tad cold and damp for most of us Florence and LoudonTasteless were obviously affected by the atmosphere since they nipped round the side of the mansion for a quickie and were duly rewarded with a Down Down by RA Simple on their flushed and breathless return.

Even though this Hash seemed destined to continue for ever while we were running it and we were damn cold after the beer stop it was an enjoyable sojourn through some country I for one had never been through before. And it was made all the more enjoyable with the knowledge that some of us managed to miss out a final loop, thereby getting us back to the pub/warm fire/Adnams beer before the poor exhausted slobs who didn’t! Thanks Cerberus and Premature. No hurry for the next one…

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Simple presented the following :-

Stunt drinking. Better than usual

Up and Coming