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The Saracen’s Head, Henley


Posh, Bomber

The Hirsute And The Shaved

Florence Zebedee Hashgate Nicola Snowballs Potty Nutcracker Vlad Drac Dumper Septic C5 Iceman Baldrick SlowSucker Anorak Trainspotter BlouseBlazer ScarletPimpernel Motox Glittertits PissQuick Amanda and dog Barney Clive Nina Simple DunnyStumbler Foghorn Chopstix Shandyman TC Whinge TinOpener Trembler HeyBabe CIAC Twanky Mother Theresa Lemming Honeymonster Hamlet Spot Hitchiker TinOpener Lilo and dog Emma Cheating Yankit SlackBladder OldDog TT2 Stuart NoPatsy Cloggs NonStick Mark(now StinkingBishop) Grommet

Plagiarism By George!

My thanks to Florence and Motox for producing last week’s Gobsheet though how Motox expects us to believe he would get into an Under-60s disco is beyond me…

Posh and Bomber had obviously decided to conserve flour and effort by using parts of not only the recent Bike Bash but Shep’s Hash and the pre-Christmas trail laid by Daisy and me. However, they still managed to make it longer than all three put together. How those flunkeys carrying Posh’s sedan chair got all the way round during the laying of it I don’t know. In case you are unaware of the Posh/Bomber style of trail-laying it goes thus: the good lady Posh reclines sedately on exotic silk cushions within the sedan chair which is borne carefully by a couple of sturdy yeomen while the obedient Bomber trots by the side bearing a Royal Derby soup tureen brimming with the very best McDougall’s (bought from Waitrose, not Tesco, of course). At certain points Posh snaps her fingers to halt the progress and beckons Bomber nearer while slipping on a white kid glove. Dipping her dainty fingers in the tureen she pulls forth a little flour then indicates where she wishes to place it – a tree stump, gatepost, an urchin perhaps, who is ordered to remain immobile until the Hash has passed later. With a regal wave the powder drops to its’ appointed position, the fingers are rubbed lightly together to remove the offending material, the glove removed obseqiously by Bomber and Posh sinks back to cushions to sip a restoring glass of Pol Roger.

If only it were that easy for all Hares. Now what I want to know is why, when Motox and I, in the interests of facial nattiness, have removed our upper lip face furniture, is Dumper trying to grow one? Though on the evidence of one week’s growth it could take some time. The current result looks like a hairy caterpillar with a bad case of psoriasis. The picture shows what the lad is aiming for. So far it hasn’t quite made Dali status. More like Clark Gable after a hard night’s snogging with Vivien Leigh. And he is rather flying against the storm of high fashion that Motox and I are leading. Hair was rather a feature on Sunday’s Hash with Dutch’s virgin friend Nicola sporting a lustrous cascade of shoulder length raven’s wing ringlets. This contrasted strongly with the shaved craniums of Vlad, Drac and Lemming. The latter was so taken with Nicola’s locks that he laid the thick mat of curls across his naked bonce in an effort to remember what it had once been like long, long ago. There must be a picture somewhere Mother Theresa. We need to see it!

Where else could the trail start but straight up that bloody great hill? It may have been beautifully sunny and the air as fresh as on an Austrian mountain but by the time we reached the Check just about everyone was ready to chuck it in apart from Amanda who had been pulled up the thing by her mad dog Barney who believes he’s much younger than he really is. Hmm. That applies to quite a number of Hashers too. I include myself of course. We scurried through a number of snickets and alleys to end up overlooking the Harpsden valley and golf course opposite. We would have enjoyed the sunny view if we hadn’t known in our hearts that having scurried all the way down to its’ frosty bottom we would have to stagger all the way up the well known track on the other side. On the way we managed to get a smiling elderly lady tied up in her dogs’ leads as they thrashed madly round her legs, trying to join in our fun. I would like to have seen her later, during the untying phase, with both dogs pulling in opposite directions and her spinning like a fur-coated top before dizzily (and still smiling) hurling herself into the rhodedendrons.

We followed SlowSucker and Zebedee across a rather well known couple of fields before finally figuring out the Check and chasing after Anorak and TrainSpotter who obviously didn’t want to upset the wildlife by shouting On. We eventually fetched up by the little country road that leads to The Bottle and Glass pub. People like Stuart, Zeb and SlowSucker trotted off to check for flour while athletes like TinOpener and Twanky stretched their manly calves while pushing against a fence. An old and ugly Volvo wheezed by the Hashers and stopped opposite me. The old and ugly bloke inside wound down the window. He was wearing a brown jacket, a yellow plaid shirt and a lurid green tie. Uugh! I fought down the urge to indulge in a spot of Little Britain style projectile ralphing and smiled at him. “You should tell your people not to run in the middle of the road. It’s very dangerous.” He informed me in his best Henley accent. I assured him I would certainly do his bidding, tugged my forelock and backed away respectfully as he swept off. TrainSpotter’s reaction when I told him summed up the feelings. He, shall we say, described the Volvo driver as an extreme exponent of the art of Onanism.

Further trail delights awaited us such as a Bar-6 way down a forest path. Florence and I enjoyed a particularly obscure ‘F’ way down another forest hill. We backtracked round the woods and came up behind Mother Theresa and Chopstix, looking remarkably clean in their identical rugger shirts. Then the long hack following the likes of CIAC, Baldrick and Yankit past Crowsley Park and up another half in frost, half in sun hilly field with the still chatty Nicola before thankfully reaching the Regroup beneath a blasted oak in the middle of a cabbage field. What a relief! Barney celebrated the event by lifting a leg on Bomber’s carefully crafted ‘RG’ sign. Of course, this being a Bomber trail there was a Long and a Short (still a mile or so) from this point and it was already 12:25. The pub had been open for 25 minutes! No problem with choice there then. Iceman and I tramped off, already tasting beer and were amused to pass Dumper and new girl Nina. He seemed to be showing her something on his upper lip.

It was certainly a relief to get in the pub and sink a pint. Doubly so when I glanced out of the window later and saw Long Trailer SlowSucker staggering back to his car looking like he’d been shagged through a hedge backwards. Many thanks Posh and Bomber. May I borrow the sedan next time?

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Simple presented the following :-



Style points


Abandoning dog Emma at several locations on several occasions

Sluiced the glass of faine waine like a pro (as it were)


Her birthday. Many happy returns

Has obviously joined the Hashgate school of drinking


Renamed StinkingBishop due to his liking for strong cheese

PissQuick assisted and the lad thoroughly enjoyed his baptism

Nicola, Clive

Today’s virgins (Nina declined)

She’s a feisty lass, that Nicola. Left the RA lost for words too


Having a go at cyclists(?)

A smoothly downed pint


Leaving to go abroad for a while

The pint left the glass rather rapidly

Posh, Bomber

The Hares

Posh’s sherry disappeared long before Bomber’s pint

Up and Coming



Grid Reference





Map 165 - 939101

The Greyhound Inn, Wiggington

Mother Theresa




* The Red Dress Run *
Fieldgate Centre, Kingsclere
(Joint with R2D2, Hursley and WW)

Penelope Pitstop

The Red Dress Run

The buffet costs £3 per head. Please pay C5 or ShitShoveller in advance.