Wiggys

Motormouth Hashgate Blowjob Twanky Snowballs Spot Hitchiker Premature Cerberus C5 Sue4 Simple Dumper Spex LoudonTasteless Vlad Drac Glittertits PissQuick Motox OldDog SlackBladder Baldrick Iceman Whinge TC Foghorn Chopstix Shandyman Donut Dutch Posh Bomber BlouseBlazer Quack Krystyna Margaret Dave Windmill Amanda Cheating Lonely Florence Zebedee plus some Herts H³

A Hairy Trail

Mother Theresa summed it up just after we dragged our exhausted, dehydrated carcasses back into the car park after the third two hour Hash in as many weeks. “I told Lemming it was too long.” She said to Whinge and TC. When I initially overheard her comment, for one fleeting second I thought of something other than Hashing but having seen Lemming au naturel as it were, dismissed it immediately. Considering the fellow was suffering with a hangover bigger than himself (not that big then) we have to award full marks for effort though it could be argued that he had been stumbling around lost for hours laying the trail in a brain fog. And foggy it was too. The stuff hung thickly over the fields and clung to the trees like grey candy floss. It was also nippingly cold so most of us were very happy to wear the warming wigs and headgear suggested by C5 and Simple to celebrate Lemming’s lack of follicles in this appropriate location – Wiggington.

The headcovers veered between the extremely hirsute and the smoothly bald. Whinge and TC fell into the former category, each looking like Tammy Wynette after falling in a spin dryer. Whereas Vlad and Drac (already fearfully smooth in the pate department) wore what looked like cut-off condoms, along with Premature. OldDog went for a Max Wall (which suited her well – think it’s the legs). Dumper favoured the Ali G look while Simple very kindly lent me a Ginger Spice job that got in my mouth and eyes and frightened poor Motormouth (my little boy – well, not so little any more). Although none of this was quite as eye-catching as Glittertits. Imagine Frankie Howard and you’ll catch my drift. I’m sure our nanny Government would ban things like that if it knew. Now you can be arrested for anything I was rather surprised Glitter wasn’t when we trotted past a dour policeman en route. Hopefully, he has now locked it back in its’ cage and given it something dead to munch on till its’ next outing.

The Hash started with a spot of mud pack application to Simple and one of the Herts H³ in recognition of Champneys, which is located just down the road. If it was meant to improve their looks – let’s just say running about with a face covered in what looks like drying cement is not going to turn anyone into George Clooney. After half way they looked like a 60s tower block. Crumbling and condemned.

Our Hares had taken a leaf out of GBH’s Welsh trail by starting us off with a joke loop that led right back to the pub road. How we laughed as we wheezed wiggily back up the hill in the freezing cold. This was the first of a great many hills, most of which seemed to go up, apart from one in particular where we streamed joyfully ever downwards to a Check by a gate. Motormouth and I struck off right, leaving Premature and Vlad to check other trails and we were even more joyful as we found the fourth blob, calling ‘On On!’ in a frenzy of father/son bonding rarely seen since young Mr Prodigal returned to the fold. Sadly, I could bask in the warmth of Motormouth’s approval for only a short while. After the fifth blob, nothing, and the following Pack halted and turned like a shoal of sardines on spotting a tiger shark out for a spot of tiffin as Lemming screamed a falsetto, “On Back!!” from the Check. Ever the gent and since she was not to be seen, the little fellow blamed the trail to nowhere on his lovely wife’s inability to count and sense of direction. We pointed our complaining legs back up the hill.

Then back down another where I must confess to taking a short cut straight down instead of looping right. Glittertits, Whinge, TC and Blowjob followed with Glitter stating sheepishly, “I don’t know why we’re going down here. We’re not on flour.” Well, it saved us a bit of energy and we got to have a good laugh at TC who, while atop the barbed wire fence, didn’t know whether to jump forward or fall back. Whinge and I were all for leaving her there and maybe coming back in the evening to see if she was still there. We eventually heaved her over and joined a daintily trotting Posh who had earlier plunged regally to earth with the grace and sheer style of Darcey Bussell during the sadder moments of Swan Lake. Unlike Snowballs, then TC who crashed from vertical to horizontal (brambles, you see) like Hulk Hogan on receiving a flying drop-kick from The Rock during the third round of the WWF 1997 Reno Rumble Festival of Fight – though they both got up again and don’t have quite so many muscles.

Now an absolute first occurred on the trail and this is something that should be recorded and applauded. It’s unlikely ever to happen again. We had dragged our way up a tree-trunk and hawthorn bush-strewn mighty hill behind the foot-dragging Shandyman (curiously muted today; perhaps he’s being worn out…) when we found Lemming and a Bar-11. Hellfire! So it was back down the slippery hill and who should I find doing it with us? Hitchiker! Crikey! Had I a camera phone with net access about my person I could have sent a report and picture of this sensational news to The Daily Telegraph who would have held the presses for a front page blockbuster exclusive guaranteed to boost readership at least 100%. © Hashgate. Remember, you read it here first. The girl reinforced her application for FRB membership a little later by gigglingly allowing Dumper and Simple to sit her in a patch of mud and drag her about in it for a bit.

So let’s talk about C5. I hadn’t really seen him until after the Regroup when we were running with the lively Florence along a bramble-strewn, slippery path. All was going well until Flo tripped over a small, carefully placed mound of rabbit poo and plunged… etc Hulk Hogan… etc. She lay on her back gasping and flapping so we picked her up and brushed off the twigs, shiggy, cigarette butts, Tesco bags and so on. Flo made little raspberry noises as she blew the mud out of her mouth. C5 leaned forward solicitously, perhaps a little too close. “Stick your tongue out Florence.” He demanded lasciviously. Great Scott! Talk about taking advantage of a winded woman. The dirty devil. As I drew him away with a berating glance he protested that he’d merely been concerned that poor Florence had a mouthful of mud. Right. I should cocoa. Lucky I was on the spot. Who knows what might have happened.

Another 14 miles or so of largely uphill trail awaited us. At one point we were so knackered we couldn’t even find the damn thing and had to wait for Lemming. We had lost Lonely and Premature miles ago – they couldn’t find the trail either. So: enormously long trail set miles away in deepest Hertfordshire, Hashers wearing funny wigs, walkers doing Bar-11s, an On trail leading nowhere, four fallers, lost FRBs and C5 showing his true pervy nature – I judge this to be an unqualified success. Our thanks to Mother Theresa and Lemming. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Simple and the Herts H³ RA presented the Down Downs. Sadly, my frickin’ recorder seems to have decided not to record who got what and why. Sorry about that. I’ll do my best to remember though the Herts H³ details have been auto-erased from memory.

Florence downed a superb pint, washing the last bits of mud from her tongue, after being cited for whinging and moaning. Difficult to believe of such a cheerful chick.

Posh got outside a schooner of sherry faster than docker with a mug of tea, and with far more style.

Spex got a wine and mini cake, partly for missing her birthday last week. Simple had to give her a bit of a beer shampoo.

Whinge emulated the Hashgate style of drinking. The lad needs to put in some practise.

Simon and his opposite RA awarded each other a pint and just about tied the result.

Hare Mother Theresa showed Lemming how it should be done with a super speedy demonstration.

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