Sun Seekers

C5 Dumper Utopia Mrs Blobby Mr Blobby Hashgate Flash ScarletPimpernel Donut Dutch OldFart Itsyor Posh CIAC Desperate Sh*tfor Simple DunnyStumbler CabinBuoy LittleStiffy Motox Snowballs Baldrick Honeymonster SlowSucker Foghorn Chopstix Shandyman SlackBladder BlouseBlazer Iceman Glittert*ts P*ssQuick TinOpener David Colin Ms Whiplash Cheating Quack Tw*nky Dribbler Butterfly Samantha Nigel Pyro HeadBoy Cloggs Jenks

Hills and Bottoms

Sometimes life is just like a Giles cartoon. As I pulled into the car park a scene worthy of the great man met my eyes. At the end of the car park C5’s large silver Passat containing himself and Dumper was angled up at 45^o with its front wheels scrabbling desperately in the slippery shiggy as it tried to claw itself into the field. ScarletPimpernel scrabbled equally desperately at the car’s rear, head down and tent-pegging himself into the shingle of the car park. Monsieur Le Pimpernel, though physically fit, is built very much like the pipe-smoking Giles uncle – slender would describe it. He strained every nerve, pushing and shoving, while C5 gunned the engine and puffed mountainous clouds of blue exhaust fumes round the game fellow. It was a joy to watch. And indeed, Donut did just so; standing a little way off, arms akimbo, a smile playing on her lips as the vignette unfolded. Eventually, the blistered tyres caught in the earth and the Passat hurtled crazily up the grassy slope with C5 frantically trying to catch the spinning steering wheel while his rigid passenger closed his eyes and mouthed silent prayers. Sadly, I have to report that ScarletPimpernel did not splatter face-down in the shiggy as the car shot away. Maybe next time.

Splattering face down wasn’t quite what Foghorn did in the pub after the run but it was very close. No doubt due to extreme exhaustion and general dessication he staggered to the bar past Glittert*ts and BlouseBlazer, fetching up at the solid counter with glazed eyes and dangling tongue before knocking a carefully placed horse brass off the wall which fell with a brassy ‘doink’. Replacing this in that fuzzy, one-eyed aiming of the (usually) drunk he managed to knock off a wooden cased clock which also bounced on the counter before he caught it. Luckily it wasn’t Swiss so no feathery friend leapt from its horological bowels and announced the hour in a series of decreasing volume “Wuckoo!”s before spiralling across the bar and impaling the bending barmaid’s bottom with its’ beak. The reason for Foghorn’s general debilitation was the non-stop nature of the Hash trail that had been laid largely by virgin Hare, Simon, a hapless fellow conned into the job by the mobility-challenged Squirrel during an evening of drunken roistering. Simon was only too happy to lead people on to trail from Checks and had thoughtfully provided flour arrows during the latter part of it. Consequently, there was damn all stopping and a lot of crashing through soaking forests at full tilt. SlowSucker perhaps had an idea of what was to come when, at the Circle, he was seen stretching his calves and hamstrings against the kerb. I had visions of one or the other of his ancient tendons suddenly giving up the ghost and snapping upwards in a buttock whiplash – rather like an old lady’s perished corset suspender.

Despite the best efforts of Simon the Hare (Squirrel busy directing operations from the pub…) the Pack kept well relatively together in the early stages. Partly because of the lung-bursting hill tracks we all staggered up. The effort affected some more than others and Sh*tfor was clearly hallucinating when he offered to roger a heavily panting Glittert*ts (who politely declined). Mind you, since Sh*tfor kissed him last week perhaps we should be worried. Keep an eye out for whether they start wearing pink and want to organise a Hash ‘Outing’.

Motox very kindly called me back from my pointless and flourless wander from a soaking forest Check and it was a bit of a hike for both him and me to catch up with the Pack. It always amazes me how fast the Pack moves. When you are with it it seems to lumber like a large, stunned beast yet let it get away from you and it’s off with panther-like speed, leaving you trailing well behind. Luckily, another steep and slippery hill track appeared and we clambered up it as best we could to, amazingly enough, a concrete road through neat paddocks where Simple assumed a smug expression and informed us he biked through the area often. Didn’t help us find the trail though so SlackBladder and others contented themselves with chatting to some friendly looking horses. There were quite a few in the area, one of which went absolutely berserk when it caught sight of Mr Blobby and OldF*rt sneaking along its’ fence. I would probably feel the same way if I saw them sneaking along by my fence. However, I doubt I’d race across the lawn trying violently to wrestle off my jacket and leap into the air kicking up my back legs while snorting clouds of steam from widely flared nostrils. Then again, I just might.

Butterfly and Dribbler had joined us this evening on a rare foray a long way from home. Nice to see them it was too. And to smell Butterfly. Strange thing to say I know but as I ran up behind her along a puddle-strewn track a delicious scent tendrilled its’ way into my questing nasal orifices. “By Jove.” I greeted her. “You smell better than the quayside at Grimsby after the catch has landed.” I know; I’m a devil with the ladies. She fluttered her eyelashes coyly and looked at me sideways coquettishly. The effect was rather spoiled when she slipped on a small pile of semi-submerged badger poo and nearly headbutted a rather nice beech tree that was just going about its’ business in a woody sort of way. Luckily it wasn’t injured and Dribbler was giving me the old, “Quit trying to chat up my bint chummy or your bracket will get a punch up it.” sort of look so I felt it best to leave graciously. Never did find out what the perfume was called.

The King Charles Head came and went and we plunged into the forest where Drac and Colin were good enough to provide me with company as we sped down dips and up hills towards a rather unfriendly ‘F’. Fortunately, we met the rest of the Pack when we cut across and followed the flying Itsyor through the bushes as he hurtled onwards (albeit mincing round the edges of deep shiggy puddles the big wuss!) towards the road that led to the old Goring Post Office and thence to the pub. Of course, we didn’t take it and plunged again into the forest on the other side, explaining to new boy Nigel that the most obvious course is also the least likely. Simon had laid a number of flour arrows (though very few blobs) from here so the whole thing turned into a bit of a race with OldF*rt, Itsyor, Iceman, Nigel, SlowSucker and goodness knows who else all knocking themselves out to get back to the pub first. We passed a beautifully sited blue plastic toilet cubicle at the edge of the forest and, though nobody did, we all agreed there had been a very British urge to form an orderly queue by its’ door.

A longish tarmac scurry took us to within a whisker of the hill that we would descend to get to the pub – where we met SlowSucker running back since he didn’t believe we were nearly at Hill Bottom. Nigel and I took an elbow each, gently ushering the old fellow towards the large road sign that read ‘Hill Bottom’. It was but a mere step from here to that excellent pub, The Sun. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Simple presented the following :-

Certainly didn’t abuse the pint 

Up and Coming

Hash Walk

On Sunday 21^st May, starting at 10:45 from Great Bedwyn Railway Station. Gridref: 280646. OS map 174 – Newbury. See BlouseBlazer or Motox.