Seekers (Some new, some old)

Motormouth Hashgate TT2 SlipperyNipple Simple DunnyStumbler Krystyna Motox Desperate cerberus Premature Sh*tfor Vlad SlowSucker Mrs Blobby Mr Blobby Uplift Dumper Septic Tim Charlie Posh Quack Sh*tShoveller Spex LoudonTasteless Donut Dutch Shandyman ChopStix C5 BlouseBlazer ShutupWally Glittert*ts P*ssQuick SlackBladder SillyCow ScarletPimpernel Abi Hamlet Snowballs Potty Utopia Baldrick Iceman TinOpener Claire Bl*wJob Tw*nky Ann Diane Barry ArthriticT*t Florence Zebedee Jenks and dog Dylan AintGotNo Itsyor Fiddler Paula Barbara Shirley John LittleStiffy CabinBuoy Samantha Nigel Centaur Lonely Colin Butterfly HeadBoy Cheating

The Legend Of The Holy Trail

‘The night was pleasant and clear and there was nigh on five thousand people thronging the car park in that beautiful setting. The crowd had been listening patiently to the good GM, Spex, preaching for perhaps all day while they had Gathered Round. And lo, they were hungry for the event. During a lull in her oration, our lady Spex leaned over to her right-hand disciple and HashMash, LoudonTasteless, asking, “What do we have to give them?”. Loudon replied, “We have but five miles and two small (maybe not so small) Hares.” And yea, the good Spex turned her face to the setting sun calling, “Go forth my children and consume the miles for ye shall not want for more.” And the throng gave up a mighty cry and spread in all directions – the sensible ones ascending heavenwards, up the usual hill. And lo, the venerable SlowSucker found what he thought was the trail, and it was good. But not for long. He had found one of many False Grails.’

The passage above is taken from a little known scroll that had been buried for aeons in a remote part of Berkshire. Scholars and academics pondered over its’ meaning, confused by the arcane prose and terrible handwriting, until one of their number, suffering from a massive hangover following a heavy night of roistering in the cloisters, accidentally read it the wrong way up through one half-closed eye. “Coo!” he exclaimed in sudden and deep mystical understanding. The Legend of the Holy Trail (or was it ‘Grail’, he couldn’t quite make it out) had been born. The Legend spawned an esoteric group of fanatics, a not-so-secret society calling itself ‘BH³’ whose members named themselves ‘Hashers’, christened each other with with unfathomable sobriquets (see above) and dedicated themselves to searching for the Holy Trail. They knew from the ancient texts that the Trail was characterised by a number of secret signs, known to the cognoscenti as ‘Blobs’, ‘Checks’, Bars’ that may or may not finally lead to that ecstatic moment when the ‘OnInn’, the path to true enlightenment, is found. On the evening mentioned in the text the Trail had been laid by two long-standing BH³ acolytes, Foghorn and Honeymonster, known collectively in society-speak as ‘Hares’.Now though the venue had been carefully advertised in a document called a ‘Runsheet’ some Hashers were obviously confused by the coded references. Paula was actually looking for a public house called ‘The Foghorn’ before her fellow Trail-Seeker Barbara managed to decrypt the reference as ‘The Pot Kiln’.

The Reverend Jenks had brought his dog of indeterminate lineage, Dylan, along to sniff out the Trail and the curly hound immediately switched on to nasal-hoovering mode, dragging his master not perhaps quite so much on the Trail but more after the nearest rabbit. Tim had brought Charlie, his son to help pull him along when the going got hard. And it got hard early on. Dumper and Septic puffed to a halt by the first curiously fashioned ‘Check’ half way up a steep hill. The plain circle indicated that the Trail could go in several directions from here so several Hashers duly went in several directions, confusing the search tremendously. Even more confusing was the strange cry of ‘On On’ that emanated way down a forest path that led to a False Trail.

Finding the Holy Trail was obviously not going to be easy and various BH³ members had their own method of negotiating the labrynthine, mind-twisting enigmas that led to the True Path. Motox relied on the tried and tested, “It always goes this way.” Technique. Tried – it certainly was. Tested – has been for some while. Failed – it does every time. He even exhorted one of the more colourful members of the brotherhood (and sisterhood, of course), Twanky, to, “Show us what it’s all about.” In the middle of the forest. This is not something I would want to watch. Butterfly informed me she was relying on her ‘Intuition’. Now this may be feminine intuition or the name of a certain scent she wears (ask her!). I understand it’s created from the distilled essence of camel’s breath. Mystery of the desert and all that. I do hope she doesn’t get the hump with me for divulging the secret.

The group thought they were well on their way to the Trail when they turned left and found what is known as a ‘Bar’. It was a Bar Sinister (hope all you armorial fans enjoyed that one!). Mr Blobby and Snowballs led the Pack off to the right into dense undergrowth, ankle-snapping ground and a rising sense of desperation. Snowballs attempted to return, thus causing an almighty pile-up as more Hashers pushed on from the rear. He turned out to be right, though, since there was not a single Trail sign to be seen. The Pack duly returned to the Bar and formed deep mystical discussions regarding the universe, the search for the Trail and the complete lack of traceable male parentage on the part of the Bar-laying Hare. It wasn’t until the second Hare, Foghorn, arrived that we were given a clue to the reality of the devious Bar. With monklike taciturnity the bearded fellow bent low over the secret sign, scuffed it out and laid an arrow pointing forwards and over the Bar while tapping the side of his nose and swivelling his eyes sideways. Assuming this was an attempt to be helpful rather than a worrying personal tic, the Seekers rushed onwards, pleased to have been proved right on the Hare paternity question. They were vindicated even further when, just down the path, a jaw-dropping sentence appeared in letters of fire (well, flour actually). “Sorry, I lied.” It stated. Everyone was by now 100% in agreement regarding Hare Honeymonster’s paternal line and the phrases, ‘spawn of the devil’, and ‘report him to the Grail Seeker’s Society for misconduct’ were freely bandied about by the wilder-eyed brethren. They should realise, of course, that when Trail Seeking, there are no rules, anything goes and that, rather like Job Seekers, they can be led on by the nose with a promise of supping deeply from the cup of joy only to find it dashed from their lips when they least expect it.

There were many more twists and turns in the search – the Long and Short split where CabinBuoy stood undecided, the thick forest of despair where ScarletPimpernel and I almost gave up hope, the countless False Trails where Seeker Iceman was spotted returning from yet another fruitless quest. A small group, including Spex, Glittert*ts, AintGotNo (who performed an almost faultless Baldrick in front of me) finally struggled on to the last Check and, after some more fruitless wanderings by Iceman, staggered on through the forest to eventually catch up with Chopstix. The end was literally in sight. The Seekers wearily climbed a small hill and cheered at the sight of the End of the Trail, that fine pub outlined by a deep, azure sky surrounded by young cows trying to hump each other. The grateful Seekers thronged to the bar, the landlady lifted forth a legendary beaker. “What’ll it be folks?” An exhausted Hasher passed a tongue over parched lips and replied croakily, “Pint of Grail please…”

A great Trail, a great pub and a great turnout of people. Thanks Hares. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Simple presented the following :-

Very nicely shifted

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