Universally Challenged

OldDog Flash Motox Hashgate TinOpener Iceman Baldrick Hamlet Simple DunnyStumbler Glittert*ts P*ssquick Utopia Mrs Blobby Potty BlouseBlazer SlipperyN*pple Mike Sue Alison Stella Paula Sue TC Whinge Steamer Grommet StinkingBishop Quack Sh*tShoveller Aqua ScarletPimpernel Abi Sarah Lucy Dutch Donut Spex C4 C5 Honeymonster Ms. Whiplash ‘J’ Mudman Mudwoman Salome Poisoned Chalice Centaur Dwight Dumper Septic Florence Steamer BillyBullsh*t Cerberus Desperate Sh*tfor McGoose OldF*rt SlowSucker Itsyor Fiddler SlackBladder Zebedee Nigel Samantha Uplift FannyBag Dave ShutupWally Nutcracker Jon Lonely Shandyman Chopstix Hitchiker LittleStiffy

Your Starter For Ten (Miles)

I’m sure Mr Blobby and LoudonTasteless will be gratified to know there are 80 names above, proving that there is nothing like a Hash mixed with a quiz to bring everyone out of the woodwork. That, and the platters full of sandwiches and chips that appeared afterwards. It was certainly an absorbing couple of hours. Yes, it took that long because we had to run round most of two Counties as well as try to figure the clues out on the way. And, of course, it was fearfully complicated. While Mr Blobby gave out the sheets of clues Motox had the logistical nightmare of handing out a brand new pencil to everyone, marking them off on his sheet of carefully writtten names, while giving pencil care instructions, a list of health and safety requirements and dark warnings of consequences if the pencil was not returned later. Or returned an 1/8 inch less in length due to over-eager sharpening. All this and some beautifully drawn, yet unbearably complicated Checks by Hare Mr Blobby who explained the ‘F’ in a circle (Field Check), an ‘X’ in a circle (Clue Check where you had to find the answer to a question), an ‘X’ in a circle with a number (indicating the number of answers you had to find), along with the standard circle, meaning a standard Check. Cranial rust began to powder out of certain Hashers’ ears as mental machinery that had been standing idle for years slowly ground into reluctant motion. Not only that but we were supposed to pair off! People suddenly stiffened as they realised who was standing next to them. There was a general shuffling of feet and that Tony Blair into-the-distance-smile-to-no-one in the desperate hope that whoever it was by their side would naff off and ask somebody else. Since my original, cheery, “Wanna partner-up?” request had been met with a, “I think you’ll find I’m already spoken for Mr Hashgate but thankyou so very much for asking.” response I thought for one horrendous moment that I might end up with SlowSucker who would regale me unendingly with stories of his ‘injured’ heel while ripping round the course at the speed of light and expect me to keep up. Or worse still, Lonely, perhaps intent on extracting terrible revenge deep in the forest for not finishing in front of me on the Fun Run (much of the course of which we were to run tonight). In the end I was delighted to be chosen by Fannybag who said she thought I looked clever. There you go you see, you can’t judge by appearances. We actually worked rather well together – she got all the answers and I taught her how to cheat by not calling the Falses we had checked and giving deliberate mis-information. What? You can’t tell me there wasn’t a lot of sneaky competitiveness. C5 for instance, standing right in front of a BT notice that was the answer to a clue so no-one else could see, allegedly because of his struggling eyesight now he’s turned 60. Incidentally, the lad threw a tremendous birthday bash over the weekend. Everyone who went had a great time. Especially BillyBullsh*t, who I found drinking my beer which had been standing in a tankard next to his own. Guess it’s not only C5 who needs glasses. Though in Billy’s case a course of intelligence pills might come in handy too. Mind you, later in the pub, while I chatted to Chopstix, I noticed Sarah grasping my pint with a determined hand and hefting it lipwards before I stopped her with a commanding, “One inch higher with that pint and your hooter will be meeting my boot, missy!” Trust me gents. It helps when you know how to sweet talk the ladies.

I’m sorry. We haven’t really got into the trail have we? Let me give you an example of one of the tortuous, arcane clues that I believe to be the product of LoudonTasteless’s Gordian brain since I can’t believe that a chap dedicated to the logical like Mr Blobby would ever contemplate such a variation on an enigma. The clue tangled its way verbally around the premise that there was something religious in the area around a hawthorn tree by a double style (sic!). Not that anyone could see a hawthorn tree though there was a gnarled, raddled, rootlike thing with a few spikes on it slowly dying behind a holly. Yep, this was the answer. If you say it right ‘holly’ becomes ‘holy’. Just think yourselves lucky that I write the Gobsheets and not the sponsor of that particular gobbet dredged up from the bottom of the River Esoterica. Mind you, Hitchiker thought it was dead easy. S’all how your mind works.

The Regroup finally, finally appeared shortly after a trot through Mr Blobby’s back garden. It was in, um, someone else’s back garden. I’m afraid I was so dehydrated all I could think of was the beer which was laid out on a table on top of some fine, new decking – on the edge of which BillyBullsh*t scraped off the muck and biscuits from his plimsolls. You can’t take him anywhere. OldDog very kindly told Fannybag and me (in her very best supercilious Ehdnbruhh accent) which answers we had got wrong and which we should have got, “Och they were sooo easy, ye ken.” How we marvelled at the towering intellect. Ms Whiplash had the best idea. Send off ‘J’ to get the answers with the FRBs then copy ‘em all down at the regroup. Wish I’d thought of that. All too soon Mr Blobby was announcing the On Out had a Long and Short split and that the Long trailers would not miss out on any of the clues – or indeed every blade of grass in the surrounding 5 miles. Ooh it went on. And on. And On. Even Centaur was feeling the strain and Iceman was giving himself laryngitis with all the ‘On’s he had yodelled. Poor Desperate was too tired to chat up more than the two young, shirtless lads she had surprised just before the Regroup. I overheard one of them say to the other, “’Ere, she looks like your mum.” Could have been grandmum. Think yourself lucky, Desperate.

After a final muscle-sapping haul through the forest, urged on by the excessively-cheery Mr Blobby, we staggered exhaustedly on to the tarmac close to the pub where somewhat worryingly Mike, only on his second ever Hash, offered to hold a towel round me while I changed. For goodness sake will somebody tell him I’m an alpha male? So no monkey business. And don’t tell Twanky – he’ll sulk.

Oh yes. Those sandwiches. It was like chucking a dead donkey into a tank full of piranhas – a moment of delicious anticipation as the furry fellow sinks, silver bubbles streaming from each nostril, then, wham, fizz, bang, chomp… and it’s gone. Just like the sandwiches. I stood in the safety zone by the bar and watched Chopstix veer towards me, hair slightly awry and a gleam of manic triumph in her eyes as she held aloft a brace of sandwiches, much as Arthur may have done having pulled the sword from the stone. By the way, she didn’t offer me even a nibble.

Tonight’s quiz winners were OldDog, Aqua and Florence with the booby prizes going to Whinge and TC. Dutch would have got one but was deemed too clever. She retired with a trembling lower lip.

Great fun Hares and we actually got back before it was dark (just). On On. Hashgate.
(Oh yes, Motox got all his pencils back. Now they can go back in his collection room…)

Down Downs

RA Simple presented the following :-

A fast glass of water. Beer next time.

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