Commuters

Fiddler Cheating Spex LoudonTasteless Iceman Hashgate Bomber Motox Ms Whiplash ‘J’ SlipperyNipple Spot Hitchiker Potty Nutcracker BlouseBlazer Honeymonster TT2 Zebedee Florence Utopia Glittert*ts P*ssQuick Utopia Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby C5 Sue4 SnowBalls DunnyStumbler Simple Nigel Samantha Donut Dutch OldDog SlackBladder Whinge TC Quack Tinopener Leonora Sh*tfor Desperate Tim and dog Bandit Vlad Drac PP and dog Barney Tony Tom Lucy ScarletPimpernel Steamer BogBrush FannyBag HeyBabe CIAC SlowSucker Lonely Foghorn Chopstix ShutupWally Stuart LittleStiffy

Rush Hour

Ok. This might be a bit hurried. I have precisely one evening this week to write this. Just in from work at 6:30. Let’s see how we go. Blast! Got to get the food on for dinner. Hold on a tick…
Ok. I’m back. Here we go.

Simple got it right at the beginning of the Down Downs. “Absolutely nothing happened on this Hash”. He bemoaned. It’s always difficult with Hashes at the end of the Summer Term. Nights are drawing in and Hares nibble nervously on their fingernails in the vain hope that everyone will get back before it’s dark. Consequently, it’s all rush, rush, rush with hardly a chance for an amble and a chat. And there were quite a few of us to get back.

Sorry, got to break off there. Eat dinner and discuss Motormouth’s day… And cook some pancakes! Why?! Where was I? Oh yes. What the hell am I going to use for a picture with no theme? B*ggered if I know. Sort it out later. (I’m writing this bit after I’ve finished the Gobsheet, since there is patently now at least half a theme and a couple of pictures. Confused? So am I.) Here we go then.

On this very pleasant Indian Summer evening quite a mass of BH³ had turned up, including Samantha and Nigel, HeyBabe and CIAC. Neither couple had been seen for some time so it was good to welcome them back. At least, this time, Samantha managed not to get thoroughly lost though she did essay a frenzied, thigh-pumping short cut across a ploughed field right in front of the RA. Living dangerously there Samantha. Lucky that our revered RA had just strolled casually over an ‘F’, stating that it was, ‘definitely old flour – can’t be our trail’ while scuffing it casually with his shoe. Scarlet Pimpernel (with the accent on the ‘pimp’) had brought along Lucy and was whingeing that another of his flock, Abi, had managed to escape his harem. I had to feel slightly sad for Utopia. The poor sausage is obviously missing her doppelganger Mrs Blobby, who is almost but not entirely recovered from her club foot (I understand she’s managed to stop it going out more than three times a week now). Utopia had picked up on P*ssQuick who, though not a dead ringer, is fairly close in size and shape to Mrs Blobby. However, as I caught up with them, I could see the reason for the slightly depressed slope to Utopia’s shoulders and the resigned running style even while she chatted brightly with her substitute companion. You see, P*ssQuick was wearing a different coloured T-shirt to Utopia. It’s just not the same. Come back Mrs Blobby; we all need you.

Oh for Bob’s sake. An elderly neighbour is at the door wanting Motormouth to water his tomatoes while he is on holiday. Yes, yes he’ll water the bloody tomatoes. Now b*gger off and let me get on with the s*dding Gobsheet.

The On Out set the tone for the night as we sped along a narrow, banked road. We ‘enjoyed’ a number of them this evening, punctuated by a bit of desperate fumbling in the dusky woods. Re-reading that I’d just like to point out that the ‘d’ in desperate is not a capital letter and that I’m sure she’s not that kind of a girl. Not so sure about her other half though, having seen him in that dress at the 1500^th. The trail was actually a whole series of long and occasionally straight,…

Hellfire! Not only is Motormouth in the room directly above practising on his didgeridoo – I kid you not. He bought it off his friend for two quid – but Murphy has appeared. And he’s hungry. He’s always hungry. Murphy is the latest in a line of cats who have deigned to eat my food (generally in a style not unlike a certain Hasher who shall remain nameless) and pee in my garden (similar to a certain other Hasher - if you substitute the word ‘shower’ for ‘garden’. And, no, my lips are sealed.) He’s also by far the biggest. Bits of him drape over the sides when he lays on my lap. I have to open the cat flap for him. He has two favourite things – eating and sleeping. His motto is: ‘Feed me and I shall be your friend.’ Like now, as he winds his large and furry body round my legs. Sorry. Back in a minute.

…full-on runs with the odd Check after a mile or so. Mind you, some of these were really quite enjoyable. Like the one where Vlad and I cruised down a long, long slope. It was like being in two halves. The upper half was enjoying a chat, perfectly normal breathing, more tea Vlad? No, no after you my dear fellow. The lower half was on automatic overdrive; legs streaming along but with absolutely no effort. It felt like being driven, sitting down almost. In the Zone. Actually the Twilight Zone since the evening was falling about us like a silent grey cape. Tony (he has to be named soon!), SlowSucker, Bomber and Mr Blobby skittered lightly down a steep, flourless track in the forest, Tony mentioning how pleasant it would be to have to run back up it. He soon found out when we heard the Hash calling the ‘On’ way above us. Ah the joys of Hashing. Once back on the trail Motox appeared. He was breaking a long stick to give to Bandit, Tim’s small but highly efficient dog. The little fellow bounded after Tim and me on the narrow trail, catching the back of each of our heels and threatening to tip us into the darkening shadows of the bushes either side of the rutted track. How we smiled at the little fellow. How we congratulated Motox on his most excellent idea.

Sorry, just broke off there to give Motormouth some trouser-ironing advice… Followed by a couple of shirt-ironing tips. I’ll just put the kettle on.

So after a huge short cut with Dunny, TC and Bogbrush that brought us level with C5 – who had just found a False. Damn – we staggered up a hill in the deepening shadows after Sh*tfor. Who managed to find a Bar Check. Still, it was a lovely view over the country as we ran back and followed Steamer over a stile into a field with plenty of sheep ‘ucky but no apparent flour. It took Simple, wearing a 5,000,000 candlepower head lamp, to eventually find the trail and from there it was but a short tramp along, you guessed it, a narrow, banked road to the very pleasant pub. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Simple presented the following :-

Would you believe it! The *$!£ing recording machine didn’t record the rest of the Down Downs (not that there were many) so I’ll let you fill in your own table entries just for a change. I’ve finished it off with the last two. Here you go…

Up and Coming