Luvv(l)ies

Dumper Septic Nutcracker Potty Iceman Hashgate Simple Slackbladder Little Stiffy BlouseBlazer Lemming Mother Theresa The Abominable Barfman Jaywax Eva(? I think that’s spelt right) Bogbrush Fanny Bag and Pebbles the dalmation Legover and Megan the Border terrier (I got severely castigated for calling her a Lakeland terrier last time) Spex LoudonTasteless Hitchiker Donut Blowjob Soreskin and son Jake (how could she put her young lad through this?!) Cerberus Premature and red setters Libby and Molly SlowSucker PP, Claire, Tony (now renamed, see below) and dog Barney Baldrick Motox Foghorn Chopstix Shandyman Dipstick Twanky PissQuick ShitShoveller Zebedee and much, much later Dutch and Cheating.

The BH³ Valentine’s Red Dress Run

Perhaps the most memorable sight on this shiggy-strewn, ankle-soaking wiggle round Waltham was Tony at the beer stop. He had just run several lung-stretching miles in a calf-length, rather fetching strappy-top dress, which he had managed to put on sideways. i.e. the right cup was on his left chest and the other was under his arm. It was either Cerberus (short skirt, black fishnets - very nice) or Legover (rather shapeless blue fleece and a very wet dog – unsure here of the Red Dress connection) who commented sagely, “Your boobs don’t generally go under your armpit until you’re about ninety.” However, Tony was dragged centrewards by Simple, whose face resembled Percy Thrower’s back garden after the mulch lorry had delivered – Lemming and Foghorn had been busy a little earlier. It was renaming time and BH³ decided on the sobriquet “NappyRash”, since Tony had been, well, rash enough to mention earlier to the RA that his wet dress was chafing his little leggies. Several pints of beer and a hopper of pink flour later the kneeling NappyRash had been well and truly named. He told me later, as he struggled round, trying to see through his contacts, that he was looking forward to the visit later that afternoon by his parents. A big thankyou goes to Desperate’s parents for manning the Beer Stop. Cheers!

Our picture today shows Motox giving it absolutely everything as he flung open the closet door and stiletto’ed out to proudly proclaim his true leanings. So also did Lemming; though, of course, he does it so often we are all fully aware of his strange, nay, quirky sexual proclivities. Today he had borrowed heavily from Spex’s Ukranian peasant look by wearing a simple rustic headscarf and a floor-length dress. Not actually too bad from the front. Unfortunately, when he turned round it was like a window where someone had forgotten to close the curtains. Highly unpleasant. Not surprising that Claire was feeling and looking extremely bilious (nothing to do with rampant beer-swilling the evening before…). Our good GM, BlouseBlazer lived up to his name with a mixed confection of lurid pink, red, a blonde bubble wig and black fishnets (with a badly twisted seam). Fishnets seemed to be de rigeur today for Donut was wearing a pair too, along with a tartan kilt and wide belt. Give her a pair of ten-inch platforms and she could almost have passed for Vivienne Westwood – apart from the naff hairstyle, crèpey skin and creepy outlook. Viv, that is, not Donut, of course. Dumper and Septic opted for ¾-length pyjama trousers with hearts all over them. I wonder which of them decided on that idea? Twanky, meanwhile had opted for a red shift. One definition of a red shift is, of course, a visual phenomenon that can appear when a body moves extremely rapidly. This probably explains why we could hardly see Twanky at all. SlowSucker wore the same old, bloody crimplene dress he always wears (he saves his best stuff for those ‘special’ Thursday nights) but defended his decision by stating that it was Berketex and damn good quality. I had been very lucky. Since I had asked her very nicely, the svelte Daisy (who lives down my road) let me get into her dress… Um. Let me just rephrase that. She very kindly lent me a rather natty red and white mini-dress that was perfect for running. PissQuick took a look at me in the thing at the On Out and declared, “You look really good in that.” Quickly followed by. “You bitch.” Which I took to be some sort of compliment…

Several people were either curious enough or amused enough to talk or wave to us as we jostled along but one in particular caught my attention. A slightly older gentleman riding a sit-up-and-beg bicycle, padded country jacket and cycle clips on his flannels pedalled towards us. His gaze never wavered from the road ahead as we sallied in his direction. There was just a very slight pursing of the lips and narrowing of the eyes as Iceman bounced into his peripheral vision. On these Red Dress occasions Iceman generally goes for the more pneumatic look and he had certainly been busy with the foot pump earlier this morning. The lower and middle parts of his somewhat conservative red dress were filled with Scotsman. The upper part was filled with something(s) that would put even Jordan (literally) in the shade. Two enormous busty appurtenances jutted jauntily from his chest, defying gravity and providing him with instant, twin airbag safety should he be unable to see where his feet were and trip over. I didn’t look back after we passed but I certainly imagined the traumatised old gent wobbling unsteadily all over the road before disappearing into an engulfing bush.

We are going to run out of Trail description space if I don’t get a move on. Look, there’s a sentence that doesn’t say anything about it. And there’s another… OK, then. It was very, very wet and muddy. Perfect for the Foghorns and Lemmings of this world – especially in narrow woodland paths where the brown water was ankle deep. As Lonely found out. Legover and I bumped into him half way round. We came upon his slender form, encased in a rather damp spaghetti-strap long dress, from behind. OK, no problem there. But then he turned round to confront us with a face covered in a grizzled beard and rather a lot of shiggy! To say we were freaked is an understatement. Thank goodness the old chap on the bike hadn’t experienced this. Spex then appeared with mud all over her back. I enquired as to what she may have been doing. Wallowing like a slim hippo in a mudhole perhaps? Jogging horizontally perchance? It turned out that she had mentioned to Simple that she was pleased to see him back on the Hash, whereupon he flattened the poor girl and dragged her by the legs for a couple of hundred yards or so. He has a way with the ladies does our Simple. I must mention Jake, Soreskin’s young lad. He ran like a demon, appearing at the Regroup way before many others. I just hope he hasn’t been too mentally scarred by this experience.

It was a long, very long trail that made up the second half of the Hash. One that the Abominable Barfman tried to get out of by losing his shoe in deep shiggy while Florence and I laughed heartily at his ploy. About 8 miles later we splashed and slipped our way across the last fields before turning into the road to the pub where PP took great joy in photographing her newly christened, pink and dripping husband NappyRash.

So a long, but most enjoyable slog through the sludge by our Hares. Well done you two but don’t ever wear that thong again Shitfor…

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Simple presented the following, just as Motox appeared, late and from entirely the wrong direction.

Smoothly downed… apart from Septic who slunk away half empty

Nappyrash and BlouseBlazer got today’s ‘Best Couple’ award. Iceman (not surprisingly) got today’s ‘Best (Fancy) Dress’ award. Motox got the Hash umbrella.

Up and Coming

Hash Walk

Saturday February 24^th @ 3pm. Wanna go on a 71/2 mile Motox mince? Troll along to the church in High Street, Theale (gridref: 640713). Food and drink after if you want. See Motox for more details.