Cottagers and Non Fulham Supporters

Vlad Hashgate Jeremy Diane Fannybag Bogbrush and dog Pebbles TinOpener Lilo (nice to see her back) and dog Emma Iceman OldDog Simple Nutty Potty Snowballs Cloggs NonStick Shutupwally and dog Bonnie Cheating Cerberus Shitfor Desperate Honeymonster Baldrick Roy Septic Uplift Chopstix Shandyman Ms Whiplash Salome Soreskin and daughter Lara Hamlet C5 C4 Fukawe Twanky Flash SlowSucker Jaywax Shitshoveller Bootsie Lonely

When Will It End…

You know sometimes on a cold winter’s morning you open the front door and there on the steps below lies the silvery trail left by a little snail? It goes up and down, from side to side, making an intricate and occasionally criss-crossing path. The little gastropod’s nowhere to be seen, having lurched off the side of the step during an over-excited powerslide caused by an excess of Red Bull quaffed from a nearby discarded can. At least our slippery friend had an excuse for his random weavings. Unlike our Hares for today. Even though they dragged the unfortunate but marginally spatially aware Colin (time he was named btw) in to help lay the labrynthine twistings of this mega-length trail nothing could disguise the fact that this was a trail designed by women. Now before the male members of BH³ reel back with a gasp of horror and amazement at such an apparently 1970s sexist comment, and the female members narrow their eyes and make a mental note to bring along a shovel for next week’s Hash Scribe forest burial let me qualify. I mean that our two attractive lady Hares devised an ingenious trail, enigmatic and compelling, both teasing and challenging (think I’ve got away with it) yet ultimately satisfying. Even so, Dunny tried to confuse us at the On Out by telling us it was ‘three and On’ when she probably meant ‘four and On’. Depends how you think of it, I suppose. Three blobs and the next one is On. Or four blobs are On. Semantics really. Though Simple tried to provoke a major domestic by insisting it should be ‘four’. He hasn’t quite got it yet has he? Always agree with a lady. Especially when she happens to be your wife…

Motox had presumably got wind of the length of today’s run for, as Snowballs pointed out, he was holding up to the light and discussing his health by means of a sample bottle with the sympathetic Septic. From the colour of the contents Snowballs and I diagnosed that at least he was well hydrated. On the other hand, Simple seemed to be developing an advanced case of measles. His face was covered with an unusually regular crop of muddy coloured spots. It almost made him look boyish. But not quite. Having brought son Jake recently Soreskin brought yet another member of her unbelievably fit family. This time it was Lara. Dark-haired, pretty and living up to her namesake Ms. Croft this young lady skipped easily across the shiggy while the rest of us floundered about. Her most notable moment came when we reached a small stream where her mother urged her to leap it. “Do a stag jump.” Said Soreskin, smiling as her daughter sprang nimbly across like a fawn. She then tried the same, lost the back foot in the sludge and finally staggered across like Ann Widdicombe after a hard night on the sauce.

I must, once again, mention Motox. He was calling ‘On On’. Well done, Motox, you might think, bearing in mind that he is a (power) walker. Trouble was, he was a) at the rear of a group of us who were Checking It Out, and b) wrong; it was a False. C5 and I could only presume the spirit of Shep had taken him over for a moment. Instead of heading fieldwards we plunged back into the root-snarled, twisting forest once again. We must have gone for miles through the soaking undergrowth. Up, down, sideways, backwards, forwards, Name a direction, we went in it. Just one thing kept a smile on our faces. We had lost Wally! A major achievement by the Hares and a major relief to the rest of us. Unfortunately, they then lost us. In an lightly wooded area bisected by myriad trails Centaur, Lonely, C5 et al sped one way while Fannybag, Bogbrush et their al sped another, both groups calling On. Each was a tad surprised at this, and rather confused. Even more so when we all ended up on the same spot, having approached it from a variety of directions. We decided to wait for the Hares and the rest of the Pack. It turned out that we had missed a False and the closely laid loops and coils had drawn about us like a reticulated python closing in around its prey until all movement and shouts for help were useless and our breathless forms were still. Thank goodness Suckoff came bounding along with the Pack at that moment so we could retrace our steps for a ¼ mile or so before wheezing back along the way we had just come…

Just another few miles and the mother of all mud hills and the Regroup appeared. Hashers hung lifeless over the lower limbs of trees. Others heaved and coughed face down in the shiggy. Some wept openly while others who had the strength banged their foreheads against the nearest tree wailing, “Why? why? What have I done?” Yep, we were a bit tired. Fortunately, The Dunster had some good news. “The Long Trail’s only a mile and a half.” She beamed. In our mentally weakened state we believed her and staggered off again, slipping and splashing. A mile and a half later we were treated to the sound of OldDog as she slopped through some uphill, calf-deep, sucking shiggy. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oooo!” She squealed. “No! No! Ooee!” She enthused, thrashing about. “Aaah! Oooh! Woof!” Followed by, “Yes! Yes! Yes! Aaaaargh! I’ve lost a boot!” Cerberus and I pondered what she might be like in, ah, certain other physical situations. It came to me that closing the double glazing firmly early on would probably prove quite popular with the neighbours…

After another mile and a half Slowsucker and I then came upon an item of great interest. While the rest of the plebs droned past in their somnambulistic state we noticed what they hadn’t. It was a neolithic stone Check. This carefully fashioned, perfect flint circle lay in a slightly raised recess. Obviously untouched for millenia, here was proof that our ancient forbears had indeed indulged in Hashing. Of course, any signs of the rest of their trail had disappeared. Not having flour in those days the Hares had scattered various rat body parts that were carried in bags woven roughly from mammoth hair. There were actually very few FRBs. Falses could not be laid as the letter ‘F’ had not been invented. So the Hares merely laid the trail (very quietly) up to cave wherein a sabre tooth tiger was known to kip. A roar, a scream and satisfied chomping would indicate to the Pack that another False had been found. Of course, being rather light on intelligence could mean disaster to the Pack members. Take, for example, AH³ (Avebury Hash House Harriers). Fearfully keen they were. Even built a huge stone circle to show their appreciation for a well-laid Check. Trouble was, the lack of brainpower and well-developed language skills were the undoing of the entire Pack. Being always hungry and on the lookout for food they were Hashing one day and reached a Check. One of their number shouted gutterally, “Ayoo?” Querying the FRB’s progress. The FRB responded with an indistinct, “Shikkin!” Which the hungry Pack wildly interpreted as an indication that a plump fowl was on the loose and raced after him. Unfortunately, the FRB had just reached not one, but several inhabited caves…

We had the choice today of the Bramley 20/10 Miles Races, or the Hash. Wish we’d done the race. It would have been less tiring. Oh not really girls. And all that shiggy was miles (literally!) better than tarmac.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Simple presented the following :-

A tad wimpy if I may say so

Up and Coming