Wet and Sticky

Spex LoudonTasteless Hashgate Baldrick Honeymonster Caboose Fannybag Bogbrush and dog Pebbles cerberus BillyBullshit Desperate Shitfor PP NappyRash Diver and dog Barney Iceman Roy Dumper Septic BlouseBlazer Foghorn Jackie BlowJob Drac! TC Whinge Colin CIAC DOA HardMan Lemming MotherTheresa Anorak Trainspotter Cloggs NonStick …Dutch (non-runner)

And almost the entire New York Dog’s Bollocks Hash on the 10^th anniversary of their first visit to us – nice to see you guys!

It’s The Dog’s Bollocks!

Crafty lot those Yanks. Those of us who arrived early, like Spex and LoudonTasteless and myself huddled together for warmth as the rain arrowed in icily from several directions, blown onward by a keen wind. We wondered where our friends from across the water might be. 10^th anniversary of their last visit. Trail laid specially by Posh and Bomber. Restaurant room laid on for our guests in the pub later. Wherever could they be? They weren’t so much huddling as, well, relaxing in their luxury, heated charabanc just round the corner by the station. While we shivered and soaked in the Circle, lashed by the elements and mentally burdened by the droning of our good GM, BlouseBlazer, our American friends were being coerced and cajoled from their comfy coach. Even Yankit, who professes to be vaguely British, did not join us until the very last minute, peeling off his hirsute buffalo chaps to expose a pair of pasty legs last seen on one of the original Wilson, Keppel and Betty. And it wasn’t Betty.

The last time I had seen the Dog’s was during a freezing but dry urban race in Brooklyn where the only danger lay in either a heart attack due to the extreme pace, or a mugging. Today could not have been more different. Most of the trail was off-road and under water, or spread carelessly with a layer of sticky, wet shiggy. The woodland dripped and danger lurked in the form of marauding Lemmings and Foghorns. Less gun-slinging. More mud-slinging. Curious really, since the evening before had been as clear and dry as a well polished glass eye, with the added attraction of a total eclipse of the moon. Those of you sober enough to view it saw the earth’s shadow very slowly blink like a lower eyelid up from the bottom of the silver moon until nothing but a silver sliver was left. Then it was gone. And a dull copper disc hung in its place. An old penny for a new shilling. Mesmerising stuff.

But our day had started wet and got wetter. Particularly for those, like Diver, who lived up to her name by plunging over yet again and body surfing through the shiggy. Though she didn’t appear quite as mud-spattered as, surprise, surprise, Foghorn and Lemming, both of who had been covered up one side of their bodies. Probably by each other. One side of them could blend into almost any part of the forest. The other had about as much chance of blending in with, well, any civilised social gathering, as a warthog with halitosis at a Buck House garden party. Posh and Bomber had very kindly informed us that the Long trail was ‘very long’ and the Short Trail was ‘very long too’. Sometimes, we thought collectively, noses dripping rain, the enjoyment of the Hash is almost too much to bear.

The Trail had been quite craftily laid. It sometimes darted off track in an odd direction as NappyRash and TC found after they had led us a fearfully long way up a steep and slippery woodland track, then had to come half way down again to find the flour. It also took the shiggiest route wherever possible. Some shiggy was chalk-based, some quite limey, some thick with clay. Most of it was deeper than one’s plimsoll and even those wearing studs were sliding around less gracefully than Torville and Dean after a couple of beers. One of the poor Yanks managed to pop his knee out, though fortunately it popped back in. I know exactly how you felt pal. I do hope it’s ok.

Our route took us through some familiar (to those of us who have been there before) territory but the Hares had sneakily laid the trail backwards which fooled many an old hand. Even Cheating, who was so confused that he stayed with the Pack all the way round! Never been known before. Still it gave Iceman and me at one point an exclusive insight into what drives the fellow. As we slipped (literally) breathlessly past, up yet another mud hill, we heard him informing a luckless American that he, Cheating, was an expert hasher who had been Hashing for over thirty years. How lucky the American fellow must have felt at being privy to this fascinating titbit, tossed casually at him by the generous Cheating. I had just never realised that he hadn’t taken up Hashing until he was forty…

After a long, wet slog across a windy and shelter-free, largely uphill, sticky field track we fetched up at the Regroup where Bomber told us that there were Eagles and Chickens trails going off from here, with the Eagles trail being ‘one blob and On’. Oh joy. The Eagles flew off in one direction (i.e. away from the pub) and the Chickens clucked off in the other (i.e towards the pub). Full marks to most of the U.S. eagle contingent who exhibited either a) the gutsy, can-do spirit of their frontiering forefathers, or b) rank stupidity. Most of BH³ exhibited the latter along with just a smattering of insanity. We eventually dropped down into a well-know lane where Billy rushed off up a mud hill from a Check for no good reason and Colin, when I asked him where Suckoff was today, replied that she was, “Bog sitting.” At least it sounded like that. I offered my commiserations on her digestive predicament and followed Lonely as he set off at pace down the long and winding lane. Luckily, it turned out to be the right way and we sploshed and slid our way down into that boggy forest before catching up with Septic and Dumper who were slopping their way up a very sticky track. The old joke about ‘going for a tramp in the woods’ came to mind. After a long, wet, cold run we reached the Regroup where our various nationalities stood and steamed, drinking beer and laughing as the next mudlark appeared from down the track. A squatting Fannybag (resting her knees apparently) informed me that she wouldn’t be the only woman who has ‘peed through her trousers’. Which I found to be slightly too much information and turned to PP for some relief (given her full Hash name, perhaps I could have phrased that better). Which is when Spex finally panted up. “I’m a bit late,” she said, “Had to stop for a pee in the woods.” I gave up.

The last damp dash took us over a very slippery hill and on to a streaming road that eventually led us back past the station, the Dog’s luxury coach and into the pub car park. Anorak appeared at my car boot, grateful that she could get at the kit she had left inside. While getting it out she happened to look over to where a munching NonStick was changing. “Coo!” She said to her fairly recent husband Trainspotter. “That’s the biggest packet I’ve ever seen.” Trainspotter didn’t turn a hair. “You’d think with all those crisps he’d hand some round.” He replied casually.

Got to thank the Hares for turning out on such a foul day. This would be an even better trail on a fine summer’s evening… Also, thankyou very much to our New York friends for visiting us. You are more than welcome. We hope you enjoyed yourselves and have a safe trip home.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Stand-in RA Foghorn presented the following. Bearing in mind that the New Yorkers usual Down Downs are quite titchy the lads done well.

Very fine effort with only minimal carpet spillage (½ pint or so swiftly wiped up by Cerberus)

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