Friends, Romans(?), Countrymen

Hashgate Billy Bullshit and dog Molly Cerberus and dog Libby Itsyor Fiddler Sam Nigel Iceman Potty Nutcracker Hitchiker Foghorn Ram Baldrick Quack LittleStiffy SlackBladder Desperate Shitfor(The Claw!) PP NappyRash Diver and dog Barney Ms Whiplash Salome Cheating StraddleVarious Matt Simple DunnyStumbler Florence Septic Dumper Tinopener BlouseBlazer Hilary Donut Just Moist Shandyman Slippery Centaur Flash Dwight Dracula Arty PissQuick Glittertits C5 Spex Uplift CabinBuoy Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Utopia Lonely StinkingBishop

Lost/In Wales

Firstly, many thanks to PP for producing a Gobsheet glittering with breathtaking prose last week and congratulations for managing to space the Down Down and Up and Coming details so carefully that they exactly fitted across the entire second page. Viewing it was like gazing out across the vast Serengeti, dotted about with the exhausted tail-enders of the wildebeeste migration. Nice one.

Bit of a problem writing about this Hash since I spent half of it trying to catch up and after I did nothing of note really happened since we were running so fast. Luckily, 49 of us went to see GBH on Saturday in Wales and I was wondering how I could work it into this Gobsheet without upsetting the Hares…

So now I know what Zebedee and Florence feel like every time they arrive late. In my case it was a good fifteen minutes. There was a dormitory of well-known cars sleeping in the car park, a cool breeze blowing and bugger all to tell me which way was On Out. I picked one direction out of the possible twenty or so. Fortune, of course, favours the fit (your choice of meaning of that word…) and I lucked out. I must give grateful thanks to the Hares, who had either kicked out Checks or laid flour arrows – without them I’d have been more lost than a Salvation Army lady in a brothel. However, if you have ever turned up late you’ll know just how fast you have to run to catch the Pack. The plimsolls were smoking after only a mile or so. Which was when, in the midst of a forest I had some good luck and some bad luck. On the plus side a faint ‘On On’ caught my ear from the other side of the forest. On the minus side I found an ‘F’; and I hadn’t come from a Check. Oops! Crashing your way across the dusky forest floor on your own with nothing to guide you but rare and occasional Hash sounds was a tad daunting. But I finally popped out on to a road – and bumped into Billy, who was lost. I don’t know which of us was more pleased to see the other and we schlepped onward, hoping we were going the right way – we certainly weren’t on flour. Billy had rather cleverly arranged to be in charge of his older beautiful red setter, Molly, and thus had to ‘go a bit slower because she’s getting old’. Substitute the word I’m for she’s and I think you get the picture. Actually, the one amusing thing that happened on the trail involved the other, younger beautiful red setter, Libby, who was in charge of Cerberus. Somehow, Libby got so close to Barney (PP’s beautiful 57 varieties) that she managed to transfer the clip of her lead on to Barney’s collar and raced off, leaving him being held by both PP and Cerberus! Damn clever, red setters.

Eventually, after several sweat-soaked miles, Billy and I caught up with Sam (nice to see her again) and a couple of (unremembered - sorry) walkers just before we staggered into the Regroup looking like LoudonTasteless on Saturday morning. (This is the lead into the GBH bit) Not that any of us saw him. The poor fellow had got so drunk the night before that he couldn’t face a few hours on a coach with a wittering bunch of geriatric Hashers. Understandable really. Personally, I started my morning by bumping into Dutch in Sainsbury’s. In the ladies wear aisle. I had just happened there by chance, you understand. “Hello Hashgate.” She smiled breezily, fluttering languid eyelashes. “Go and get me a cappucino. There’s a good fellow. I’ll just try this skirt on.” Never one to argue with fate I became her retail flunkey, agreeing that, yes, the skirt looked very pretty. Fully lined for fifteen quid. Well I never. Of course you need a size 10. 12 is far too big. No, no. Please let me hold your things while you get your purse out. By the time she’d finished I’d tugged my forelock so often it was getting a mite sore.

The trip West was great fun, with Lemming on top form, placing a peeled banana against the lips of the open-mouthed, sleeping Ladybird, who automatically tried to lick it and found he had been photographed by a battery of digital cameras. We look forward to seeing that on the website. We stopped off for lunch at Mr Mannering and Squelchy’s wonderful B&B. Superbly appointed, comfortable and with delightful, spacious grounds. We didn’t want to leave – and I don’t think they wanted us to leave either. We eventually hove-to in a small village, decamped from the bus and promptly stripped off by the roadside, which amazed and delighted the tourists/locals. We were to have an A to B Hash in the glorious sunshine, the only fly in the ointment being that Cheating had laid most of the trail. Even the beaming GBH had failed to curb his labrynthian enthusiasm. It took us 2½ hours to complete and required oxygen at the higher levels of the mountains. An example of the intricacies of the trail occurred early on, when we followed the nimble Florence up a narrow goat track for a mile or so up into the clouds, only to be greeted with a Bar II. Curious thing was, it was only 5 blobs all the way back down the precipitous track! All became clear when Cheating informed me that the II was actually a V with the apex rubbed out… I must mention Spot, who managed to hurl himself earthwards on at least two occasions with no bodily harm. The first was quite incredible. While trotting through a rocky patch he suddenly sprawled headfirst, landing in a semi-foetal position on his side. One arm bent behind him, one in front. Amazingly, in each bend of his limbs and right beside his forehead, a nasty, hard Welsh rock stuck up out of the ground. It was as though we had fashioned him into a pretzel and laid him carefully over them. The second time was not so dangerous but even funnier. While wand’ring lonely as a cloud amongst a host of aggressive Welsh bluebells his foot slipped on the lubricious stems and down he went in a classic Laurel and Hardy pratfall. I could write several more pages on our day trip but, sadly, do not have the time. So on behalf of BH³ I offer many thanks to C5 for organising it and GBH for making us very welcome.

So full marks to Spot for assisting in laying today’s (7 bags of flour – so Grommet told us) trail. Not only that but he has sold over 80 of the 2007 BH³ purple T-shirts. The lad’s a complete hero. And he’s run more than 500 trails with BH³! But we mustn’t forget Grommet who was a virgin Hare before today.

I must also mention Shitfor, who appeared with his wrist, thumb and half fingers swathed in a cumbersome, stiff bandage, making him look like something out of Dr Who (come to think of it – he didn’t need the bandage) and inciting PP to name him dramatically, ‘The Claw’. Of course, on seeing Shitfor with a heavily bandaged wrist one is hard-pressed to come up with more than one conclusion. But it seems he had an argument with a Stanley knife. Nasty. Hope it gets better very soon, Eugene. In the meantime, he’s supplementing his earnings by hiring himself out as a human fishing rod rest. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Simple presented an almost inexhaustible number after finding the pub were selling a 4-pint jug for the price of three. Ever one for a bargain he spent all the Tick…

They raced the Down Downs too!

Up and Coming