Racing Certainties

HashLamb Daisy Hashgate Donut Hilary Dave Spex LoudonTasteless ShitShoveller PenelopePitstop Aqua Vlad Drac Hitchiker Spot Bomber Posh Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Utopia Uplift Baldrick Harry Potter Iceman Tinopener Lilo and dog Emma Shitfor Desperate Cerberus BillyBullshit with dogs Libby and Molly SlowSucker Mr Sloppy C5 Salome Ms Whiplash Twanky Quack Canoeist Leonora Itsyor Florence Zebedee Whinge TC Andrew Dumper Cloggs NonStick Cheating Caboose JustMoist Drexel PissQuick Glittertits Lorenzo Andrew Lonely Bootsie Sprout Tapeworm Stripper (still from Venezuela) Motox (didn’t forget you this week) the North Wilts Hasher… (oh, all right, he’s called Cybersex)

A Gentle Jog…

Jimmy Saville, in his ground-breaking, un-putdownable autobiography The Long Banana Skin, wrote of ‘the magic of the empty page’. He enthused spoutingly about the sheer joy of approaching a blank sheet of A4, biro in hand, mind teeming with ideas. The man was a complete fool. Trust me, there is very little worse (perhaps sticking needles in your eye) than knowing you have to write the Gobsheet in one evening only and the previous night’s Hash was as bereft of amusing anecdotes as a Revenue and Customs inspector. Not to say that it wasn’t enjoyable. The ancient, thatched pub is only five minutes from my house – very nice. The woods around the area are great, quite often teeming with almost tame deer, and I got to drive Shep’s daughters; the highly attractive and entertaining Daisy and HashLamb to and from the venue. Oh yes, and they paid my Tick. And bought me a pint afterwards. Nice ladies. Often said it. So there was certainly nothing wrong with the company or the place, or the trail. But at the speed we were going no-one had time to see or do anything. Racing, for those who had run earlier in the day at either the Shinfield 10k or the Henley May Day Run, was certainly not a requirement for the evening. All we wanted was to poodle along, have a laugh with Twanky, chat with Utopia. But, no, we all forged off as if Harry Potter had been followed by Aragog, that bloody great big spider, and it was still after bit of ‘fresh meat’ for all its brothers and sisters. Ooer. Gerroff.

Poor C5, lumbered with being RA for the evening, maundered on about having no-one to award Down Downs to. “Never mind.” I pointed out brightly as we sped along. “Tonight you’re running like Spring-Heeled Jack rather than that ‘camel on Prozac’ we usually see.” Curiously, that didn’t seem to lift his spirits.

Oh yes. I just remembered. I am very happy to announce that wedding bells will again be ringing for a BH³ Hasher. Scarlet Pimpernel’s offer of marriage to the lovely Ros was (amazingly Oops, sometimes I just can’t help myself) accepted. I’m sure I speak on behalf of all the Hash when I say that we wish them every happiness. The only fly in the ointment is the question of what ‘the Pimp’ will do about all that crumpet he has always brought to the Hash. Sometimes his car was as overflowingly full of buxom wenches as a 19^th century milkmaid’s vest.

Oh yes, back to the trail. As we trotted across yet another delightful field with lovely views Daisy and I agreed that it had been laid the wrong way round. The last time she and I laid it here we had come In on the Out trail, so to speak, and we were finding it very confusing, let alone exhausting. When we finally heaved up to the Regroup, panting and wheezing like old bellows, we found Spot, sitting on a log, where he had been for the last 15 minutes or so. The lad had lucked out on every (not that there were that many!) Check and decided to wait for us slowcoaches to catch up. Incidentally, let’s give him a round of (unheard if you’re reading this on-line) applause – he’s sold 91 T-shirts on behalf of BH³ so far! Well done Spot and yes, you get my vote for Haberdash next year…

Canoeist, surprisingly enough, found himself at the head of the FRBs, diagonally crossing a field of high rape via a mud track like Moses leading the Israelites across the Red Sea. The far end of the track dived into a dipping footpath through a small wood where we (almost literally) stumbled into the walkers, Hitchiker being one. Only the day before, in one of those moments of serendipity… without wishing to be patronising I must explain that my dictionary states that serendipity is ‘The happy knack of making unexpected and delightful discoveries by accident’… while wandering forlornly through Reading, waiting for the Oracle shops to open I made the unexpected and delightful discovery that Hitchiker was standing next to me in the queue at Starbucks. Unlike Dutch a couple of weeks ago she didn’t expect me to carry all her stuff, find her the best table, throw out the current occupants, lay a clean handkerchief on her chair, bring over the cappuccino, test its temperature, take it back, bring over its replacement and stand behind her chair wringing my cap while awaiting further orders. Nope. We had a very pleasant and enjoyable chat. On the footpath we breathlessly agreed that a relaxing coffee was perhaps slightly more enjoyable than streaming round the Hash at our proportionally similar racing speeds. Which was when a rushing wind from behind announced the imminent arrival of Mr Blobby. It’s quite amazing that the old feller seems to be getting faster the nearer he gets to having his ‘Big One’. Birthday, that is. Spot also whirled by. When we reached the first blob after the Check he raised his right arm. When we reached the second he raised his left arm. Please Lord, I prayed, as we neared the third blob, let it not be so. And, lo, my prayers were answered for Spot spake, and he uttered, “On three”. What a relief.

I ended up running with the injured Florence who had managed to get blind drunk again during the week, tripped over a small rodent and landed on the upper part of her chest, resulting in sore ribs, a loud clang and a grimacing promise to herself never to wear that cast iron bra indoors ever again. Despite a level of fitness that would put Paula Radcliffe to shame poor Flo was reduced to a minor trot. Which suited me perfectly. The glycogen had run out and I figured if my body started using fat to create energy there’d be nothing left of me by the time I got to the pub. We sauntered casually along the last ¼ mile and breathed a sigh of pained relief/exhaustion as we rounded the corner by the pub.

Must thank HeyBabe and CIAC for laying an enjoyable trail so close to my house. And at The Bottle and Glass – a fine old pub. It was very amusing that there was only one other non-Hash customer in the bar when it got rather cold outside and we all piled in to play drinking sardines.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Our excellent stand-in RA for this evening, C5, presented the following :-

½ down the gullet and ½ on the head

After a speech lasting several hours, during which a small number of older Hashers keeled over and died (having lost the will to live) Spex eventually awarded the BH³ umbrella to Baldrick. This was for pretending to be an elite runner at Wednesday Whingers and taking the mickey out of the relaxed pace. No doubt we are all looking forward to his forthcoming ‘Fun Run’ time.

Up and Coming