Cows and Bullocks

Donut Hilary Barry and dog Fido Roy Lonely Vlad Motox Motormouth Jamie Flash Iceman Aqua Simple Dunny Foghorn Chopstix Shandyman OldFart Blowjob Desperate Cerberus Shitfor Billy Bullshit Baldrick Trainspotter Honeymonster AintGotOne MadDog DogHare ShutupWally Tina Julia Septic Dumper Andy Lorenzo Kath Cheating Bogbrush BlouseBlazer Fannybag Utopia Mrs Blobby Uplift C5 Twanky Bomber Posh Harry Gee Dwight Centaur Gill Mick HeadBoy Quack StinkingBishop Florence Zebedee TT3 Itsyor Fiddler Nigel Sam John (appearing again after two years!)

Far Canal!

The Hinds Head car park was full. Which offered a fine opportunity for amusement as several Hashers drove into the thing, checked out the lack of spaces, and drove out again, narrowly avoiding other Hashers who were just about to drive in. It became even funnier when I decided to direct the erstwhile parkers away from the entrance along with Roy. OldFart slithered to a halt in his far-too-nifty-for-him Z4, then spun off up the road. Trainspotter couldn’t quite make his mind up whether to stop by us, go further up the road or turn back. Iceman; well, we watched him drive past with a cheery wave. Then he drove back a couple of minutes later. Followed two minutes later by him driving back the way he had first gone. If this lack of decision-making ability is a trait of his countrymen then Gawd help us when the next Prime Minister is adopted. Actually, Gawd help us when that happens anyway.

We haven’t been to this pub for just over six years (I looked it up in the Gobsheets) and though not as cold as that January day it was pretty overcast, grey and depressing. Which reminds me, SlowSucker wasn’t on the Hash tonight. However, the conditions weren’t anywhere near the monsoon that engulfed us on the last trail Hamlet and Fukawe laid. Mind you, our spirits were somewhat lowered when Hamlet announced that there would be three (three!) Regroups, it was quite a long trail and there was a particularly long loop near the end for the FRBs. Consequently, there was an awful lot of running (no racing, mind) and not much time to hang about. Particularly, when we had to pass through a number of fields with cows in. You see, certain lady Hashers are just not keen on bovines. Close proximity with half a ton of beef does not float their boat. Mrs Blobby, for instance. The lass was moving carefully along that deeply rutted, uphill field, taking care of her (hopefully healed) foot when she noticed the herd, some way off. The large, furry brown ones chewed, waggled their ears and slowly blinked their long-lashed eyelids over their liquid brown eyes while the cute little calves stayed close to Mum. It’s true what they say about herd instinct isn’t it? If one does something, the rest follow. So it was with both the cows and BH³. One of the beeves jumped sideways, which resulted in the entire mass of legs, tails and fur romping suddenly towards the Hash. Mrs Blobby took one look at the advancing Sunday lunches and took off like Colin Jackson, hurdling over the nearby gate with his trademark curled fists and perfectly outstretched fore leg. Which galvanised the rest of the Hash into a frenzy of elbows-out gate-climbing, and devil-take-the-hindmosting. However, this didn’t happen in a later field. The land sloped downwards, which allowed the likes of Posh and Donut to switch on the after-burners, rocket across the sward and vault the stile to safety, panting attractively and watching the drama about to unfold. Down the hill, led by Dunny, came the Pack, mainly consisting of lady Hashers. Suddenly, over the brow of the grassy hill and intent on meeting it at an angle flowed a herd of slightly larger, darker bullocks (so Twanky assured me – he seemed to like the word and said it a number of times, raising an eyebrow and smirking - if I didn’t know better - coquettishly). The mass of fat cows stumbled blindly on (this is the animals, of course) until they spotted Dunny. They stopped dead. They mooed. They turned tail. They stampeded away. Tell you what; I know who I’ll be running with next time I find myself in a field full of beef.

To turn coyly away from the Trail for a moment it appears that BH³ is now almost globally appreciated. Apparently, our Gobsheet is read online in such disparate places as Ireland, Colorado, Wellington, New York, Washington and Burghfield. I sincerely hope that our international friends enjoy their vicarious cyber trots along our Hash trails. Come and join us on the real thing sometime. You are will be made very welcome. Btw Sean, I hope this is long enough to save you having to buy a new car.

Actually, BH³ could save itself a lot of physical effort. I could write the Gobsheet before Hash day. Iceman could publish it on the Web. Everyone could sit at their pc, download and read it, finding out what they and everyone else had been up to, while enjoying a drink. Those who wished (I can think of a few) could turn on their webcams so that they could watch each other changing in the virtual car park chat room. We could all then link up in MSN Messenger, have a laugh and talk before Simple awarded virtual Down Downs via a specially written web page where an image of a pint could be ‘drunk’ by the recipient by clicking the left mouse button as rapidly as possible on the image. The ‘Circle’ could chant the Down Down song by selecting a bass, alto, treble or castrato version from a dropdown menu directly below the pint. If required, a morph of the RA could be ‘abused’ by right-clicking and selecting ‘Soak the RA’ from the context menu… Motox, have you the faintest idea what I am talking about? No? Nor have I.

Hellfire! We are running out of space again. Let’s point our literary telescope at a couple of supernovas in the universe of tonight’s Hash (pretentious? Moi?). BlouseBlazer, our revered GM, approached the sturdy five-bar ‘gainst which I palely loitered. “How do I get over this then?” He enquired myopically. “I should try this well-defined side-gate next to it if I were you.” I replied helpfully. Florence had earlier approached from behind the bent-over Fannybag (busy tethering an errant shoelace) and raised a flat hand above the ideally-presented cheeks with a ready grin. It’s not for me to sow the seeds of suspicion in your minds but Flo did appear in Scurrilous Scandals recently for (allegedly) similar behaviour. Itsyor foolishly got lost by ignoring the obvious and well-defined flour blobs just before the On Inn, stranding himself about a mile away from the pub-bound pack with a mass of stinging nettles and a large pit between him and it. Nice one!

We followed that long, long trail a-winding along the canal to the third Regroup with, you guessed it, a long, long, long trail a-winding by another flaming canal. This dour, exhausting slog (albeit through lovely countryside) was enlivened when Lonely, standing by the final stile, offered the opinion to the youthful Lorenzo (or maybe it was Andy – tell me) that, “I feel young men should vault over.” With a rather wolfish grin. Hmm. Not quite sure whether the emphasis was: “I feel young. Men should vault over.” or “I feel young men. Should vault over.” Perhaps time for another entry in Scurrilous Scandals…

Our thanks, as always, go to Fukawe and Hamlet whose consistently good trail laying record… was almost extended tonight. Only joking you two. We may have been knackered but it was worth it. Thanks.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Simple presented the following indoors, thanks to a friendly Hashing landlord :-

Showed Hashgate how a pint should be drunk. What a woman!

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