Lemming’s Water Babes

LoudonTasteless Spex Motormouth Jamie Hashgate CabinBuoy OldFart Itsyor Simple Dunny Spot Hitchiker Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Utopia Razor (from Madrid H³) Iceman Motox Posh Bomber Flash AintGotOne C5 StinkingBishop Cheating Cloggs Nonstick Chopstix Shandyman Donut Hilary (now known as Swallow – see Down Downs) Aqua Enis Lonely Florence Zebedee SpottedDick Anis(?)

Going With The Flow

Ok guys. Couldn’t write this last night (Tuesday) when I usually have time. Now I don’t have much so this is going to be a rapid stream of consciousness. Rather appropriate metaphor that, since Lemming and Mother’s trail consisted of several streams, all swollen to almost white water grade following tumultuous (interesting descriptive word – seems to fit, though) rain over the weekend and during the day. After weeks of dry weather Lemming must have been down on his knees (he usually appears to be anyway) in front of the kennel Mother keeps him in at their house thanking the gods above. The rest of us weren’t quite so thankful but we at least had the consolation that all the water we went through that came up to our thighs would have swirled icily round his little cobblers while he laid the trail. Har. Har.

The rushing water certainly played a large part in amusing the Hash. Flash, for instance, attempted a Tarzan-like swing across one of the brooks using a temptingly dangling branch. Bad mistake. Flash, though far from being built like Geoff Capes, was much to heavy for the branch, which collapsed with a damp snapping sound and deposited said Flash into the wet stuff – to the guffawing delight of the assembled throng. Iceman, while trotting alongside a rushing rill managed to lose his footing, leaving him stirring the waters with one leg. We thought he had a sudden urge to guddle for pike and expected him to suddenly haul his member from the depths (perhaps I could have phrased that better) with a ferocious piscatorial predator attached to it up to the knee. Might have made running a tad awkward. Still, it would have served him right for going against sensible sartorial policy and wearing that curious green flowerpot head furniture. Of course, the pièce de resistance came from Hilary who was rightly named Swallow later in reference to her birdlike dive. She navigated a reasonably deep stream despite my best efforts to perform a St. Christopher on her. I already had Donut on one shoulder and needed another crumpet epaulette to match. I had already visualised wearing them both for the rest of the evening as delightful fashion accessories even though this would have made handing out the Gobsheets and drinking a pint at the same time a mite tricky. But no; it was not to be. “Don’t worry Hashgate. I’m all right.” She smiled sweetly, before clambering nimbly up the bank of said stream, taking two steps forward, looking back with a smug, confident grin, losing her footing in the shiggy and diving gracefully into a huge puddle. So Swallow she is and mightily relieved she is that she doesn’t have to tell her parents her name is something awfully suggestive or even downright rude. There was a suggestion that she be named Sex Maid due to her efforts at removing Donut’s stubbornly clinging trackie bottoms in the car park after the Hash. While Donut clung like a limpet to the bumper of her car, four feet away young Swallow held the inside-out waist of the tautly-stretched trackies which clung equally limpet-like to Donut’s ankles. It took a good few whip-crack movements, which produced an interesting sine wave out of the trousers and Donut, before the damn things sprang free, leaving both girls panting with exhaustion, Donut a few inches taller and a delighted RA who spectated interestedly at a safe distance. Hashing history is speckled with such moments. Pity we couldn’t all have enjoyed the event. However, Swallow she is and anybody who deliberately mis-interprets that certainly deserves the swift crack upside the head (s)he is likely to receive.

So did anyone notice something strange during this damp trail? I certainly did. Wherever, we were I seemed to be running behind something pink. What could it be? It was not something I had really seen before. It was… Hitchiker! In a pink top. I know. Difficult to believe. But there she was stumping along through the shiggy like an FRB. I don’t know what’s got into her. Maybe it’s Spot. Actually, I could have phrased that rather better too. I mean, of course, perhaps her close association with one of our premier Hashers has rubbed off (oops, there I go again) on her. Still, fair play, nice one, ‘nuff said and all that. I’m sure we are looking forward to seeing her skipping lightly along, chatting to a drained and panting Zebedee desperately trying to keep up with the killer pace. The girl’s got potential – and she makes a mean salad.

There were incidents aplenty with Motormouth plunging mudwards at almost the last fence while his old Dad frantically tried to catch up. Zebedee beasted powerfully towards a beck, preparing to drift across it with a mighty leap. You know how your mind can analyse time, speed and distance to anticipate the bounce of a ball, braking distances etc? I was doing that with the about-to-fly Zeb. I fixed on the opposite bank where I expected him to land only to find he didn’t. Instead of the expected light touchdown and sprint there was a mighty splash and he emulated Iceman’s earlier pike-guddling exploit. Unfortunately, I didn’t have my cards to indicate a 5.9 for effort. Instead, opting for polite applause.

We really must congratulate the Hares on a splendidly laid trail. Instead of the usual all-out, hell-for-leather sprint we have been ‘enjoying’ over the past few weeks this was a real Hash with lots of shiggy, water, a confused and laughing Pack, a Bar-11 up a steepish hill, lotsa forest yomping to slow the FRBs and Checks where even the Hares had no idea where the trail went. And we must bear in mind that Lemming and Mother T had made a special trip to lay this since they live miles away. Which is why we rarely see them in Summer. Mind you, since this night was much more like winter I expect they felt right at home.

The evening’s ‘Quote of the Night’ came rather unexpectedly from Posh who, whilst surrounded by various standing male members (crikey, I’ve done it again) stated quite loudly, “I need something hard to write on.” Not surprisingly, several of the male members came to attention and offered their services. Nice to know there are still some gentlemen about.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Simple presented the following in the dark garden:-

Took a while but didn’t spill a drop

Up and Coming