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The Carpenter’s Arms


Chopstix, Shandyman

Carry On BH3

Donut Motormouth Hashgate Cerberus BillyBullshit Desperate Shitfor FannyBag BogBrush Baldrick ShutupWally Centaur SlowSucker Stephanie Dwight Scoot Lonely Flash SpiceBoy StraddleVarious TT2 Twanky Pat CabinBuoy Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Uplift Utopia Lilo TinOpener and dog Emma Loudontasteless Spex Dumper Septic C5 Itsyor Fiddler OldFart Caboose Glittertits PissQuick Hamlet Florence Zebedee Potty Nutcracker Snowballs Dunny Rebecca Denise Ms Whiplash Quack Motox BlouseBlazer Slippery Dutch Bomber Posh Grommet Sam Nigel Nick Escort Nick

Infamy, Infamy. They’ve All Got It Infamy”

Kenneth Williams couldn’t have put it better. I had hardly parked the car when Shitfor remarked pointedly and loudly to his motley collection of ne’er do wells (Desperate, FannyBag, Cerberus etc) “Oh, there’s Hashgate. I don’t suppose he’s speaking to us”. Just because I had been unable to speak at all to anyone during last week’s race. Then up comes TT2 and berates me in a bank managerial fashion for noting him down as TT3 in last week’s Gobsheet. Admittedly, it was quite a number of times but you’d think he’d be thankful for the mention wouldn’t you? Followed swiftly by Dumper, who castigated me roundly for mentioning him only twice. Throughout the evening Shandyman and Chopstix insinuated pointed remarks about their perceived reason for me not being up at the front (perhaps that could have been better phrased) and looking tired during the Hash. Mind you, fair enough. I may have poked gentle fun at them when they first expressed their affection for each other. Actually, I’ve always found Chopstix a very attractive lady and Shandyman a fellow of fine breeding and infinite Welsh wit. There was worse Hashgate-bashing to come. More of that later.

So then. Into the pub Gents. A pre-Hash comfort break saw me heading there, not realising the humour that lay within. One of those machines adorned the wall, advertising it’s latex wares with rather faded pictures of smiling people. I’m not sure what they were smiling about. Perhaps they’d found that a 50 Renmimbi Chinese coin slotted into the machine achieved the same result that a more expensive £1 would. Below the smiling people was the legend that had me laughing out loud, “Turn knob briskly to the right. Then turn to the left.” Love that ‘briskly’! How nice of the machine owners to include fitting instructions on the outside of it!

Tonight’s quote comes from Flash at the Regroup. He was genuinely surprised at the number of people struggling diagonally across the field towards him as he lounged there that he squeaked delightedly, “Ther are people behind me!” The Regroup had appeared quite early on, after a number of crafty Back Checks that had the Pack casting about uncertainly in a variety of locations. This was also caused by the fairly un-BH3 trail signs used by our Hares. A Bar indicated a False. An ‘F’ for a Field Check. Far too complicated for us. Even Zebedee, a man with a head brain the size of a planet got caught out on this half way up a hill. Shandyman told us that the Long and Short Trails split at the regroup so Motox enquired of him how long was the Long. “It’s quite within your capabilities, Motox.” Advised the Hare, completely forgetting to mention the early, long sprint (for some) uphill track through the overhanging branches. SpiceBoy seemed to want to lead the way. So we let him. BogBrush, Nigel and I slogged our way breathlessly up the mud-slippery, uneven trail; picking our way delicately over fallen branches and bodies of perished Hashers. However, with the redoubtable (that sounds like the trade name of a whalebone corset – ‘Ladies. Accomplish that hourglass figure with The Redoubtable’) Florence following us closely we weren’t about to stop our breathless ascent and we finally gasped our way out on to a road. Which is where Zeb couldn’t figure out what a Bar meant and the rest of us scorched our way back down the hill we had just come up. Albeit in a slightly different direction.

Sorry. Just took a short break there. Murphy, my giant cat had ralphed on my settee. He seems to have a penchant for parking pizzas at present. This morning it was on my bed just as I raised a restorative mug of tea and turned to page 5 of The Telegraph. Somehow, Boris Johnson’s bid to become Mayor of London lost its fascination. Last night when Motormouth and I got back from the Hash we found a neat, steaming pile at the foot of the stairs. Prior to that, when I returned from work and rushed up to my bedroom to change into running gear I found my naked foot a millimetre away from a carefully fashioned feline work of art composed entirely of whole cubes of cat meat stuck together with something I was rather unwilling to investigate but which could probably compete comfortably with Solvite when it came to sticking blokes in overalls on the underside of bi-planes. Job may have put up with a few boils and stuff but I bet he’d have completely lost his rag if a Murphy honked on his sandal.

I had, purely by mischance you understand, accidentally spotted Fannybag’s smooth leg with the tiniest microbit of mud. She was trotting along with Glittertits at the time. Obviously a great fan of the evening’s Hashgate-bashing fraternity and having seen a patch of inordinately disgusting shiggy, filled with the rotting corpses of things long dead, she suddenly barked out an order at Glittertits to grab your innocent Scribe. Glittertits, Pavlovian instinct honed to a fine point over the decades by PissQuick, had no alternative but to obey and he pinned my arms to my sides while Fannybag tossed me in the mire, laughing like a Harpy on smack; then running off at speed. Rising, dripping from the stuff I squelched after her. As a gentleman I felt it only honourable to offer to return the compliment. When I did she rebuffed me, saying she would rather roll about in a nice clean meadow (interesting thought) and that she would bare me in mind (slightly worrying thought).

Most of the rest of the long, long straight bits were spent trying to catch up with C5 who has obviously found that a mixture of Wincarnis and Viagra does wonders for his speed and stamina. The fellow ran a very hilly race the day before entitled something like ‘The Rumpy Pumpy’ and won the Over 60s category. Not bad for a bloke over 70. Luckily, a long, straight tarmac bit brought us to the On Inn and that very nice Arkell’s pub. And a spot more Hashgate-bashing. Iturned out that Shitfor and Billy had foxed Motox into believing that Nick (the current Hash Cross carrier who had had to leave early) had thought he had been stitched up by me when persuaded to help lay my Hash a couple of weeks ago. This resulted in me being presented with the damn thing! How I look forward to carrying it next week. Still, the old maxim is true. If you dish it out you have to be able to take it. Seeems quite fair to me.

Many thanks to Chopstix and Shandyman for the trail. Don’t they live in a nice area?

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Stand-in RA Motox presented the following :-



Style points


Ruthless dunking of the Scribe in deep shiggy

Very good indeeed. I’ve never seen better. Like a real lady etc


Inflaming Motox sexually

Big swallows for a small girl


His birthday
Her birthday next week

Not bad for an old bloke
Certainly beat Shitfor


Lost property at the Fun Run

D(r)owned in one

Chopstix, Shandyman

Tonight’s excellent Hares

Nicely together – how sweet

Up and Coming



Grid Reference






Burghfield Sailing Club
Sheffield Bottom RG7 4BG…ish

Theme – ‘Doctor. I’m In Trouble’
*Food £5. Order first. Lasagne etc*





The Perch & Pike
South Stoke RG8 0JS


JWax Summer Walk

Saturday, July 28th, starting at 14:00. meet in the car park of The Viaduct pub, 221 uxbridge Road, Hanwell, London W7 3TD. Contact JWax on for a map and details.