Pack

Motormouth Hashgate Florence Zebedee Cheating White Fang Dunny Spex LoudonTasteless Simple Malcolm Alexis Fannybag Bogbrush Cerberus Billy Bullshit Shitfor Desperate NappyRash PP and dog Barney Claire and dog Bailey Donut Swallow Uplift Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Utopia Baldrick Twanky BlowJob Caboose NonStick Slackbladder Little Stiffy Big Stiffy(!) Pyro Shirley Flash Stephanie SlowSucker Posh Bomber BlouseBlazer Itsyor Motox Vlad Drac ShitShoveller Quack Sam(now Compass) Nigel(now Tom-Tom) Rebecca and mum Auntie Brenda TinOpener Lonely HeyBabe CIAC Harry Potter ShutupWally Slippery Harry Gee Potty Nutcracker Hitchhhhhiker Spot Foghorn Whinge TC FannySniffer Squirrel Nick

Hash

We were lucky. The day after we trotted round the bone dry countryside during this balmy summer evening the rain arrowed down, the wind swirled gustily and many of the Fastnet yachts limped back into harbour, battered into watery submission. Nigel and Sam also finally managed to limp into the safe haven of the pub car park after one of their number tapped the wrong postcode into their satnav and they beasted off towards Newbury at great speed before realising the (entirely innocent, of course) mistake and turning round. Not before our couple indulged in a minor, um, discussion as to the responsibility of the faux pas. “I believe, my darling, you put the wrong code in the satnav.” Ventured one. “I think, oh light of my life, you should change the subject.” Replied the other. “Perhaps, my little ray of sunshine, you should have changed the satnav code.” Essayed the first. “Perhaps, my little fat-nosed wombat, you’d like a punch in the ear.” And so on. Which resulted in a well-deserved double-naming ceremony at the Down Downs where they were renamed TomTom and Compass. Names they’ll be bearing for some time, he quipped.

Now it’s quite rare to see Old Fart on the Hash most of the year, especially in winter, when ‘er indoors keeps him on a very short leash. So the excellent turnout was probably spurred on by curiosity to see if indeed the old fellow was still alive. Given the Long, Medium and Walker’s Trails that he and Tor had laid it seems he certainly is. Rather like a feature of his Hash name, he lingers. Though we began to wonder at the Hares’ mental state generally when the first ½ mile of the trail channelled the Pack along the road where drove frenzied country people, chavs, the upper class and the hoi poloi, all intent on inflicting maximum vehicular damage on the already hobbling Hashers – well, some of them. Quite how we escaped limb-flying, blood-spattered scenes similar to those gleefully crafted by glue-sniffing youths playing Grand Theft Auto I do not know. Mind you, I managed to organise some professional medical care, if required, from Swallow. “You’re a nurse.” I said with an attempt at a winning smile, “You could look after me if I needed assistance.” “’Fraid I clocked off at 3 this afternoon.” Replied Ms Nightingale. “I could go private.” I flashed back. “How can I help you sir.” Came the lightning response, along with a lot of teeth and hand-wringing. Nice to know the spirit of enterprise in the NHS has not entirely been stamped out by Government interference.

We must offer our congratulations to Florence, one of BH³’s elite lady runners, for carrying that bloody wooden cross round the trail tonight. Though she mentioned she might ‘ditch it’ a number of times she grew quite attached to it after a while. Mainly because her hand refused to uncurl from its woody surface. NonStick fashioned her a rather natty crown o’ thorns out of straw which certainly set off the outfit and gave a distinctly feminist slant to the whole thing. I think it was Cerberus who offered the opinion that Florence would be glad when it was Easter. Which reminds me of the old joke where Jesus, having carried the heavy Cross all day, knocks at an inn and speaks to the innkeeper. “I haven’t got any money.” He says. “But I’ve got some nails. Can you put me up for the night?”

Wandering a bit tonight, aren’t we? Really ought to get back to the Hash since that’s what we are supposed to be writing about. All right, then. Since I was struggling along with the main Pack it was interesting to enjoy the experience for a change. There was Mrs Blobby and Utopia, finally succumbing, after many months of top-wearing cold turkey, to wearing exactly the same T shirts. They looked mightily relieved . There was Roy, wearing as always his running trousers. He reckons that his legs are so horrible worms would shrink back into wormholes and grown men would shrivel in horror at the sight. I took a (totally objective I assure you) view of ‘em from the back and can report that, shapewise, they look ok. Perhaps they are forested with dark, spiky hairs thicker than those in a Hammer Horror werewolf flick. We need to know! So if any of you ladies are up to a spot of de-trouserage please feel free and report your findings to this journal. Then there was Rebecca. Dark-haired, sleek and quiet there has been little to report about her since she first appeared, not too long ago. But there she was, tripping lightly through the forest in her rather smart, dark running gear with something colourful adorning her upper arm. A carefully dried and ironed corn snake? I wondered. The coolest looking mother of all nicotine patches? I mused. No. It was an iPod holder. Oh dear.

The Regroup came and went in a flash and the Short Trailers found themselves being led by FRB Donut, thundering along a narrow path between two paddocks and frightening a couple of large horses. Which was pretty good. Since she is generally frightened of/by them. Sadly, it all went horribly wrong from the next Check when that fool Hashgate (along with everyone else…) missed a lightly sprinkled ‘F’ and led Swallow, Donut, Shirley, PP, Barney, CIAC, Heybabe et al to the tree-line gate ¼ mile up the steepish track. Following a bit of good natured Hashgate abuse we all steamed back again, to where Whinge kindly pointed out the faint ‘F’ that he had only just reached. Thanks Whinge. It wasn’t too long before the Long and Short trailers met up and Foghorn and NappyRash joined us in that delightful mudbath path that led to a Bar Check. Sneaky! Luckily, we weren’t too far from the On Inn where the mad Zebedee, TT2 and Bomber raced past in a gale of sweat and swearing closely followed by Motormouth and Nick. We tracked in with Flash at a much more sedate pace.

What an enjoyable sojourn through the countryside. Not only that but the pub actually had enough staff to cater for all the drinks requested! Amazing! The only strange thing was when Itsyor called me a slapper at the bar. Not sure why. Think it was wishful thinking on his part. Thanks Tor and OldFart. Tor, you can put him back into storage now if you like.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Under a heated canopy outside the pub RA Simple presented the following :-

Laughing and drinking at the same time is not a good idea, Rebecca

Up and Coming