Run Number:



Visit the website –
Website Email –




GH3 Hares

Definitely Over 21s

A million Guildford and Surrey Hashers plus Handful Lemming Mother Theresa Donut Hashgate Swallow Motox BlouseBlazer Cheating Quack White Fang Spot OldFart Centaur OldDog HoneyMonster Iceman

GH3s 21st

So many thanks to Fiddler and SlowSucker for slipping on their writing boots over the past three weeks while I swanned off on my Stateside tour. Though I didn’t get time to run with any of the Hashes out there (too busy drinking and having a good time) I managed to check out the Gobsheets – once on an iphone in the Apple Store in Chicago, which was a somewhat surreal experience. I was surrounded by sailors in white ducks (don’t go there; it wasn’t that surreal)and rather a lot of Chinese at the time. So I found out that Fiddler is something of an ageist – hopefully C5 and Dumper gave him a thoroughly deserved shoeing – and SlowSucker… I guess I always knew him as a misogynist. Perhaps we should organise a photographed correction session for him with Ms Whiplash. That would certainly enliven the BH3 website. Actually, I had a listen to the items on the dictaphone (when it was finally returned to me, see below). SlowSucker had managed to get up to the 22nd chunk of recording. What could he have recorded? I thought. I think he may have found the small machine a bit of a challenge. The first 21 tracks whizzed by, with only the sound of someone sellotaping a struggling rabbit to a railway line. The 22nd cut off abruptly with SlowSucker some distance away complaining bitterly “I can’t get the sodding thing to…” Fascinating stuff. Almost as fascinating as when Florence borrowed it and took it into the toilet still switched on.

Without wishing to bore with tales of my travels I must just mention two incidents. Doesn’t matter where you go does it? The local population always contains a few nutters. I made the mistake of talking to my cab driver in Delaware. He was driving an ancient, clattering sedan that wheezed worse than a warthog on forty a day and sadly the traffic was fearfully heavy. I essayed my opening gambit, “Jolly nice day, what?” Forty minutes and forty bucks later I had found out he was a sixty three year old ex-hippie with a gravel voice, a lawyer son to whom he gave financial advice, he’d been out the night before with a twenty five year old who had gotten drunk, President Bush was an alcoholic, drug addict sonofabitch and he himself was “busier’n a one-armed paper hanger.” However, not quite as loopy as the gentleman who attempted to accost me as I loped along the sidewalk towards the overhead rail in one of Chicago’s poorer quarters. I had come up behind him, remarking on his unbelievably loud basso profundo voice as he conducted a conversation and offered observations to no-one in particular. He spotted me as I attempted to glide past unseen. “Whoa! Din see yuh there. Ahm sarry. Hope ah din’ frighten yuh. Sarry agin Mistah. Real nice day. Oh yeh. Don’ see many of em’. Sure hope ah din’ frighten yuh there.” Etc. “Not at all my dear fellow.” I replied. “Must rush. Have to catch the Redline.” And zipped off like Zebedee down a False. Having crossed the road I got held up at the next intersection while huge SUVs chuffed past emitting enormous carbon footprints and zillion decibel rap music. “Say!” Foghorned the voice behind me. “You agin! Looks like we hangin’ together.” I forbore to mention that I would quite happily see him hanging from any of the nearby construction works and forged away at the next green, leaving him fulminating loudly at the lack of manners in the general populace. A very close shave.

As you can probably tell, not a huge amount happened during today’s Hash. Possibly because most of the GH3 contingent had got fairly shitfaced the night before during their 21st birthday party. Though Handful managed to attract the attention of several very willing male volunteers who offered to help her turn round her T-shirt that she had managed to put on back-to-front. The view from the back was really weird, with neatly groomed hair where you would expect to see a face. The trail ran through the scrub, bracken and bush land of Chobham Common, twisting and turning along the root-strewn pathways. Apparently, the rangers had warned our Guildford Hares that organised groups were not permitted to use the Common. Which was fine, since we were about as disorganised as a group could possibly be. Though the trail was most enjoyable and messed up the FRBs very effectively – with no flour for ages from a Check, then three sneaky blobs together. Perhaps the best part was the cakes and ale at two beer stops en route. Mind you, hunks of jammy cake liberally smeared with icing and a pint of beer did absolutely nothing for one’s running ability – especially after three weeks off…

Of course, to add to the complications we were in a probable foot and mouth infection area and we duly came across a large tub of disinfectant by a sign that invited us to dip our shoes in it before proceeding across a stile into the pasture beyond. Everyone did, and, led by Motox, we trotted into the green field. Sadly, it turned out to be a False. As we returned Motox advised us to return any unused disinfectant to the tub. Silly boy. Still, it shows an admirable attitude to recycling by one of our ancien régime.

At the first of the beer stops I was approached by BlouseBlazer. He peered at me with that ‘I have information’ sideways look he has. “I’ve got your dictaphone.” He intoned smugly. ‘Great,’ I thought. I had noticed SlowSucker wasn’t about and was desperately trying to remember names and incidents. BlouseBlazer carried on. “It’s in the car.” He smiled inanely. Oh for a length of piano wire, a tall tree and the fellow’s left testicle.

The only other item of note during the trail was a poster on a telegraph pole which showed a picture of a delightful black and white dog apparently grinning at the camera. ‘Lost or Stolen’ it said above the picture. ‘Monkey’ it said below the picture. One can only assume that the owner either has animal recognition problems or was somewhat unhinged by the loss.

Nice to be back.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RAs from Guildford, Surrey and Motox presided over the occasion and presented the following :-
(I have abridged this to our folks since it would go on for some time)



Style points


An inability to understand what trail marking ‘SC’ meant

Fast – it was only a plastic cupful

Lemming, Mother Theresa

Hashgate, Donut

Returning from their summer break.

Me returning from foreign climes

One of those bum-to-bum, hand through the legs affairs. Motox wouldn’t let Lemming and me do it together!


Driving to the OnTo pub instead of the trail start

Again – fast.


Pretending to be an athlete

Easy too.


Proving that BH3 sells reversible T-shirts

Very fast. No surprise there then…


Being a complete grump

Slopped it down, duffed up the RA and stalked off

We all drank to NipponTuck and Puppy for becoming proud parents and Foghorn and DragonLady for becoming proud grandparents

Up and Coming



Grid Reference






The Plowden Arms, Shiplake
* Park in church rooms car park *
* Want food?
and give ‘em a call *

Maybe Hashgate.
Possibly Motormouth.
Might be Jamie.




The Reformation
Gallowstree Common RG4 9BP