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The Blackbird, Bagnor


Penny Pitstop, Shitshoveller

Wet But Willing

Donut Swallow Hashgate Spot Hitchiker Cheating WhiteFang Andrew NappyRash PP Diver and dog Barney Quack Slowsucker C5 Septic Slackbladder Little Stiffy Foghorn OldFart Trembler Spex LoudonTasteless Vertigo Steamer Dribbler Butterfly Handful Zebedee Florence Dutch TinOpener Lilo and dog Emma Potty Nutcracker TT3 Iceman Motox Snowballs OldDog Itsyor Fiddler Whinge TC Caboose

Didn’t We Have A Luvverly Day the Day We Went To Bagnor

We were on the M4. It began to rain. Not a few spits and spots, a description beloved of BBC weather forecasters, but great sweeping curtains of the stuff. It bounced off the tarmac and hammered on the roof of Donut’s laughingly named ‘sun’ roof which is why she, Swallow and I very, very seriously considered dropping into the nearest establishment that sold hot bacon and egg butties and gorging ourselves on their fare. But no, we decided. The Hash comes first. And we sloshed grimly on. Even more grim was the expression on Steamer’s face as he overtook us in his bilious Austin Maxi. He gripped the steering wheel and leaned forward with a ferocity of purpose that embarrassed us with our thoughts of hot tea and butties. He had obviously cut himself shaving that morning since a roughly torn piece of bogroll adorned his chin. Either that or he’s been listening to too much Nelly on his iPod. Though somehow I doubt it. We waved and smiled. He was in a world of his own.


Scurrilous Scandals

Rumour has it that Motox, that well-known champion of parsimony, dug into the voluminous depths of his largely uncharted trouser pocket, un-velcro’d and pulled forth the dusty purse that lurks there, snipped off the lead-sealed wire that protects the contents and extracted between finger and thumb a mint coin which (with trembling hand and lip) he handed to Lilo to purchase a ‘Dogs For Christmas’ charity raffle ticket. Though what Motox will do with the damn thing if he wins one is beyond me.

he Gather Round outside was a damp affair and we were all keen to get the damn thing over with as fast as possible. Shitshoveller’s briefing was mercifully, well, brief. “Standard Berkshire trail signs. On Out that way.” Good lad. We sploshed off. And where else would we go but up that bloody great hill behind the pub. Great view on a nice summer’s day but we were just intent on getting into the shelter of the woods at the top. Especially when Mother Nature generously provided us with a refreshing sample of what she can do when she sets her mind to it by whipping up a stiff breeze to ensure the rain got up one’s T shirt as well as down it. Our hares were also intent on showing us what they could do by laying a merry False along the damp track in the woods in both directions, leading us up into some leg-breaking ground strewn with freshly-cut bush and tree stumps, then back down past the False over a straggle of barbed wire. How we laughed at these jolly japesters. Quite a lot of the Trail had this kind of surprise in store. For instance, a Check would appear magically on the ground after we had run past the spot just minutes before where not a speck of flour adorned the pristine shiggy. Perhaps the best was an arrow that pointed over a stile in a wood. We dutifully climbed over it to find an ‘F’ artistically crafted on the velvety moss at the foot of a tree. This so boggled Zebedee that he felt it necessary to run hither and thither like a bank managerial greyhound on crack. Until we were all called back because the trail didn’t go that way at all. Quack and OldFart didn’t help our cause on the blasted heath of Snelsmore Common by calling On when it wasn’t. As you can see, there was a lot of confusion.

Slightly confusing too was the sudden appearance of Caboose at the golf course. We hadn’t seen him at all before this. Lord knows how he got there. Strangely, he appeared quite dry though his glasses were covered in splotches of rain. This was a tad off-putting for when one looked him straight on the magnifying effect of the raindrops gave him a many-eyed appearance. Rather like a smiling, pink-faced fly. I had visions of him caught in a spider’s web feebly squeaking, “Helllpppp mmeeeee!” (Perhaps our older cinema goers would enlighten our younger members regarding this reference.)

The most worrying experience occurred while we were trotting across the footbridge over the A34. A soaked and slickly T-shirted Itsyor loped over and, after glancing furtively left and right, confided to me that, “It feels like I’m wearing a body stocking.” Followed stomach-lurchingly with, “And it feels rather nice.” I understand the Frimley Thespian Company are advertising for a replacement Frank-n-Furter. I’ll send you the phone number, Itsyor. Or get in touch with Twanky. Oh yes. Don’t tell Fiddler.

Now it is rumoured that otters have been spotted playing in the river alongside of which we splashed on the final leg of the Hash. The wildlife afficionados among us scanned the banks for signs of the busy little fellows. They were to be disappointed that these stalwarts of the English country water world were not to be seen but they were very lucky to be rewarded with the sight of slackbladder aqeus swimming frenziedly across the turgid stream. This larger species of mammal is rarely spotted in public but on this occasion the creature found itself (for some unknown reason) on the wrong side of the river and, not wishing to backtrack on territory previously covered, decided to wade through the water. Unfortunately, the creature’s tiny brain had not realised the bed of the river was covered in thick mud. It did the only thing it could and swam for it, emerging on the opposite bank like a multi-coloured dugong. In trousers. You just wonder sometimes don’t you?

But the most surreal moment of all was after the Hash, in the comfortable pub. C5 had obviously got more ‘comfortable’ than the rest of us. He had been asked by Motox to call Dumper to find out something but found he didn’t have his mobile with him. He approached our table, wearing those giraffe-print lorgnettes of which he is so fond. “Hashgate.” He rasped out in his friendly, cheesegrater of a voice while pointing to the object that lay before me on the table. “Can I borrow your phone.” “Of course.” I replied immediately, while Donut, Spot and Swallow bit their lips and heavingly suppressed volcanic laughter as he picked it up. It took him fully a minute to figure out that there were no number buttons on it and that he was holding the Scribe’s dictaphone. The lad took it well. We can only assume the poor fellow is overworking.

Many thanks to out Hares for their hard work on a wet morning. Damn fine Trail.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

BlouseBlazer tried his hand at RA and presented the following.

Actually, the blasted mobile dictaphone stopped working at this point so from memory…

OldDog got one for a misdemeanour against BlouseBlazer from two years ago.
OldFart and Whinge got one each for… something.
Florence whipped one down faster than you could say “Fnff”.
SlowSucker lived up to his name and wasted ½ a pint over the back of his head.
Penny and ShitShoveller beasted a couple of well-earned ones down for being Hares

Sorry if I missed anyone. Perhaps I should be given a Down Down?

Up and Coming



Grid Reference






The Queen’s Oak, Finchampstead RG40 4LS





The Ship, Ashford Hill RG19 8BD

Mr Blobby, Harry

BH3 Christmas Lunch

A sackful of fun post-Hash on Sunday December 16th. £7.50 member. £10 non-members. BYOB and glass. Bring a wrapped, secret Santa present (maximum value £2). Free fun and games - eat your own weight in plum duff! Snog Foghorn under the mistletoe! See Motox for tickets.