Village Hall People

OldDog Florence Lemming Mother Theresa Hashgate Donut Swallow Itsyor Fiddler Dave Lonely Bootsie Cloggs NonStick Centaur Mr Ben Louise Matt Shutupwally with rat Bonnie Nappyrash PP and dog Barney trainspotter Iceman StraddleVarious Ms Whiplash Salome TinOpener Lilo Shitfer Slippery Desperate Fannybag Scarlet Pimpernel Mrs Pimp Twanky BlowJob HeyBabe CIAC BlouseBlazer TC Whinge Dumper Foghorn Spex Loudontasteless BillyBullshit Hitchiker Dutch Potty Aqua Motox Honeymonster Septic TT3 Penny Pitstop JWax Stinking Bishop Grommet SlackBladder Little Stiffy Flash Dipstick Ladybird F’ingBlowJob Drexel Pyro C5 Sue5 Simple Lockjaw Waddyasay GnomeAlone Rowenta and shedfulls of people from other Hashes

Three Cheers For the Pink White and Blue

Voicemail called me at 10:55 as Donut rally-drove her gallant little Polo (named Jasper, incidentally) up the slender back road towards Sonning Common. I braced both legs and closed my eyes while the world flashed past and hedgehogs out for their Sunday morning stroll deposited half their body weight on the tarmac before leaping (appropriately) hedgewards. “Hashgate. This is Mother Theresa.” Came the voice. It seemed entirely appropriate that this Saint of a woman should be calling me at a time when the afterlife seemed all to close for comfort. However, it turned out that it was our very own Mother T. who, along with Lemming, seemed to be lost. “We’re at Checkendon Village Hall but there’s no-one here.” Wailed the poor girl. I understood her distress. No-one would want to be in the back of beyond, alone, with Lemming. Their plight was the result of our organiser(?), Cheating, who had switched village halls at the last moment. Cheating’s organisational skills are like someone with advanced constipation. They know what they want to do but lack the ability to follow through. And no, I was not going to say he’s full of sh….

Despite the switch a hugemungous crowd of Hashers from every corner of the globe (well almost) thronged the car park, blew bugles, raspberries and their own trumpets while the multitude of Hares attempted to explain the workings of the white, blue and pink trails. One had to sympathise with them since they had been laying the trails in that awful weather earlier and the longest trail was about 8 miles long. Even the medium was about 6. Rowenta almost fainted when he heard this. Lockjaw asked me if BH³ had a large membership and expressed understandable surprise when I replied that it had. We zipped off up the road for ¼ mile, entered the forest, and stood there completely knackered waiting for someone to point out the trail(s). For indeed, blobs of white, blue and pink splattered the trees and the wet leaves all around. OldDog sounded off with that skull-splitting Hibernian yelp of hers, “Arrrre yew?!” Though this time she got it right and asked before anyone called ‘On On’ rather than immediately afterwards. For some reason she was in a very yelpy mood today and uttered shrieks, squeaks and wails all the way round. So much so that Whaddyasay awarded her a Down Down later for noise pollution. We sped off in three different directions. Then met up again a few hundred yards later. Then split up again etc. etc. We had to call, “On On Pink” or “On On Blue” and so on since we were all so close no-one knew whether they were being called the right way or being led to their doom. Of course, since it had rained heavily certain elements were in their, um, element. Lemming, Dipstick, Rowenta, Drexel, Whinge and GnomeAlone revelled in the shiggy, liberally coating passers-by in chunks and gobbets with the liberal beneficence of a Salvation Army lady doling out soup to a bunch of reeking tramps. Except some of the reeking tramps (pardon me, ladies – just an expression) regarded the juvenile antics with an arched eyebrow, a short sniff and a haughty demeanour. Some of the revellers were paid back by having to run round with extremely wet nether regions. Not pleasant. Though by the look of some of them, they were used to the experience. The damp Rowenta caused much hilarity to Swallow and me. We ran up behind him just as he uttered the somewhat inflammatory observation (about we know not whom), “Look at the tits on that!” and immediately tripped over a feminist tree root, causing a sudden sideways rush and a windmilling of arms. Serves you right, matey. Nice one, Ms Root.

Somehow or other, just before the second Regroup we bumped into Billy, who had managed to get himself lost from the blue trail. He seemed a tad forlorn and blamed it on the wind, which blew all other sounds, including ‘On On’ to oblivion. We felt terribly sorry for him. Especially when we remembered how he kicks out Checks in the wrong direction to try and confuse people. Poor fellow ;-) It took a while and a fair bit of mud-running through a soggy forest where I used to run with Shep – he would have loved the shiggy – but we eventually staggered up a steep track in the forest and were greeted stage right by Cheating, SlackBladder and Little Stiffy who had ferried the beer to the Beer Stop. Blouse Blazer was there already and tried to fenagle us into thinking he had arrived there before all the other Long Trailers by dint of his athletic prowess and not his corner-cutting ability. Fat chance! We stood, slurped and steamed until we got cold. Then stiff-legged it across the green. Fortunately, it was not too far to go. For most of us. Quite why Ladybird, who had reached a stile across the little valley where lay white, blue and pink blobs of flour, ran back along the fence line when it was perfectly clear to anyone with the intelligence of a house fly that the trail went straight on is a mystery. PP, Trainspotter and I drifted up the steep shiggy slope like ghosts. Oh, all right, we staggered up it, gasping and retching like a reeking tramp who has just mistaken a cup of steaming oxtail for a jigger of meths. The sun shone almost warmly as PP, Barney and I spotted the On Inn (we had lost Trainspotter, who opted for the longer way in – why’d he do dat?) nipped over the main road and choked our way up the short hill to the Village Hall and a restorative draught of Butler’s best.

What a warm, welcoming gathering was there. We drank free Scotch in honour of sadly lost friend Aunt Sally. We stuffed ourselves on one of LoudonTasteless’s incomparable buffets (where does he get those peacock’s tongues?) We drank damn fine pints of Butler’s. And Dutch and Hitchiker (having decided sensibly not to Hash) strolled attractively and languidly among us wearing outrageously attractive outfits and expensive boots like revitalised Spice Girls. Without wishing to offend any tree roots I am proud to report that BH³ leads the Hashing world in gorgeous crumpet (not just those two, he added swiftly).

Many thanks to our organisers and Hares. Today was a resounding success. Despite Cheating.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Several RAs, including Simple presented the following. I will confine myself to reporting ours or we’ll be here all night.

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