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St John’s Hall, Mortimer


Dumper, Old Dog, Mr Blobby

Brisk and Nippy

Whinge Jwax Donut Hashgate Utopia Hitchiker Spot PissQuick Glittertits Posh Bomber BlouseBlazer Dribbler Butterfly Mrs Blobby Scarlet Pimpernel Mrs Pimp Swallow Spex LoudonTasteless C5 Iceman TinOpener Lilo and dog Emma Twanky Blowjob Ladybird Little Stiffy Slackbladder Show’em and baby Lena The Abominable Barfman Mhairi Vertigo Shitfor Desperate Billy Bullshit Cerberus Bogbrush Fannybag Septic Florence Zebedee Ms Whiplash Salome Dwight Julia Scoot Motox ShutupWally NappyRash PP and dog Barney Nick Oddballs Snowballs Aqua OldFart Fiddler Flash Vlad Drac Foghorn Stinking Bishop Grommet Quack Shitshoveller Penny Pitstop Caboose NonStick Cloggs Baldrick The Tremblers Dunny Mark Cheating Lonely Bootsie

A Cold Coming We Had Of It

Earth certainly stood hard as iron and water like a stone. Stand still for more than a minute and, for the gentlemen wearing shorts, there would be a look of consternation following the sound of two dull brass ‘clunks’. Whinge had got it sorted. He had left his running shoes at home and opted for a roll-up in his fagmobile. Unlike Donut and me who were even congratulated after the Trail by Zebedee who was impressed that anyone could actually turn up later than Florence and he. We set off through the sun-gilded but frost-bright air after Jwax who strode on confidently, thanks to some excellently laid arrows and blobs by the Hares who had kindly thought of latecomers like us.

What we hadn’t realised was that, while we drifted, ghostlike, Westwards we could have saved ourselves a mile or so by nipping corporeally Eastwards towards the recreation ground. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, we thought sardonically as we clambered exhaustedly over the fence looking as knackered as a certain reindeer on Christmas night. It took quite a while, a few dog-legs and the occasional friendly walker who eyed Donut’s Santa hat with more than a hint of suspicion. Eventually, let me stress that word, we bumped into Hare OldDog who led a small group of confused lady Hashers such as PissQuick, Utopia and Hitchiker towards us. Not surprisingly this confused us too. A snatch of poetry comes to mind:-

Twas the Hash (almost) before Christmas and all through the Trail
Nothing was moving. Not hardly a snail.
For OldDog was lost as an OldDog can be.
She moved in a daze, close inspecting each tree.
For any flour blob that might be on the trunk.
But nothing was there. It had all done a bunk.

There was nothing for it. Being a gent I had to find the trail for them. I had gone approximately 500 yards in the wrong direction through the sparse trees, rabbit holes cunningly disguised with leaves and not a flour blob for, oh about 500 yards I should think it was, when OldDog suddenly howled “On On” from the opposite direction. Oh well. The rest of the brisk and crisp Trail took in The Blobbys’ back garden, a small but perfectly cold stream that Vertigo and I slipped into, a spot of tarmac and some general confusion when no-one could find the flour despite knowing exactly where the Hall was. Only Baldrick and SlackBladder nipped off up the road to warmth and an early mulled wine.

Party Time

LoudonTasteless excavated, then flicked, a bogey casually into the gravy jug, lashed his kitchen lackeys with the sharp end of his tongue, basted the birds and prodded the simmering Christmas duffs with a blackened fingernail. Under his gimlet eye The Tremblers rapidy and silently washed pots and eased trays of rolling stuffing balls out of the oven on a flat tray. Not easy to do when you’re a Trembler. Loudon certainly puts the ‘F’ in food, they thought. Yet not daring to utter a word. Whenever someone appeared at the serving hatch Loudon would be over in a flash, snatching up a clean tea-towel to hold over his stained overalls (bit of a bloody turkey plucking earlier. Should have killed it first).

Hmm, wonder if the jacket potatoes are ready?” he thought, plunging a hairy fist into the mound of silver-papered objects and retrieving a large one, which he proceeded to rub thoughtfully up and down his groin like Muralitharan eyeing up Collingwood before a particularly viciously spinning delivery. The object seemed quite firm and he tossed it back into the pot before checking a few more in the same manner. “Pity.’ he mused, that the potato masher was missing. “Have to do the swede in the traditional manner.” Heaving the large pot to the floor he slipped off his plimsolls (amazing how long original Green Flash last) and socks (and how long you can go without washing your socks if you turn ‘em inside out and swap feet a couple of times). Since he had not been able to take part in the Hash this seemed like very good exercise and he set to the task with gusto, streamers of mashed swede spurting up between his toes and plopping back into the pot. When he had finished, luckily, there were a couple of serving spoons nearby. Very handy for scraping under the toes. But where had that loose toenail gone? No time to worry now. And no bloody ashtrays! Loudon ground out his dog-end in the sprouts and set to, laying out a perfect and succulent-looking lunch for the punters. They never know…

And what fun we had. Watching Spot attempt to blow up one of those long balloons that fly slowly round the ceiling without passing out. Scarlet Pimpernel and Mrs Pimp wearing very strange, shiny party hats as handed out by Florence. Billy Bullshit receiving a pair of nipple tassels in the Secret Santa. Santa himself, looking suspiciously like Dumper, hugging and kissing all the ladies who stepped up to get a present. A game of ‘spot the Hasher’ (most of them seemed to be Spot!) from a set of very old photographs. (Very old indeed!) Even though Zebedee and Lilo couldn’t even recognise themselves! As ever it was damn good fun and everyone mucked in, particularly the kitchen staff. Many thanks to them.

So we had an immaculate conception (an exceptionally well thought-out trail), sheep (BH3), shepherds (the Hares – well done and thanks), Mhairi (Mary…), a baby (Lena), gold (Secret Santa Terry’s All Gold), frank incensed (Ladybird stubbed his toe on the trail) and Brrrr (It was damn cold!). Along with an ass (Wally). And an (On) Inn.

Merry Christmas. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Father Motoxmas presented the following :-



Style points

Shitshoveller, Dwight

100 runs! Well done!

Slight element of drownage by Dwight


Misleading everyone

They had spectacles made of tubing through which to suck the amber fluid. Not entirely successfully…


Short-cutting desperately

Old Dog, Handful, Iceman


Surprisingly all together

Mr Blobby, OldDog Dumper

The Hares

Very good considering all the work they had been doing.

Up and Coming



Grid Reference



Christmas Day



Stuff the turkey. Come Hashing at
The Fox & Hounds,
Sheffield Bottom, Theale RG7 4BG





Sandhurst Memorial car park
On2 Wellington Arms GU47 9BN
(Please do not park at the pub)


New year’s Day



Resolve to come Hashing at
The Rising Sun
Burghfield Common RG7 3QA





The Falmouth Arms
Woolhampton RG7 5RT

Dwight (Gulp!)