Slippery Characters

Vlad Drac Swallow Slowsucker Donut Hashgate Shirley Flash John Dribbler Butterfly Simple Motox C5 C4 Mother Theresa Lemming Slackbladder Zebedee Florence Blowjob Twanky Gusset Hitchiker PoisonIvy Potty Nutcracker Ms Whiplash Salome Iceman PissQuick Glittertits LoudonTasteless Spex Mark Snowballs Caboose Desperate BlouseBlazer Billy Bullshit Cerberus Dunny Chris Erica Phil Steve New Boiler Handful Spot ClippedWingz Honeymonster Flash Hamlet Fukawe Karen Cheating dog Silas May… and later, Dutch, looking very chic.

The Trail’s Gone Cold

Late again! This is getting to be a habit. However, it gave Donut and me the advantage of not missing the sight of Dribbler very nearly getting flattened by a car as he ‘wandered lonely as a cloud’ o’er the A4. Obviously, he’s overdosing on the Sanatogen these days what with this and leaving his wallet in Mortimer with either Dumper or C5. And he didn’t check it when it was returned to him! I bet that picture of David Cameron he takes out and puts on his bedside table every night has a moustache on it.

The day was, quite literally, brilliant. Bright sunshine and an azure sky with cold, fresh air sweeping down off the hills. Lovely stuff but the clear weather had brought down a heavy frost overnight and puddles were crusted with crackly ice, some of which found its way into Lemming’s eager hand. He’s not bothered with the actual substance. As long as it’s cold and/or wet he’s happy to play with it/shove it down some unsuspecting Hasher’s neck. We had quite a merry skate on the tarmac surface during the early part of the Trail. One minute the plimsolls gripped the surface like a superglue limpet; the next moment arms were windmilling to avoid the pratfall so enjoyed by one’s peers. Perfect weather for Iceman. Motox had also experienced the black ice on his way to the Hash when he found his car pointing in the opposite direction to that in which he wished to go. I’m glad to say he was perfectly ok but the driver’s seat may need to be incinerated as a health hazard.

All sorts of people returned to the Hash today. Gusset skipped nimbly as ever and swore she would be running regularly with us in future. Also, Chris, with the mighty leg tattoo had re-appeared. Last time I saw him his leg looked like a painting by a two-year old who had been given only blue paint to play with. Today a fearsome lightning flash burst out of his right shorts leg, zipped electrically over his knee and earthed itself in his ankle. I think more BH³ members ought to get tattoos. What would they have? Dumper – ‘Yes darling.’ Glittertits – ‘Is it 10 o’clock yet?’ Billy Bullshit – ‘This way up.’ Mother Theresa – ‘I’m afraid he’s with me.’

We, of course, slogged up that mighty hill on the North side of the A4, having crossed back over it safely. Lemming and I gasped up it, telling each other what Christmas presents we had been given by our respective ladies. Apparently, the good Mother had given Lemming a gift voucher (I think it was for a Swiss euthanasia clinic. Do please correct if wrong). Having staggered to the top we all wandered about, completely lost in a sparsely tree’d (interesting verb – To tree. I tree, thou treeest, we all tree) wood until Dwight, sporting the latest in Pentonville haircuts, pointed us in the right direction. You guessed it, further up the crunchy tussocks of that chilly hill. And here we found the Long and Short trail split. Due to a rather pathetic calf injury I had to take the Short trail and, since I seemed to be the only one taking it, Snowballs, in a sudden burst of altruism and concern for a fellow Hasher (or did he just fancy the Short Trail?) accompanied me. It wasn’t too long before we caught up with Ms Whiplash, Salome, Fukawe and Hamlet, Spot, Honeymonster and the rest of the walkers who were waving maps about and smugly assuring us that they knew the trail better than a homing pigeon that’s been wired up to a GPS unit… which doesn’t quite explain the headscratching and furrowed brows at a bifurcation in the road. Snowballs and I nicked one of the maps and skipped off left, intent on doing the Hares little fun loop through a field of inquisitive horses, looking down on beautiful, long-ranging views, then skipping back up the hill on the tarmac to meet Simple, Donut and the rest of the Short trailers who declined to enjoy the short, scenic, friendly horse’d etc loop when they saw us diving into the undergrowth on the opposite side of the road. Now for some reason Shirley decided she needed a branch to swing on and, being helpful, I offered her several alternatives along the route. “How about this one?” “ Too low.” “Or this?” “Too short.” “This one then?” “Wrong kind of tree.” Etc. Eventually, she found the perfect bough next to a very pretty churchyard that was being tended by a nice old chap who gave her the kind of look he usually reserved for a (satellite navigation-free) mole just emerging next to Ethel Scroggins’ (1701-1785) resting place. You could see his point on several levels. Moles don’t wear hooped, woolly black and purple leggings for a start. Well, not the ones I’ve seen.

And now today’s educational item. Something I had never know before. Caboose is a bottomless vessel of knowledge when it comes to railways. I’m sure everyone knows that the record run of the "Mallard" on July 3rd, 1938 was made with a six car streamline set plus a dynamometer car, with a total tare of 240 tons. And that the Mallard was chosen because it was one of the four A4 engines with Kylchap exhaust at that time. However, I bet Caboose could tell you how many times the toilets flushed between Durham and Edinburgh. Not only that but he told me about old railway clocks. It seems that they ran ever so slightly fast so that just before the hour there would be a minor delay in order that the trains could leave exactly on time. Fascinating eh? Not sure how that would affect the 9:23 but jolly interesting nonetheless. Caboose also underlined my confidence that he neither knows nor cares anything about cars. Following last week’s New Year resolution list in which he featured as resolving to “Buy that Hummer” he asked me in all seriousness, “Hashgate. What’s a Hummer?” Nice one, Caboose. Thank the Lord there are still some sane people about.

Many thanks to Hares Centaur and Dwight who turned out to lay the trail on a bitterly cold morning.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Returning RA Simple presented the following. The Hares looked particularly fetching in felt hats fashioned as a chicken and turkey. The term ‘dumbclucks’ came to mind…

Only slightly out of practise

Up and Coming