Passengers

Motormouth Jamie Donut Hashgate Vertigo Foghorn Mrs Blobby Mr Blobby Utopia CabinBuoy Ms Whiplash Nick OldDog Cloggs Nonstick Centaur AWOL Dunny Rampant Rabbit Shutupwally Pissquick Glittertits Gaffertits Motox BGB Penny Pitstop Shitshoveller Slackbladder Little Stiffy Chris Turdtreader Soreskin Jake TT2 Florence Zebedee Twanky Dwight Scoot Dribbler Butterfly TomTom Compass Septic Dumper C5 Cheating Lonely Bootsie Flash

Making Tracks

We chuffed into the station car park reasonably early for us, to be met by Motormouth and Jamie saying, as we backed up to park, “There’s no-one here yet!” Which prompted a reply from the car next to us. “Oh yes there is!” Foghorn took time out from calling one of those naughty numbers on his mobile to grin hairily at the lads. It was really quite useful arriving early for once since we got to talk to quite a lot of people. Mr Blobby came over for a friendly badinage foils session. Touché mon brave! Though he did hug me at one point, which was rather worrying. Vertigo hobbled over and whipped out his excuse for running slowly tonight even before a step in the wrong direction had been taken. Apparently, both he and Twanky had been foolish enough to run the Shinfield 10k in the morning and were suffering a tad. Unlike Dwight, who had run a marathon the day before. Or Florence who had reeled off a swift sixteen miles. Returning after a long absence was Soreskin and her fine lad and good runner, Jake. Also, Compass and TomTom who managed not to either get horribly lost or file for divorce proceedings following a ‘Who Put The Wrong Postcode In The Satnav’ session. And Chris with the lightning leg turned up for his second week in a row – time he got named.

The Hares must have been well pleased at the start. This went the usual way down to the canal bridge and most of us turned right – expecting to go out on to the Common. Which was also the usual way. Unfortunately, the ‘F’ a long way down the towpath was partially rubbed out and we all followed Shitshoveller and Centaur and Chris (i.e.the usual suspects) sheepishly out towards the Common with no flour to follow at all. So it was with a heavy heart and even heavier legs that we ran all the way back to the bridge again, desperately puffing to catch up with the long gone sensible Hashers who had waited at the bridge. Poor Zebedee, walking with a calf injury, had also been suckered in along with us and also had to walk all the way back. We must have done almost a mile on that False. Well done, Hares, for the earliest/longest False to date!

And so to Wednesday night. Tuesday night’s writing was curtailed a tad due to the lateness of the hour so we are on to the next evening and, even though it is a lovely one with sun shining and birds tweeting I am really, really (no, really) happy to sit here writing the Gobsheet. Trouble is, after a couple of days the immediacy of the moment is lost somewhat and in the back of my mind is that pile of shirts waiting the hot weight of my sturdy iron and the hiss of compressed steam. Lucky old them, eh? If that was all it took to get rid of a few wrinkles I’m sure there would be a mass rush away from the Botox and towards the Morphy Richards. Would you need to slide yourself on to that ironing board sleeve attachment thingy to smooth the cheeks (I am talking about the facial ones, you understand)? And would people laugh if you had a knife-edge crease down the middle of your face? You’re right. I’m wandering. Must get my mind back on the job. Oops. Careered off in a completely different mental direction. Must concentrate.

Actually, not a huge amount happened since most of us were egbloodyxausted lurching up those blasted hills. Great views at the tops I know. But talk about knackering. The Pack spread wider than, as C5 would say, a strumpet in old London town. The Regroup at the top of the second hill saw Hashers clambering leadenly up the slippery track, holding on to each other for support and gasping for breath. Glittertits confessed gaspingly to me that his best running had been done before he was twenty. Half his lifetime ago, eh? And he didn’t get much support from his daughter, Gaffertits, who was grinning like a hyena because she got to the Regroup before him. Cloggs stumbled breathlessly over to me and whispered that she wanted it known that she ran past Centaur at one point. Quite a major achievement for a vegetable-lover. Talking of which, NonStick was spotted by Donut and me blowing his own trumpet (cornet, actually) at Wokingham the previous Sunday. His brass band were leading the St. George’s Day parade and were making a frightful din playing magnificently.

After everyone finally arrived, Hare TinOpener let everyone go off apparently the wrong way and gave Donut and me the nod to go uphill the other way. We were on flour! Yippee! Donut revelled in the FRB opportunity and we gleefully sploshed our way up the slippery track past the woods, calling everyone On Back as instructed by our hare. The Swine! It was merely a loop up and through the woods where I nearly deprived Mr Blobby of his manhood by stepping on the end of a log. The other end rose like a snapping crocodile towards his swaying nadgers. He missed it by just a few inches (guess he’s fortunate in that respect after all).

There was a long and enjoyable downhill cruise through the yellow field of rapeseed oil plants and on to and over the road where I chatted with the affable Lonely. Then caught up with Septic and Donut again IN THE FIELD WITH THE COWS. Note the capitals. You have? Oh good. This is to emphasize the panic with which my two delightful companions viewed the herd of inquisitive bullocks some ½ a mile away. i.e. nowhere near us at all. The girls are not happy with large, hairy animals anywhere near them (I shall make no jokes at any Hasher’s expense here) and were alternately trying to trot on to get through the field, walk so as not to be noticed by the bovines, hide behind me (where for goodness sake!), hiss at Foghorn ahead to stop calling On and point out that if we were trampled or licked to death it would be my fault for wearing a bright red T shirt. We briefly discussed yanking out a tussock (there’s that word again, Itsyor!) each and holding it in front of ourselves but eventually decided on a Motox full-on powerwalk which did the trick; getting us to the other side of the field gate which we shut firmly. Fortunately, our tired legs had only a shortish way back to the original canal bridge and a short step up to the car park. That first pint went down beautifully.

Back at the pub Hash Tick C5 managed to lose the £20 subs money that Compass and TomTom had given him within 5 minutes of the giving. He wandered the pub in a desperate search while clawing around in his money bum bag like some demented kangaroo. I am happy to report that he later managed to find it though knowing what a kind and honest soul he is he probably stumped up the lost dosh from his own pocket. Don’t tell him I said that last bit.

A hard old Trail, especially for the day’s runners. But very enjoyable on our first really pleasant evening this year. Thanks Hares. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Standin RA ShutupWally presented the following in his own inimitable style :-

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