Hooked On The Hash

OldDog LoudonTasteless Spex C5 Dumper Utopia Mrs Blobby Donut Hashgate Spot Hitchiker Swallow Shitfor Dessperate Billy Bullshit Cerberus Twanky Blowjob Nappyrash Terie Itsyor OldFart Fannysniffer Nutcracker Potty Snowballs Whinge TC Glittertits Pissquick Gaffertits Baldrick Quack CIAC Heybabe Iceman TomTom Compass Motox Shitshoveller Penny Pitstop Dutch Slackbladder Little Stiffy Bomber Posh Dipstick Nonstick Cloggs Trainspotter Anorak Cheating Florence Zebedee TT2 Nick Vanessa Dunny Rampant Rabbit Nick Lonely Alastair Katherine Leonora

Backward In Going Forward

It seemed best to arrive and park quietly for opposite in the Land Rover, nodding gently, head on chest was our very own Hash Mash, LoudonTasteless. Next to which was Spex, head lolling back, displaying her vibrating epiglottis in all its trembling pink glory. Luckily, the old Polygrip had locked the teeth in place tighter than a barnacle to a ship’s bottom. Even C5s attempt to ram the woodpile next to me while parking failed to stir the slumberers. Actually, I can report that C5 has obviously been listening to a little hip hop or playing the new Grand Theft Auto these days. His car contained Dumper, Utopia and Mrs Blobby, the latter two he described to me as his and Dumper’s ‘bitches’. I’m sure the ladies in question would wish to reply something like, “Yo yo homey. Phat’s reel bad. Dissin’ da sisters askin’ fo’ a splatterin’ wit’ a Tech nine.” Or somethin akin to that.

Billy Bullshit, on the other hand, is getting in touch with his ‘other’ side. Watching Brokeback Mountain recently and wafting over to me after the Hash in a state of déshabille to show me his very own body spray. And announcing to Shitfor, Desperate, PP, Nappyrash, Cloggs, Nonstick, TC and Whinge that he thought I had a nice bum. I am seriously worried about that boy.

Jenks had experienced a monumental eureka moment while trying to figure out the course of the Trail. After days of deep consideration in a darkened room both brain cells fired at once (following a double mackeral sandwich) resulting in a sudden manic grin and the raising of a triumphant finger. “Got it!” he announced. You remember the trail he laid last year? We ran it backwards.

We started on that fun loop through some sticky ground towards the river where, somewhat to our surprise Slackbladder swung the FRB mantle breezily over his shoulders and staggered off in front of the Pack. Of course, we looped almost straight back towards the road and the pub but not before we disturbed a small herd of exquisitly beautiful Jersey cows. At least, Cloggs thought they were Jerseys and Desperate (living up to her sobriquet) thought they were beautiful. While reaching out a hand to stroke between the long-lashed liquid eyes of the nearest inquisitive beast Cloggs informed me that if you grasp them by the neck in a certain way and push with your shoulder they will go down on you. I did not ask how or where she had obtained this information. Potty, meanwhile, had decided to lessen the chances of attack by prostrating himself on the grass in an attitude of complete subservience (it works at home I understand) before sliding sideways under the barbed wire fence. We met some more cows – this time with their cute calves – much later on after the Beer Stop. Unfortunately, they were with an enormous black bull at the time who appeared to be carrying a couple of basketballs under his nether regions. I think this was what stopped him from thundering towards us – despite the fact that while most of us had opted for a safe path that took us between the herd and the fence (and gave them the rest of the field to go to) LoudonTasteless was trotting absent-mindedly over to their right, cutting off the escape route. Obviously he hadn’t quite woken up. Apart from the odd plimsoll-full of cow poo we got away unscathed.

But earlier, having left Stouth Stoke behind we beasted up that long, long, ever-rising featureless field. Towards a hill. Urk. This was serious, head-down-and-don’t-try-to-think-about-it running. We could see the kite wheeling in the wide sky above us, waiting to pick clean any Hash carcass that might fall behind. Actually, the view there is quite stunning. Generally, we are not used to wide open areas, living most of our lives cooped up in offices or cars in towns. Here you could feel the deep, slow heartbeat of the earth, allow the miles of open sky and fields into your eyes, free yourself. Must be the endorphins I suppose. Whatever it was it sure felt good. Especially when we got to the top of the hill and followed Spot as he motored (without brakes or even an MOT, mused TrainSpotter) way down the hill we had stumbled breathlessly up the last time we ran round this trail. Jenks was at the bottom by a Check, crowing over the sight of poor Itsyor who was stumbling back from the fairly obvious False. It was on this downhill cruise that OldDog told me that I made her quiver. “Why thankyou.” I replied delightedly, pleased that I hadn’t quite lost it. However, OldDog made it very clear that the quivering in question was caused solely by the rather piercing ‘On On!’ that I had let go while fairly close behind her.

Before I forget I must say how happy BH³ are to see Blowjob again who is recovering rapidly from her broken wrist. Good to have you back, Bev!

Whinge led us up into the woods, through the crackly undergrowth… and back on to the same track we had been on before. What a surprise this was! (Just the right light touch of irony there I feel). Lonely kept me company on the long cruise down to the river where we passed TomTom and Compass who were giving each other mutual, and physical, support before fetching up at the beer stop. What a relief! Even though a razor-toothed mob of salt-hungry insects fell upon us in toothy ecstasy. However, this six-legged crowd immediately attracted a swoop of swallows – or were they swifts – which performed dazzling aerobatics above us. OldDog was asking Itsyor, OldFart and anyone else who would listen what the collective term is for swallows, swifts and house-martins.I have no idea. Do you?

For the last words we must go back to our former GM, Spex, who has apparently fallen on hard times. Just after Billy had made his strange post-Hash comment about my buns she wandered vacantly over to where we were sitting outside and, before we knew it, had bummed some crisps and a tomato off Shitfor who was the keeper of the picnic food brought by his crew. It’s always the same when you do a kindly charitable act. Another beggar appears, cap in hand. In this case it was Dutch.

Well it may have been a reverse of the Trail last year but it is such a nice area we’ll forgive the good Reverend and thank him, Dylan, Kitten and Squirrel for their efforts.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Mysoginist C5 presented the following :-

…and enjoyed a pint from it

Up and Coming