Sheep

Donut Hashgate Iceman Ms Whiplash OldFart Fannybag Bogbrush Spex LoudonTasteless cerberus Billy Bullshit Heybabe CIAC Baldrick JWax Bomber Posh Dutch C5 BGB Slowsucker Dumper Nick Whinge TC Shitshoveller penny Pitstop Nappyrash Diver PP and dog Barney Twanky Blowjob AWOL Mr Blobby Utopia Cheating Florence Zebedee TT3 ShutupWally Gaffertits Glittertits Pissquick Jess Winnie Jeannine Hitchhiker David Al Andy Muff Mrs Muff Motox Itsyor Fiddler Lonely Slowsucker Desperate Shitfor TomTom

Caboose Stays On track

Mid August. A beautiful old pub in a lovely village setting by the church. What more could you want? Some non-pants weather for a start. Dark clouds scudded overhead. It was gloomier than Motox’s coal hole in mid-November. Donut and I had decided we would get to the pub early, knowing that getting a parking place was as difficult as finding flour on a BGB Trail. OldFart wandered up, looking for trouble. “Bit dangerous isn’t it?” He queried of us through Donut’s open driver window. “What is?” We asked in return. “Letting a woman drive you.” He replied slyly. Frankly, I was surprised, given that Donut’s arm was resting on the door at about the same height as his wizened cobblers, that he managed to keep them attached to his equally wizened person. He followed up by telling us how he had been winding up Itsyor about the fact that he (OldFart) had beaten him (Itsyor) at the Fun Run recently. He wandered off, looking for more mischief no doubt. It was quite fascinating watching the parking antics of the motorists, Hash and pub patrons, around the tiny green. Ms Whiplash cruised in in her MR2, noted a well dressed bloke of hefty appearance waddling from the pub and ordered him to remove his car from in front of us. As soon as he had vacated the space, following a lengthy mobile phone conversation that hinged around the ‘where are you?’ ‘I’m at the pub’ and similar fascinating and vital communications, she pulled in, backed up, pulled forward along the same track, pulled back along the same track, and abandoned the thing halfway between the verge and the middle, “Just in case I get blocked in”. Spex and LoudonTasteless droned slowly past us, looking vacant and ignoring our friendly wave. They snail-paced right round the tiny green and exited in the direction they had just arrived. I’d never seen zombies in a car before.

We gathered shiveringly outside the pub where I noted Mr David Dawkins had rejoined us after a long absence. This is the gentleman who, two years ago, had agreed to lay a Hash with me so I could teach him how to do it, but had vanished off the face of the earth when the time came. Oh yes, I haven’t forgotten you blighter! Not that I hold a grudge you understand. Now Caboose had asked several people to help him Hare tonight and he handed out little maps to Donut, Florence and me in the fond hope that we would help BH³ find the Trail. What an optimist. Donut led the walkers at Marathon race-walking pace completely away from the pub at one point. Florence largely followed the Pack (sensible girl!) and I staggered after the back markers desperately trying to breath (man flu). So it all went rather well. Especially as Caboose had laid a shorter Trail in case it rained. It did piddle a bit but our main problem was getting back before darkness descended so we were very glad it wasn’t too long.

The thing rattled along at a fast pace with Cheating trying (fairly successfully) to wind up Caboose by moaning about the tarmac. Billy Bullshit was in full flight, insisting that he had only called ‘On’ up a False trial because there had been five blobs before the ‘F’. Though the more believable Fannybag confirmed there were but three. Poor Diver was suffering due to the speed of the Hash even though she was being dragged along by superhound Barney whose eagerness to head the Pack is equalled only by Zebedee, who affects the same tongue out, eyeballs-on-stalks, wheezing approach to his running. Baldrick, Spex and OldFart led a splinter group of SCBs while C5 ghosted along the correct Trail with a lofty aloofness and a barely raised eyebrow at their whey-faced pusillanimity.

Since we were all running so fast there was damn all time for anyone to do anything of note and the best thing happened after the Hash. However, a number of us experienced a Doppelgänger moment during a trot across a damp but fine, green meadow. Lonely, Bogbrush and I were startled to see the entire Berkshire Hash gathered soggily under a tree. We stopped to watch, as nine of them raced across our path and stood, bleating, to our right. The rest of the flock stamped about, trying to make a decision and waiting for someone to do something. “Baa.” They bleated brainlessly. “Whaaaat too doo.” “Four legs good.” etc (they were a Blairites – see the political/literary joke there? No? Please yourselves). Finally, one of them stumbled slightly towards the breakaway group with a sound that was similar to “Aaarn Aaarn”. This was enough for the rest who raced wild-eyed, Maa’ing and Baa’ing frantically, to join their smaller group, who stood around wondering why the larger group was joining them. It was a perfect example of Hash mentality and only one person (Lonely) made the ancient mint sauce joke. Well somebody had to.

The other thing I noticed was AWOL. Now I don’t know if you have ever run behind the fellow but he certainly has an interesting running style. I followed him along a dark snicket towards the end of the Trail. I’m dead sure he has a rubber left leg. Check it out. He swings his member forward (easy, ladies) in a fairly conventional style. Yet as soon as it makes contact there is a distinct sideways rolling and bowing motion. It was most off-putting. I kept half-darting forward in case the thing snapped, leaving his lower limb dangling. I wonder if he has to use a sheepskin leg muff in winter to stop it perishing? Does it leave a strange smell in the bed? Can he use it to play ‘fetch’ with eager dogs? The Hash has to know. Tell us now AWOL!

And so to the aprés-Hash moment of humour. I had been chatting pleasantly and idly with Dumper for some time when I mentioned that I wondered who was being RA tonight. “Oh Shit!” He burst out. “I think it’s me!” And he rushed into the pub to order drinks and try and figure out to whom he should award them. Two minutes later Glittertits walked out of the other bar, bearing a tray of drinks which he was going to award as Down Downs – since he was tonight’s RA. Ho. Ho. Though it was very tempting I couldn’t let Dumper buy another round of drinks so went in and stopped him mid-purchase. Bearing in mind that he whipped off my trainer later in order that it could be filled with booze for me to drink, perhaps I should have done…

Our thanks to Caboose for a fast and enjoyable Trail that got us back (just!) in the light.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Tonight’s RA Glittertits presented the following :-

See above and, yes, it did taste rather strange!

Up and Coming