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The Rampant Cat
Woolton Hill


Dunny, Rampant Rabbit

Some Old Soaks

Swallow Donut Hashgate Cerberus Billy Bullshit Shitfor Desperate Glittertits Pissquick Loudon Tasteless Spex Flash Rainbow Warrior TC Whinge C5 Slowsucker Shandyman AWOL BGB centaur Florence Zebedee Ram Motox Lilo TinOpener Iceman Centaur Nick Andrew Dribbler Butterfly Itsyor Fiddler Cheating Spot TurdTreader

Slip Sliding Away

October had donned its galoshes and unfurled its umbrella ready for a wet day. We could have used both, along with one of those long rubber raincoats used by 1940s New York cops. It was precisely the opposite weather to the warm, dry stuff we had enjoyed two weeks ago during Cheating’s 100-mile run. When we arrived in the car park Whinge and TC were shut tight in their steamy vehicle, apparently wrapped in fluffy blankets and not coming out until absolutely necessary. Swallow, Donut and I decided their idea was a damn good one and followed suit until His Eminence, Slowsucker, wrenched open the car door on my side and thrust the Scribe’s recording machine into my cold mitt. Since I was away last week Florence had kindly offered to write the Gobsheet and had done so rather successfully, despite having only one wrist to assist her. Let’s offer her a round of applause – one-handed clapping would be appropriate. She tells me, incidentally, that the thing is getting better, if a little lumpy. But she still can’t drive. Whinge suggested to her that she could strengthen it by indulging in a bit of ball-squeezing. By the hopeful smile on his face this was not an entirely medical suggestion. Luckily, Florence’s injury hasn’t diminished her capacity for downing a pint faster than Slowsucker can come up with a good putdown line. Talking of whom, his introductory verbosity at the Gather Round is fast becoming the substance of legend. He’s even starting earlier to get all the stuff in that he wants to talk about. I’m sure that all the drooping eyelids and somnolent expressions on Sunday were just tiredness from a hectic Saturday…

One of the good things about this time of year is the patterns on the earth in the forest that are made by the falling leaves. There are just so many different patches of yellows and browns and greens and reds in jumbled confusion. The visual textures leap into the eye. I could have quite happily just walked round slowly and enjoyed the optical feast – nothing to do with general exhaustion, purely aesthetic appreciation, you understand. At least it kept one’s mind off the incessant rain and the wet bushes through which we ran. Just about all the Trail today wound its way through and along forest and the first part, the Chase, was donated in 1944 by a gentleman in memory of his friend. So it said on a brick and stone memorial that Cheating insisted on dragging me to so that I might record the fact. I’d have recorded the names of the blokes involved too if my dictaphone hadn’t thrown a wobbler at the point where I stated the facts. The thing sounded like a Hasher who’s gone for it big time on a Down Down and experienced serious blowback while at the same time trying to recite the Lord’s Prayer in Swahili.

Our Hares were managing to keep us fairly well together for the first half of the Trail and were using rather nifty flour dispensers made out of empty (but now full of flour) washing machine liquid containers. No, the containers weren’t made out of liquid you fool! They were certainly necessary since much of the flour had floated away during the torrents of (not so) gentle rain that dropethed from the heavens.

The Trail began to sort out the Trailfinders from the Traillosers and resulted in some quixotic FRBing. Donut led the Pack at one point until she declared that she didn’t like it at the front since there was nobody to talk to. Later I found myself running hell-for-leather trying to catch up with Whinge, who had somehow streaked ahead of the rest like a springbok on the veldt. Except that this veldt was a sodden panorama of shiggy and muddy puddles, punctuated by dripping trees and intersected by the occasional stream. One of which saw Swallow very nearly re-enacting the event that resulted in her Hash name. Luckily, I was running behind her so could witness the event. She reached one of those streams that look wide enough to leap nonchalently when you are a few yards away yet suddenly widen as you near the bank. She sped up to it at some speed, checked slightly in indecision. Momentum carried her forward to the slippery edge and she teetered there on tiptoe, arms thrown back to counterbalance like Tom Daley (but with boobs) at the tipping point of a spectacular header. Sadly, she managed to regain her balance and backed away from the brink, disappointing a number of spectators who had gathered to enjoy the scene. A collective sigh shimmered from them and they trudged damply onwards.

The Trail finished in some confusion since a number of people either got lost or possibly missed out some of it. The jury is still out regarding the latter though I found it very impressive that Billy, Slowsucker, Shandyman, Whinge, Iceman and myself managed to get to the pub well ahead of the usual FRBs and we congratulated ourselves that the average age of our winning group was well over 50. We, of course, jeered heartily as Zebedee, Fiddler, Andrew, C5 et al finally dragged their losers carcasses up the final hill. Mind you, a number of us paid for our unsportsmanlike behaviour since we had to stand around in the rain, cooling rapidly, while waiting for our respective ‘person with the car keys’ to stagger home.

It wasn’t quite as bad as the Lake District mountain marathon but we were all very glad to get in the dry, warm pub, near the fire and quaff an enjoyable pint. None more so than Dunny and Rampant who had been out laying and re-laying the Trail over the past couple of days. Thanks to them for their work. Despite the rain many people I spoke to said how much they had enjoyed it – even those Losers!

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

The blasted recording machine also decided not to tell me who got the Down Downs so this will have to be from memory, which, since I was a tad remote on Sunday after a reasonable amount of travelling may be rather deficient. Apologies but here goes.

Our superb RA, Glittertits, did the honours with Ram following up and presenting awards to some who participated in the Clarendon series of races recently. Recipients included Dwight, Centaur, Zebedee, TC and Posh.

For the Down Downs, Cerberus got one for parading round the car park in her underwear. C5 got one for turning out for football club Roma recently – his picture (or perhaps it was an impostor) in the Telegraph sports section clearly showed him heading the ball with his eyes closed. Curiously, he managed rather a lot of spillage possibly because he unusually insisted on a ½ pint (since he was driving). Perhaps it was the small glass that caused the problem. Donut and Swallow were awarded one for lesbianism though Donut called on Zebedee to be her champion whereupon he declared that he too had a taste for women and saluted his ‘fellow lesbians’. The debate will continue for some time as to whether that phrase is an oxymoron. Particularly when spoken by a bloke. Our Hares were awarded a well deserved drink.

Up and Coming



Grid Reference






The Duke’s Head, Wokingham RG40 2BQ
(Park in Denmark St. free car park 811683)

Our GM, His Eminence Slowsucker




The Red Lion, Woodcote
RG8 0SD.
(Use Village Hall car park.
Red Lion roast lunch £7.95. Book B4 run on 01491 780483)

Penelope Pitstop

Autumn Walk With Motox

Enjoy an autumnal amble on Saturday 22nd November at 11:00. Meet at M4/J12 Sava Centre car park near the petrol station (grid 654718) for a 7½ish mile walk. There will be a pub stop for food and drink or bring a snack.