Cold People

Whinge TC Donut Hashgate Simple Skids Lemming Mother Theresa Dumper Swallow DownBelow BGB Motox Fiddler Itsyor Steamer OldFart Tor and gentleman friend Twanky Nick Vertigo Soreskin Lara Fannybag Bogbrush Kyle Florence Zebedee Foghorn Caboose Bomber Posh Cerberus Billy Bullshit Shitfor Desperate Flash Rainbow Warrior Honeymonster Dribbler Butterfly PP NappyRash and dog Barney Glittertits Pissquick Gaffertits Spex The Tremblers Poison Ivy Cloggs Aunty Sybil Uncle??

Remembrance Day Hash

“We have no time to stand and stare” wrote William Henry Davies. No time to stand and think in our hectic lives. But stand and think we did on Sunday, if just for a minute. For it was Remembrance Sunday, and we observed our minute’s silence, followed by a poem read by Simple – ‘In Flanders Fields’ by John McRae. Though the poem was about a war long ago and the people who gave their lives so we can be free there are today people fighting on our behalf. Whether you believe in or understand the reasons why our forces are in Afghanistan just remember that a BH³ Hasher is now in Helmand Province putting his life on the line and getting the job done. Tom Young is not known to you all. He is an almost lifelong friend to PP and NappyRash and a brotherly figure to Diver. He is tall, strong, well-mannered and good company and I have spent some enjoyable times trying to keep up with him at PP’s circuit training sessions. So Tom, if you get to read this, you, like so many others are thought about and remembered and we in BH³ very much look forward to when you come back and Hash with us. We wish you and all your comrades well. On On!

As Slowsucker observed it was perhaps more than a little lucky that one of today’s proposed Hares couldn’t be arsed was unable to assist today or the Trail would have been laid by Slowsucker, Blowjob and Swallow – a more than unfortunate collection of names and mental cues. Also unfortunate was the long and fast cruise to get us out to the forest. It certainly got the heart and lungs working, especially for Zebedee and Nappyrash, who missed a turn off and nearly fetched up at The Leathern Bottle. Mind you, as a Pack reversal it worked a treat for a while until Zebedee, Itsyor, Fiddler, OldFart, Caboose and I found ourselves way out on our own in wet, ankle-twisting bracken through which ran a variety of (semi) paths and no obvious flour. It turned out that we had missed a Regroup though it was mentioned to us that the ‘RG’ was laid by Slowsucker as the rest of the Pack raced towards it. Perhaps a stray elk-hound had munched the original?

I found myself hopping over fallen branches and trying to avoid the worst of the puddles with Caboose. Until then I had always thought of him as an affable fellow without a harsh bone in his body. My assumption was to be severely tested. We approached yet another bog in which either floated or was set firmly the end of a soaking log. We stopped and viewed the scene. “Do you think that log is safe?” I queried Caboose. The hard November light glinted on his glasses giving him an oddly realistic Dr. Strangelove persona. “I expect I’ll find out after you’ve stepped on it Hashgate.” Was his callous response. A small squirrel on a nearby branch , hurrying to bear a sustaining nut to his eager family, almost dropped the thing and gasped before uttering a squeaky, “Man’s inhumanity to man” under his breath. I trotted on, sadder and wiser.

It turned out that, due to our over-eagerness, we missed one of the highlights of the Hash viz. Lemming grabbed by each leg and dragged through a deep, shiggy-laden woodland puddle. I bumped into him later as he dragged his soggy little carcass along. He described the experience as “a poor man’s colonic irrigation.” Irrigation was certainly the word for it as we sploshed our way through a variety of water features. None more so than Fannybag and Bogbrush’s young protogé, Kyle, who delighted in stamping through as many as he could find, soaking himself and anyone daft enough to be near him.

Talking of younger Hashers I must mention Lara, Soreskin’s little girl. Not only an excellent runner but a lady with a sharp pair of eyes. After the Hash Steamer maundered up to me with a hangdog expression, no car keys (“Lost.” He wailed. “Lost in the forest.”) and a request for a lift to Shiplake. He was very, very lucky for young Lara had spotted the articles, picked them up and duly handed them back to him later. I’m sure he bought her all the Coke she could drink and some of that sticky toffee pudding in the pub later.

After a fair old bit of (literally) eye-catching saplings the FRBs managed to get lost, which gave the Pack time to catch up and for the second time in a few weeks we found ourselves desperately stonking through the mud, trying to catch up with the green form of Donut. The lass is certainly coming on a bit. It must be those spinning classes that PP is running. Or is it all the beer in the pub later? Although OldFart accused me of whining about being lonely since we had seen no-one for so long it was very pleasant to see everyone again and we hoofed it through the field of raspberry polytunnels with nothing but two surly East Europeans winding plastic and a forlorn but apparently well-appointed lavatory to break up the deserted landscape. I’m sure more than a few Hashers eyed the WC longingly (after all, it was a cold, damp day and no-one’s getting any younger) but decided not to enter its welcoming interior. Well, would you? The damn thing would be over on its side in a moment with Hashers jumping gleefully all over it. Not conducive to quiet reflection and a satisfying whizzer.

A final Field Check saw Old Fart beasting off across the football pitches where the remaining Sunday league cloggers and slashers where taking down the goalposts after a hard morning’s violence, swearing and referee abusing. They viewed him with neanderthal incomprehension. Even more so when, having torn over to the opposite corner of the field, he executed a neat Cruyff turn (sans ball) and tore back along the edge of it towards Caboose and me, who had found the Trail, describing a rather neat reverse number 7 in the process.

The weather was just about to turn nasty again so it was lucky that we were close to the car park – and the sight of Pissquick not quite living up to her name. Having spotted the public loo sign she sped expectantly towards it, foaming slightly at the mouth. It was not to be. Either the sign was there as a Council-inspired jape or someone had transported the bog to Neptune. Nothing. Nada. Not even a trench hiding coyly behind a hessian screen. Just the Police Station (closed, of course) and they don’t like it if you pee on their doorstep.

Slowsucker, Blowjob – a masterly Trail and very enjoyable. Even though some of us were way out of touch. I hope you didn’t get too wet laying the thing. And I hope you managed to finish your round of golf before it got too dark later, Slowsucker. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Glittertits presented the following :-

A silky performance

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