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The Swan Inn
Sherborne St. John


Mr Blobby, C5

Neither Seen Nor Heard

Down Below Lemming Mother Theresa C4 Hashgate Donut Zebedee Florence Baldrick Motox Shitshoveller Penny Pitstop Shandyman Slippery Mrs Blobby OldDog Snowballs Hamlet Fukawe The Tremblers Slowsucker Dumper Septic Shutupwally Dribbler Spot Hitchiker RainbowWarrior Flash Itsyor Dunny RampantRabbit Bogbrush fannybag BGB Helen Iceman Nonstick Cloggs Ms Whiplash Salome Turdtreader Aqua Oddballs Spex LoudonTasteless

What Hash?

Now why did Hashgate write ‘What Hash?’ I hear you ask. There could be several reasons. A degenerative brain condition leading to loss of memory perhaps? Could there be a triangle of tension between C5, Mr Blobby and our Scribe leading to a lip-curling sneer of a Gobsheet? Did he leave out a comma, which would, if provided, have posited an entirely different question, altogether? Nope. Got there late. Realizing the time Donut had stamped the peddle firmly to the meddle and we had screamed out of Binfield Heath like black dogs of hell and several minor demons were after us. ½ a mile down the road I remembered something and ventured timidly to the intent, staring figure hunched over the steering wheel, “Umm. Ha. Ha. I’ve, erm, left the Gobsheets in my car.” Ever done a 180 outside what used to be The Coach and Horses in the rain-soaked country lane at the bottom of my road with three cars approaching (one of which was a police car)? No? Well I shouldn’t. We roared back up my road, scattering a couple of stray b. d’s of h. and an m. d. who had stopped to inspect a two–day old rabbit carcass with the intention of snacking lightly prior to pruning and burning the snippings of old Mrs Tweedey’s hedge. She’s studying demonology at Henley College so they thought they could help, and they like burning things. So we changed cars didn’t we? We headed for Caversham, Reading’s IDR, the Swallowfield bypass and that mobile speed camera near the Wellington monument. And before you ask, no we didn’t, fortunately. But we did get caught at Bramley by the unmanned level crossing. The gates were closed. The lights flashed… there was a bit more flashing. Then quite a lot more. After an age of being stared at by me the car clock finally flicked over a lazy minute. I could feel my hair growing. An old dear in a beige mac and a rain jane on her head rolled slowly up to the barriers on her electric wheelchair, leant casually back to a balanced position at 45o, then limbo’d under the barrier, performed a slow doughnut to smoke up the wheels and slowly disappeared backwards from view towards the opposite barrier, flicking Harvey Smiths at us with a vacant, geriatric expression. The train finally rumbled past – all two miles of it – towing several sheep and a small donkey, all of whom trotted casually behind it. When we finally got to Sherborne St John, spotted BGB and unidentified lady (turned out to be new lady, Helen, who BGB had invited but not warned that she might get a bit muddy - nice one BGB!) loping round the corner, then drew in to the pub car park (now bereft of Hashers) the threat of a Porterhouse Blue had lifted slightly so I stepped out into the freezing rain, strapped on a very stiff pair of running shoes and stonked off wetly to my first False of the day. Donut was very sensible. Sitting in the car, wrapped in every coat imaginable, she firmly pressed the central locking switch, waved sweetly at me, smoothed the Daily telegraph, clicked the ballpoint with a flourish and inscribed the first answer to the cryptic crossword.

If it hadn’t been for Twanky catching me up within a couple of minutes I would probably have turned back. It was freezing, and wet. Even my eyebrows felt cold. I think it was Mr Blobby who pointed out later that it was perfect way to save spending money on Botox. The skin of your face just stretched tight and smooth in the icy blast. After a lung-chilling run up a couple of slippery shiggy hills Twanky and I caught up with the walkers – who had just missed the Regroup Check and an arrow that indicated that walkers should go in exactly the opposite direction to that in which they were heading. Despite the effusive thanks Twanky and I received from Spot, Ms Whiplash, Salome, Trembler, OldDog, C4 we still haven’t quite seen any sign of the expected pints of gratitude. Perhaps they will appear next week.

But apart from these people and Hamlet we saw absolutely no-one else on the Trail at all. Just heard a wind-blown ‘On On’ from far away at one point. Otherwise not a soul. Though we kind of wished we hadn’t met up with Hamlet just before the lake near The Vyne. We reached a Check with the Walkers Trail clearly marked. But should we go straight on down the path, right along the Walkers Trail or left up the steep hill. “I’ll take a peek up the hill.” I offered, stupidly. And slithered muddily up the damn thing. “I’ll check out straight on and call if I find anything.” Said the helpful Hamlet. I found a blob and carried breathlessly on. Twanky, also helpfully(!) standing at the Check shouted up, “Hamlet’s called On three.” Got to be that way then, I thought, mud-skiing back down the hill. “False Trail!” Came Hamlet’s cry. Twanky and I looked at each other. We looked at the hill. We slithered up the bloody thing. Then windmilled back down it after we had found the False at the top. Tried the Walkers Trail. Found an ‘F’. Came back. Went after Hamlet, thinking (after we found the fourth blob) that the lake would be a good place to hide a weighted body. Curiously, we didn’t see him again until after the Hash.

Quite a lot more wandering about bloblessly in the cold and rain, another meeting with the walkers and a brief chat with Hare Mr Blobby, who informed us we were ahead of the FRBs (result!), a brief sojourn up a dead-end council estate (I think we were almost brain dead by this time) and we were back at the cars, a warm, welcoming pub and excellent beer. Got to give Mr Blobby and C5 full marks for turning out in that weather to lay the Trail. Hope they were wearing sheepskin in areas that warranted it!

Skittles Night

On Saturday night we enjoyed an excellently organized skittles evening – thanks to Motox. The worthy winners of the Gents and Ladies events (in no particular order) where Bogbrush and Rainbow Warrior, the latter getting a higher score than anybody. Runners up were the equally worthy Spot and Donut, with Spot also winning the game of Killer. It was quite a rousing night, equalled only by the frenetic gyrations of the lust-crazed ballroom dancers in the hall next door. I thought BH3 were pretty rowdy but the feverish whirling, snapping of elastic stockings and clicking of false teeth almost drowned out even Cerberus’ girlish, tinkling-of-fairy-bells, laughter.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Stand in RA Dumper presented the following – very sensibly inside, out of the rain:-



Style points


Today’s virgin

At least she didn’t get muddy doing this


Putting on his coat to joing the Down Downs inside the pub

A reasonable effort from the old boy


Curiously, Dumper, decided to rename her Kia-Ora even though she was named but a couple of weeks ago

Fortunately, for her, no flour this time.
Call her what you want – I’m confused

Mr Blobby, C5

Our overall skittles champion.
The Hares

Almost a dead heat for the Hares. Much more ladylike by RW.

Up and Coming



Grid Reference






* Christmas Lunch *
Swallowfield Village Hall, RG7 1QX





The Four Horseshoes
Checkendon RG8 0QS

Party Animal

Christmas Day

25th, I expect…


4 Newtown Cottages, Ferry Road
South Stoke RG8 0JN
* BBQ after with hotdogs/turkey burgers. BYOB (or other drinks) and a beaker to quaff from.

Father Christmas and several elves