OH3 500th Hash Knees-Up… and Other Stuff

Could be a curious Gobsheet this one, since I didn’t manage to get to this joint bash until just before the run was over. Handy in a way, no queue for the beer or running vests on sale and a chance to chat to some of the Oxford Hash before everyone else arrived. Though the weather was gloriously sunny it was ear-achingly cold and the frost lay thick, deep and crunchy in shaded places. Add to that that it was then 1 o’clock. Subtract the 11 o’clock start time and began to think that perhaps missing the Trail(s) was perhaps a wise thing to do in the circumstances. Particularly when I saw Simple and Skids stagger back into the car park with skin the colour of tomatoes and a sweat on that would have done credit to Red Rum after a successful gallop round the Grand National. The OH³ running vests shouted the latin logo poto ergo curro (I drink therefore I run). I hadn’t run but seeing those two gasping and staggering I felt in need of a restorative potion and tottered towards the three barrels of excellent beer inside the hall that were being manned by the perfectly named Dipstick. A couple of quaffs later and I felt a lot less guilty about my laziness.

So, I hear you squeak, where are the names of the Hashers. Though my recording machine lay silent and resting at home one or two of the old brain cells were still firing so, from memory, here are the BH³ names (if I’ve missed out anyone tough shit I apologise unreservedly): Motox Caboose Dumper Septic Hashgate Donut Shitshoveller Penny Pitstop Snowballs Cloggs Nonstick Slowsucker Swallo Dunny Foghorn Baldrick Rampant Rabbit Whinge Down Under (or Kia Ora – take your pick) Mother Theresa Lemming Spex LoudonTasteless Spot Hitchhiker. And I have placed HitchHiker last so she can see her name has been spelt with the extra ‘H’. She chewed off rather a lot of my ear whinging, cajoling, threatening and inviting me to read the embroidered name sewn to her BH³ shirt above her rather perky left bosom in order to get the extra ‘H’ typed in when I write about her in the Gobsheet. This kind of casuistic, pettifogging buttonholing has been going on for some time and I have been ignoring it in a gentlemanly fashion. However, I think the ten-minute inspection of her shirt finally (um) swung it for me so from henceforth she shall have three h’s in her name. Unless I forget.

However, it was a well organized and enjoyable event and those pork rolls were superb. Many thanks Oxford.

Which leaves me with a bloody great empty space to fill. Any ideas anyone? The usual methods for volunteer Scribes are: enormous pictures, margins the size of Doric columns so the reader gets one or two words on every line or a font size of about sixty four. The latter ideal if you are as visually challenged as Cerberus but generally a tad lacking in plot and substance.

So why don’t I tell you how to write a Gobsheet. Might be interesting. Might not. See what you think. I’ll just place an enormous picture to the left (maybe to the right on the website if Iceman doesn’t format the display :-)

• Ignore anyone who tells you, between guffaws, ‘You just have to put this in the Gobsheet. It’s really funny.’ Problem is, if you didn’t see it, it probably isn’t and describing something you didn’t see that other people did is fraught with danger. Get any one of the tiniest details wrong and somebody next week will read the damn thing, scurry over to you with a concerned look and inform you it didn’t quite happen that way, Hashgate.

• Always record everyone’s name and always spell them correctly – or at least how they want them spelled (see above – groan). People like to see their name even if they aren’t written about. And if you do accidentally miss someone out be aware that they will always tell you. Again, the concerned look, a consoling pat on the shoulder and a sincere apology really helps.

• If absolutely nothing happens during the Trail (that you see, anyway) write about something else. It’s great! You can let your imagination run wild and thoroughly enjoy yourself. Most of the Gobsheets that make me laugh (I know – one should be more self-effacing. But I do laugh out loud writing some of these) have absolutely bugger all to do with the Trails.

• Take the mickey out of yourself on occasions. If you can’t do this you really shouldn’t be doing it to other people.

• A difficult one, this. If you are chatting with people after the Hash and you are just about to deliver a great one-liner, a devastating put-down or the wittiest mot juste since Oscar Wilde – bite your lip, and remember it for the Gobsheet.

• Write about everyone at least once. It’s great being the subject in a Gobsheet and it’s a really good way of introducing little known or perhaps quieter personalities. Not everyone’s a Lemming (thank the Lord, I hear you mutter).

• One of the things I have noticed is that if I concentrate a section on one Hasher in particular you can bet your last red cent that a) they won’t be at the Hash next week, and b) even if they are they won’t have read the Gobsheet. This can be a tad disappointing but you must hide your sadness ‘neath the cloak of bonhomie – and vow never, ever to write about the b*£$*%^s again!

• Similarly, you may find yourself after a Hash approaching someone with your organ in your hand (perhaps I should rephrase that). Approaching someone with your news sheet in your hand. Now you’ve spent the best part of the only free evening in the week hammering away at the keyboard and beating yourself up with a mental cosh to produce the wittiest Gobsheet ever. Scott Fitzgerald’s prose was ne’er so glitzy. Alan Coren’s essays on Idi Amin paled into comic insignificance. Samuel Johnson? A mere scribbler in comparison. You proffer the gilded scroll, dripping with stylish innuendo, stilletto wit and concupiscience. A smile flickers at the corner of your mouth. There is a knowing incline of your head. A taking into of your confidence. “No thanks, Hashgate. I wasn’t there last week.” The blunt edged blade saws into your very soul even as the unknowing Hasher turns away, leaving you with a mouthful of ashes and an ego deflating more rapidly than a balloon that’s been blown up, let go to fart pointlessly in the corner of the ceiling before flumping to the carpet, forgotten, unloved and slightly damp around the blow hole.

So there you have it. Now anyone can write a Gobsheet. And I may call upon you when I am out of the country. One such sap generous soul is C5 who kindly volunteered to write you a Christmas Lunch Gobsheet next week. Let’s hope it isn’t a turkey (ho, ho, ho).

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Lord knows. Had to leave early to visit friends nearby. I bumped into Caboose on Monday who told me he left fairly late and the BH³ Down Downs were only just starting. Just as well I missed them – would never have had space to write about anything else.

Up and Coming