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The Calleva Arms


C5, Dumper, BGB

Ancient Ruins

Donut Hashgate Iceman Simple Skids Septic Trembler Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Slackbladder Little Stiffy Butterfly Dribbler Swallow Fannybag Bogbrush Blowjob Cerberus Billy Bullshit Ms Whiplash Flash Nick Ranbow Warrior Honeymonster Shandyman Helen Snowballs Foghorn Bomber Pissquick Gaffertits Slowsucker Cheating CabinBuoy Lilo and dog Emma Tinopener Shutupwally Cloggs Mother Theresa Lemming AWOL Spot Florence Zebedee Rachel Caboose Twanky Motox Aqua Oddballs Fiddler the Zealy(hope I got that right)-Smiths and children Sol Aura

Roman About

Ees a bleedin’ cold today innit?” Complained the first legionnaire. “Da wind. It a whistles right upa da toga. Or it woulda, eef I coulda feel anyting.” “Cold.” Replied his companion, similarly girded in a breastplate and leaning on a spear. “Maximus my friend. Cold it isn’t. In Galilee it was cold. A mother would have wept. A mother in a stable with a bab…” “Eef you donta stop with da, “ the first legionnaire lowered his voice, “Christian things we don’t never get to heaven. And stopa drawing da fish shapes with a da spear on da ground!” The two had been resident near the ancient Roman settlement of Calleva since the Iron Age Atrebatum tribe had overthrown their oppressors and killed the lot. One by one, their colleagues had drifted off to their respective heavens, leaving these last invisible two to wander the ruins and talk over old times. They had been heading back to the open ground by the car park through the thick bushes for a change of scenery. As they left the greenery they were startled by the sight of a large gathering of people, all wearing curious garb and chattering excitedly. “Manny!” Exclaimed Maximus. “Whata the ‘ell ees a going on?” (I should explain here that Emmanuel was indeed a Roman soldier but was of dissimilar parentage, his mother having been attracted to the dashing ex-gladiator – or so he styled himself – who wandered into their village with a great line of patter and not much in the line of finance. Having proved himself rather adept with his, ahem, sword he hightailed it away, leaving a less than kosher bagel in the oven. To wit, Manny, who, having been regaled with myths about his absent father’s combative skills, decided to join the nearest Legion as soon as he was old enough). The two peered in a ghostly way at the crowd. “Oi vay. So now I’m at a slave sale?” Queried Manny. “The legs on that one.” He chortled at a person being addressed as Hashgate. “Two javelins would have more meat.” The two wandered unseen into the crowd to find out what was going on.

The crowd was BH3, which was Gathering Round prior to the On Out and despite a large white van, filled with large, white builders, that tried to run some of them over; followed almost immediately by Fiddler, who parked in their still-warm spot, was succeeding in its object. That is, before Lemming stamped in a puddle, seriously splattering Hare Dumper. There was nothing else for it, Lemming was picked up bodily (not a difficult task) by His Eminence Slowsucker and a couple of sycophantic lickspittles (Dumper and Dribbler) and dumped arse-first into some very cold, damp shiggy. The Hash beamed a collective beam and On Outed the usual way. Of course, a spot of buttock-clenching cold water is not going to stop a recidivist like Lemming and he later stomped in a deep and dank Dickensian puddle next to… wait for it… Mother Theresa! Either they have a relationship so abiding that the rest of us can only peer up at their lofty Olympian love summit. Or he has as much sensitivity as your average City banker. I’d plump for the second. Dumper, who was passing at the time, predicted that rumpy-pumpy was definitely not on the menu for Lemming that night. I pointed out that, since he probably hadn’t had a nibble for months another night wouldn’t make much difference.

Almost the entire Trail wound its way through forest and over streams. Which made a pleasant change from some of the eyeballs-out races that we indulge in occasionally. I remarked so to Aqua: “It’s rather pleasant not to have to run flat-out, isn’t it?” She eyed me, using her special sardonic eyebrow, and replied breathlessly. “I am running flat-out, Hashgate!” We trotted on, reaching the bar on the bridge and a Slackbladder, once more doing his otter impression by standing in the stream, waiting, just waiting. With a broad grin on his face. The sensible among us crossed a little further down and, since Glittertits was not with us today (supervising some wiring work) nobody fell in. Though Cabinbuoy had a stab at it teetering perilously over a very mossy log at a sharp bend in the river – which Bomber and I completely avoided by just running round the bend. Perhaps he just feels at home on water – it’s his hobby after all.

Of course, being in the forest we completely lost the Trail at one point. Expecting the blobs to be on the trees following the torrential rain and howling winds the night before none of us looked at the ferny floor too much. Mr Blobby resolved the problem with a left-field, lateral thought that would have had Edward de Bono blinking open-mouthed with wonder. He picked up the chunk of wood with the last blob we had seen and ran off with it! He could hardly be accused of not following flour since he was holding the stuff in front of him. Genius. I doff my cap in awe.

The Trail eventually split into Long and Short, at a point where C5 gleefully announced that the Long Trail would enable the runners to ‘stretch their legs for a bit’. It certainly did, across fields, along roads, up steepish, slurry-filled tracks, by farms and into Calleva car park. Where we lost the Trail. Or rather, Fiddler probably did since he was at the front and turned back before the blob on the fence post. No staying power, youth. We staggered up to the stile just after it, as did a mother with her three young children who were out for a pleasant walk on this fresh Sunday morning. Two of them took one look at Bomber… and burst into tears. The cad just bounded off, leaving me to placate the little chaps with a smile and a friendly wave.

Manny! Eh Manny! Ees acomin’ back!” Maximillian tapped his old friend on his ghostly shoulder as runners streamed across the grass towards them, laughing and smiling. “I should be so fit.” Grinned Manny. “Such energy.” They watched and laughed as the muddy Hashers pulled off muddy socks and shoes, frantically trying to balance on one leg. “Hahaha. Ees a so funny. I laugha so much I feela quite strange.” “Oy. You look paler than gefilte fish jelly!” Replied Manny, who looked down to see himself equally pale. “Max, Max. My old mensch. It’s lucky we are. Heaven awaits!” They looked at each other, realising the waves of good feeling emanating from the crowd of people were finally sending them on their way. “Good luck Max. Give my regards to Jupiter.” “Anda to you amico del cuore. Giva my regards to… Jesus.” They both began to fade rapidly. Just before they were gone Maximillian called out. “Eh Manny. I avna feela so good sinca New Year’s Day when that silly bastardo, e fall in the river.” And with an echo of laughter, they were gone.

Lovely Trail Hares. And a damn good time in the pub later. Many thanks. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Foghorn presented the following (nice and early) :-



Style points

Lemming, Donut, BGB, Iceman

Ra Abuse. Weeing (almost) in public. Attempting to spy on the weeer. Leaving his mug behind. In that order.

Donut donated hers to her champion, Hashgate, who downed the beer with such speed that strong women swooned


Today’s virgin

Not bad at all


Spotted running through mud(?)

Really rather smooth

C5, Dumper

Today’s hares

Well deserved lads

Little Stiffy

Winning last week’s sweepstake

She enjoyed the beer and the £20!

Up and Coming



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