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Heath End Village Hall


OldDog, Cabin Buoy


Hamlet Fukawe Motox Donut Hashgate Madame Cyn C4 Spex Loudontasteless Vertigo Mr Blobby Cerberus Billy Bullshit Tinopener Lilo and dog Emma Gaffertits Pissquick Bomber Posh Flash Rainbow Warrior Skids Simple BGB Honeymonster and dog Max Will Nick Snowballs Potty Nutcracker Lemming Mother Theresa NonStick Cloggs Dunny Rampant Rabbit Little Stiffy Slackbladder Itsyor Fiddler Ms Whiplash Salome Helen Blowjob Shitshoveller Penny Pitstop Hitchhiker Spot Iceman Lonely Poison Ivy

Dog Food

We were dead lucky. This weekend winter had trailed icily back to its cave, taking its mantle of grey cloud with it and leaving almost clear skies, a warmer temperature and some delightfully warming sunshine. A large collection of Hashers had gathered. Not that this was a surprise. Whenever, they hear free food is available the hordes descend. This was to be OldDog’s second foray into the W.I. school of Hashing, providing a village hall venue where those with a baking penchant could bring their cakely offerings for us to scoff. The hall was carefully locked before we started, just in case a hungry Hasher should circle back, sneak in and wolf the lot, being found later vainly trying to stand up and belching volcanically.

Bearing in mind that it was indeed OldDog who was mainly responsible for organizing the catering we were half expecting bowls on every table piled high with Eukanuba, a liberal helping of Chum and a sprinkling of tasty kibbles on the side. Washed down with another bowl of water, of course.

Not like that at all, of course, an exceptionally tasty and perfect victoria sponge, a dundee cake with more fruit than the entire Amazon rainforest, mega muffins with raisins in, fairy cakes topped with enough icing to give you more of a rush than a whole tub of Tesco’s frozen crack cocaine ice cream and a Tardis of a bread and butter pudding – one small mouthful filled you up for a couple of months.

I know. What about the Trail? Just thought I’d whet your whistle for a while. The Trail started off in entirely the wrong direction. Because CabinBuoy pointed us On Out that way. This was a crafty move to ensure the walkers got off to a flyer and the rest of us were left floundering about (do you know, I’ve only just realised the fishy connection there – flounders do flap about apparently aimlessly – just like Hashers). I think it was the four blobs and False that got us. Rather like the five and False that screwed a whole bunch of us, particularly Dunny and LoudonTasteless, who had spotted a white blob on a distant tree, not realising until they got there that it was paint. Doh! It was quite a long schlep back up the hill for quite a lot of people, including Nick who confided to me that the red boiler suit he had worn at last week’s Red Dress Run had chafed like buggery. Though he (probably fortunately, for me) didn’t divulge which area had received most chafing. I ran along the right trail up the road with Will, a young lad wearing very fetching surf shorts and leggings. Until he was prised from my company by the crowbar conversational gambit of Spex who eyed the young man, grinned salaciously at him and essayed, “Rather nice shorts you have there…” Pullease! I shot off after Hamlet, who was riding his mountain bike along the shiggy-pocked track on to which we had turned. It began to get rather nicely wet from here with large, deep easy-to-weight-down-and-lose-a-Lemming mud puddles. This was attempted at one sodden point, which is why the left side of him looked like he had been dipped in the poo. But it served him right. Young Helen, who has not run with us for very long started quite smartly, in black running top and tights. When I came up behind her later her entire back side (that’s back side, not backside – although it was) was spattered in dollops of shiggy. “Meet Lemming by any chance?” I enquired gently. “Oh yes.” She replied softly, now a wiser woman.

A Regroup appeared and the early arrivals Dunny and Rampant watched interestedly as Fiddler swung pointlessly from the branch of a tree above the ‘RG’ mark. Not sure why. Never found out. His dad Itsyor joined the little group, informing us that the rather natty red T shirt he was wearing was one of his daughter’s cast-offs. Many comments come to mind but they’re all libellous – so I’ll keep them to myself… Apart from mentioning that just after the Regroup he remarked rather too eagerly for my liking on the “Nice blonde horse” with a flowing mane that stood looking at us with liquid eyes.

Oh the shiggy after the Regroup. The quagmire through which we foot-sucked and sploshed was ankle-deep in water and mud in many places and the Long Trail seemed to loop back to the Short so Hashers were spread right across the flood plain. Thank goodness for Cerberus, who found the Trail running up the muddy valley side and uttered a multi-tonal ‘On On’ that would have done justice to any lad passing through the early phases of puberty. I found myself running with her a few times. Once when we were leading the Pack and along a wide track through broken woodland. Fiddler suddenly ghosted past us with that deceptively fast, slightly foot-dragging, head-rolling style of his. “Thank goodness someone younger’s in front.” She gasped. “I’m fagged out.” Since I was just ahead of her I thanked her for her kind remark. Just as a pair of deer shot directly across our path, their skinny legs propelling them at an incredible speed. But as there were signs everywhere warning the public to keep to the path because deer-stalking was in operation you could understand the pair’s alarm.

Talking of skinny legs mine managed to let me down superbly. Like everybody else I had run up and down muddy, slippery hills, pools of water and shiggy, deeply hoof-marked sucking mud fields. Had I slipped over? No. However, I wander fifty metres from a Check where the rest of the Pack has gathered and catch the toe of my shoe on a foot-long stick half-buried in the earth. I’m moving forward so my leg lifts. The stick pivots upwards, still attached to the toe. The physics of movement dictate that the other foot must rise. It does. I’m still moving forward. Logic demands I must place the stick-attached foot on the ground. The stick is having none of it. I plunge earthwards, the roar of approval from the Pack ringing in my ears as I roll in the mud and brambles – laughing like a drain. Nothing like a good pratfall is there? And I had been going down a False! Excellent.

This Trail was really enjoyable. Lots of different kinds of terrain and plenty of Checks (some with very long Falses) to keep the FRBs occupied and the Pack together. The cakes and coffee were great and OldDog asked me to thank everyone for the cakes they brought and especially to those who helped setting up, serving and tidying away. The rest of us would like to thank you too. Excellent Hash.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Motox presented the following :-



Style points



Exaggerating his account of how long it took to catch up after going wrong.
Nicking injured Hamlet’s bike.

The quickest ½ of orange juice ever seen

The most enjoyed pint today



Surprisingly refusing Lemming’s assistance to get across the mud.
Helping Motox by pointing out where some barbed wire was!

A couple of fruit drinks downed really rather well by both ladies.

Max the dog

Honeymonster’s returning hound

H slurped most of the pint while M got the dregs!



Chasing horses (it was geese last week)
Today’s Hash Crash

Think you’d better practice a little, Slackbladder…

OldDog, CabinBuoy

Today’s Hares

OldDog wuffed it down

Up and Coming



Grid Reference






The Lamb Inn, Long Lane
Cold Ash RG18 9LY
(Please park in the lane opposite)





The Seven Stars, Bath Road
Knowl Hill RG10 9UR