Slowcoaches and Race Horses

Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Donut Hashgate Gaffertits Shandyman Gaffertits Dumper Septic Tinopener Lilo and dog Emma Honeymonster and dog Max Salome Ms Whiplash C4 Simple Skids Potty Nutcracker Snowballs OldDog Foghorn Shitfor Desperate Billy Bullshit Cerberus Spot Mother Theresa Lemming Iceman Cheating Blowjob Hamlet Swallow Bomber Posh Darryl Quack Helen BGB Whinge TC Slackbladder Flash Messenger Boy Florence Zebedee Shutupwally

What a Nice…

… pub is The Coach and Horses. With two roaring fires to warm us up after the Hash.Though the sky was delightfully blue and the sun shone the air was pretty cold, though not quite as cold as expected by Mrs Blobby who had heard there was to be ‘snow on the high ground’. Luckily, we didn’t get any of that (not that there was much ‘high ground’ even though the general direction of the Trail seemed to be more vertical than horizontal. Mind you, Mrs Blobby, Rotherwick stands 300ft above sea level – pretty high if you’re Dutch I suppose (not our Dutch – someone from the Netherlands). Rotherwick itself is a fine village, with attractive old houses set back from the wide road that leads through it. One of the buildings is particularly interesting. The village hall, built in 1932, was donated to the village by Mr and Mrs Henry de Forest of Long Island, New York, who had very close links with the village and who wanted to have a place in the village that could be used by young people, in memory of their 24-year old son Charles who had lived with them in Rotherwick before leaving on a world tour and who sadly died of a fever while in Italy. It is a superb hall with hand-adzed exterior oak timbers and locally-made pink bricks. So if you didn’t see it just down the road from the pub, take a look next time. A superb building with a poignant, but heart-warming story behind it.

Slowsucker made brief reference to it in his Circle address but, realising the attention span of the assembly, had to cut his architectural and historical oration short. So you got it here. Let no-one say one never learns anything on the Hash. Not that this would mean anything to Max, Honeymonster’s characterful, biscuit-coloured, foxy dog. He stood next to his master looking a tad mournful. Bushy tail still and pointing earthwards. Not suprising really. Ms Whiplash and Salome had just told me, in front of the poor fellow, that he had ‘quite a feminine face’. Poor chap. He looked a lot perkier when he trotted in at the end of the Trail. A good walk had done him the power of good.

Nice to see Billy running again, his injury almost behind him. And Shitfor, who has been suffering with a nasty bout of influenza for the past couple of weeks. And Zeb, who had sprung a calf muscle a couple of weeks ago. And Iceman who had experienced a similar injury. And Skids, who has recovered from her leg injury. Crikey, what a bunch of old crocks we are. And Wally, of course, with his long-running psychological problems. An example of this was provided by the fact that he had brought with him a signed photograph of Liz Yelling, that he gave to Zeb. Generous – yes. Puzzling – certainly. You never know quite what he is going to do next.

The Trail consisted of rather a lot of long straightish bits that had us pelting hell-for-leather across lumpy and occasionally soggy fields, with a rather enjoyable (and entirely unnecessary, of course) sojourn through a sparkling stream, among some rarely trodden, lightly forested ground, and then back across the stream again – to meet Billy, who had decided not to dampen his elfin tootsies. What a wimp! Even the walkers tramped wetly through the thing – perhaps with a little trepidation and no little whinging when they realised they had been rather suckered by the Hare. Actually, it was really quite refreshing. If Paula Radcliffe can do it then so can we.

Bugger. I’ve got to the second page and realised I have nothing more to write about. It was one of those speedy Trails where you don’t get a chance to breathe, let alone observe anything. I just about remember getting to the Regroup (I know some of you didn’t) and congratulating the heaving-chested Whinge on his herculean efforts in catching up with the group just before we On Outed again. Between bellows-like gasps he blurted out that he had just run a lifetime best. I think it was the last twenty metres. Mind you, we had just run uphill through an extremely soggy forest. Curiously, even though there were no obvious paths through it we seemed to find the right way fairly quickly. Perhaps it was because we were rather obviously running (interesting term for a bunch of people struggling desperately to lift one mudstuck foot out of the sucking mire and place it in front of the other. Before repeating the operation) in parallel to the path alongside the edge of our quagmire heaven. There seemed to be a lot of pheasant feeders in there but damn all pheasants. I had always thought the creatures were devoid of any intelligence whatsoever but I’m revising my opinion. Might be good for a short trot through but not ideal for a ground-dwelling feathered friend. Soggy feathers and a clogged- up cloaca – no thanks.

One thing I must mention is Motox’ inaptly named ‘Walk’ on the Saturday. Matching the Reading Half Marathon for strenuous activity and muscle exhaustion this alleged 8½ mile stroll almost reduced the straggling staggerers to a state of demented fatigue seen only once before – on Cheating’s Windsor Park Hash last year. By comparison, the Race Night (see below) looks like it might be a tad easier.

Our Hares, including the injured H.E. laid us a long and enjoyable Trail, made all the more pleasant by that lovely sunshine… and lack of hail and rain we experienced on Saturday. Thanks chaps.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Dumper presented the following :-

Got his insides wet quickly enough!

Up and Coming

Race Night

Saturday 25^th April @ 7:45 pm at Winkfield Working Mens Club. Gridref 897712.
Tickets are just £5 which includes a curry.
Drinks are at very reasonable club prices.
To book your place talk to Motox.