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The Stag & Huntsman
Hambleden, Henley


Shitshoveller, Penny Pitstop

Bucks and Does

Donut Hashgate Little Stiffy Slackbladder Spot Iceman Poisoned Chalice Baldrick Phil Swallow Slowsucker OldFart Motox Foghorn Caboose Scarlet Pimpernel Mrs Pimp Quack Whinge TC Desperate Shitfor Mrs Blobby Mr Blobby Utopia Dumper C5 Harry Potter Cheating Cabin Buoy BGB TT2 Florence Messenger Boy Poca Canoeist Lonely Ben Ozzy Becky Fiddler Zebedee (much later)

An Uphill Struggle

We must thank Iceman for writing the Gobsheet last week, and acting as GM, and standing in as RA. Anyone would think there was some kind of one man coup going on. Maybe it’s just another example of a Scot with megalomaniac tendencies…

A humid and fetid night awaited us. Not quite as rank as Cheating’s street person’s T-shirt but not far off. One has to wonder whether the good Mr Lingus possesses a washing machine. It was noticeable that, when he ran through the forested areas, saplings wilted and leaves dropped. Had any furry creature been unfortunate to have been nearby and downwind it would have been left furless and shivering after his passing. Mind you, we were all fairly rancid after this generally uphill, mad dash through some beautiful countryside. Though dry as a cicada’s leg underfoot the forest was lush and green, and sweaty.

Mr Blobby and C5 had turned up despite a week of manic activity in Bude followed by a 17-mile slog on the Midsummer Madness event on Saturday. This accounted for their somewhat grey, bejowled appearance. I was thinking Churchill Insurance dog after several tins of Chum and a vat of beer. Fair play though. The lads did exceptionally well and most of us would have died of exhaustion after the first mile or so.

This being one of Mr and Mrs Shoveller’s Trails we knew we were in for a bit of obfuscation, equivocation and general confusion. We weren’t wrong. The On Out direction sent everyone the opposite way to which they should have gone, except for those of us who were a little late starting. Thus it was that Donut, Baldrick and I breezed off across the field while the Pack milled fruitlessly up a steep False. Spot soon caught us up and provided some excellent cabaret by tripping down a small hillock behind the tennis court; then getting caught slightly in a barbed wire and wood-slatted stile which “came off in me ‘and gov’ner”, resulting in various dangling bits of wood and Spot almost flat on his back. Canoeist managed something similar while skipping gazelle-like down a narrow track in the woods, bounded and sometimes overgrown with brambles and stinging nettles. An unseen foot of tree root lay in wait and tripped him, thrusting his right leg behind his left. Since the right was the one he was just about to land on he went over like a charging buffalo on the receiving end of a well-placed shot from a Sharps buffalo rifle wielded by Dead-Eye Dick, scourge of the Western Plains. As the falling leaves settled and the shockwave passed under our feet Baldrick assisted Canoeist to full erection (perhaps I could have phrased that better) and he limped onwards.

Quite a lot (about 90%) of the Trail seemed to go uphill and Hashers would often stumble, hallucinating through lack of oxygen, into the bushes. The Hares had realised there were likely to be fatalities and had thoughtfully placed some Bar Checks to catch the FRBs – which worked a treat. We also had a Regroup at the top of an early plod up the steepest of the hills which got the Pck back together. Shitshovellet then tried the old ‘lay a flour arrow in the opposite direction to the Trail’ ploy which caught most of the FRBs and, unfortunately, Mrs Pimp. After the recent uphill labour this was too much for Mrs P. and she almost matched Donut for a harpymongous tirade against our Hare which left him looking like he had stood in front of a sand-blasting machine. Poor chap. Thoroughly deserved though.

Another of the steep woodland hills saw a small group of us: Lonely, me, then Poca (with a great new haircut) trudging gaspingly up the thing. Poca wheezed out, “Pull me up Lonely”, whereupon Lonely uttered the heart-freezing words (to me, anyway), “Hashgate, you can pull me.” Fortunately missing out the word ‘sailor-boy’. Now I have no problems with other people’s, ahem, orientation but it was a bit of a shock to think of our most recent sixty year old as a possible carpet muncher. I shot up that hill quicker than you could say ‘cottage’ and never looked back. Phew! A close shave.

We were running faster and faster and, since the Trail twisted and curled, had little idea where we were or whether we had turned back towards the pub. Except for Baldrick, who kept muttering knowingly and nodding confidently. He and JWax are laying a Trail from Marlow in a couple of weeks and he seemed to think we would be capering enjoyably around this area – which is flipping miles from Marlow! One to look forward to then…

Slowsucker and Fiddler were crashing around at the front in their own unique running styles. Fiddler always looks as though he is just slowing down, even when he is flat out, and Slowsucker has a remorseless, pounding method. They were joined by Spot, who skips along lightly, as they ran slowed, pounded and skipped back towards me down a forest path. Two blobs and … nothing, was their verdict as they returned to the Pack, now a loose gaggle of husks, broken dreams and drifting hulks after their supreme earlier efforts. But our Hare pointed back along the track from which they had appeared. They stopped. They turned. They came past me again, adding muffled cursing to their unique styles. Cheating appeared like he does, ran like the Devil was chasing him for twenty five yards. Then stopped, like he does, in order to look round in a lordly manner, his expression a mask of inner knowledge. Yeah right. Even new boy Phil has learned within two Hashes never to listen to or follow the fellow. You can end up anywhere.

Almost the last and certainly the most beautiful bit appeared just before the end. We ran downhill through a stunning field of shimmering blue-green barley, the folds of lush hills around us and the sun setting the clear sky to shades of bronze. There was a very similar field during the Shovellers’ walk in Bude last week. He obviously specializes in them. Thanks SS and PP. It almost made up for the earlier hill climbs.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA C5 presented the following just as Zebedee steamed (literally, he was very hot) in, following a later than usual start:-



Style points

Mrs Pimp


Crikey! Someone worse than me


Hash crashing

Excellent pint


Mincing through the nettles

Same as Spot


Not wanting to hold up the ‘big boys’!

Didn’t hold up on th pint either


Refusing to give C5 Hash fashion information

A pleasant enough half

Penny Pitstop

The Hares

Excellent drinking by our masterly Trail layers

Zebedee, Poca

1) arriving late
2) asking for a Down

Amazing swallowing by Poca that rather threw Zeb. Though he recovered well.

Up and Coming



Grid Reference






* The Fun Run *
7:15 for slow runners and walkers
Mortimer Fairground
Mortimer RG7 3RD
On2 The Blobbies for food/drink





The Ibex Inn, Main Street
Chaddlewortth, Nr. Newbury
RG20 7ER

Tin Opener