Sun Worshippers

TinOpener Lilo and Emma the dog Donut Hashgate Simple Skids Nutty Potty Fiddler Itsyor Alex Fannybag Bogbrush JWax Baldrick Salome Ms Whiplash Slackbladder Little Stiffy OldDog Whing TC Cerberus Billy Bullshit Old Fart Desperate Shitfor Shitshoveller Penny Pitstop Iceman Flash Motox Honeymonster Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Dribbler Butterfly Chopstix Quack Shandyman Glittertits Pissquick Poca LoudonTasteless Spex CIAC Utopia HeyBabe Rampant Rabbit Dunny Psychlogical Fritz Canoeist Ben Nick Messenger Boy Bomber Posh Slowsucker Swallow Phil Becky Diver Nappyrash Lonely BGB Dumper Septic Caboose Cheating Hitchhiker Florence Zebedee TT2 Ozzy Becky Silent and later PP

Hot As Hell Hashing

It was hot. The air hung heavily, like a hot, damp blanket. Britain was experiencing what passes for a heatwave over here. The NHS was issuing EXTREMELY USEFUL ADVICE. Like: don’t go out during the hottest part of the day; take a bottle of water with you; wear a sun hat. BH³, of course, is full of individuals who were intent on ignoring these eminently sensible recommendations (assuming one cannot figure them out for oneself), instead scurrying pell-mell through humid forests, losing up to a litre of water through perspiration, then making it up again with generous quantities of fine ale. Though most of us had opted for minimal running gear (even Donut wore a singlet and shorts!) Itsyor took things one step further – a bit like a fashion lemming hurling itself over the cliff of sartorialism – by apparently wearing his boxers. He swore blind that they were natty swimming shorts but several ladies who just happened to pop over to see him to investigate were in no doubt as to their true nature.

We squidged our way damply to the Circle as our revered GM, Slowsucker, called for calm and began to read out the names of famous people who had died on this day (though not necessarily this year). By the time he got to Fatty Arbuckle many of us thought we had died too and had gone to the hot place as opposed to the more clement one. Whinge (living up to his name) took it on himself to voice his concern at the lack of brevity in our good leader’s oration and was called out by the orator on whose shoulder he promptly went to sleep. Fortunately, the torrent of facts finally dried up and lead Hare Foghorn, backed up by Twanky and Dorothy gave us a blessedly brief overview of the Trail: “3,4 and 5 miles. On Out that way.”

I started off followed by Bomber and Lonely who were gabbling on about business, which is probably why, in a vain attempt to get away from them, I got suckered up an alley that had no flour. So I had to follow them back: “blah blah management problems, funding, blah…” and we met TT2 coming to meet us on his way for a widdle. Why he couldn’t have gone at the pub we never found out. Perhaps he likes to mark territory.

Dorothy was a virgin Hare on the night and must have learned a fair trick or two from the vastly experienced Foghorn, ably assisted by Twanky. The area is thick with forest and paths and the three had laid a fiendish serpent of a Trail that coiled and snaked, sometimes bending back on itself and ever-ready to bite the Pack on the bum. I’ve rarely seen us so confused even though we rattled along at a pace designed to give heat exhaustion even to Flash, who was spotted running more than once, and Whinge whose sheer athleticism was a marvel to all who enjoyed the sight. Not surprisingly the evening ended with a couple of injuries when Slowsucker, deep in the red mist, decided to race and overtake Shitfor, succeeding only in twanging a calf muscle and putting in jeopardy a decent position in next week’s Fun Run. BGB, too, suffered a ‘Baldrick’ and limped in later with an incommoded ankle twice the size of his knee. Rumours of incipient elephantisis are completely unfounded.

Weird things began to happen during the Trail. For instance, we found ourselves skipping along after Spex, who was FRBing at the time. Florence offered to go off into the woods with a gentleman and do anything required. Honeymonster kept appearing in front of us. Slackbladder and Little Stiffy had evolved a new language whereby they communicated with each other using the single word(?) “Mm.” I must say I couldn’t quite catch their drift but they seemed to know what they were talking about. The masterly Trail was having an effect on the Pack who were sweating more than Mick McManus, caught in a Boston Crab by Jackie Pallow (any grunt’n’grapple fans out there, please enlighten the rest).

I caught up with Lonely and Bomber again: “blah blah they’d bought up a lot of competitors blah.” Then almost shoved Little Stiffy over as we tramped desperately through the deep leaf-carpet in the forest that hid the holes and fallen branches underneath. Honeymonster staggered along, uttering, “It’s all uphill. It’s all uphill.” Caboose dropped into step with me a couple of times. Frankly, I was surprised he could run at all. He’d been spotted earlier running up Whitchurch Hill with his pack after alighting from one of his beloved trains at Pangbourne. But finally we saw an ‘On Inn’. Then another. And, just for luck, another. After what seemed like an eternity of confusion, finally some clarity. And some downhill, on tarmac, to the pub. Simple took this opportunity to get in some much needed exercise by jogging down it, leaving a trail of perspiration droplets in his wake. The rest of us weren’t much drier. We filled the pub, we filled the garden (we’d already filled the car park) and drank and ate. And sat down. Crikey! What a hot, fast Hash. And well done, Hares, excellent Trail laying.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Glittertits presented the following :-

Nice one, chaps

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