Turned Up…

Ms Whiplash Stripper Tapeworm Hashgate Donut Swallow Dunny Rampant Rabbit Ben Fishnet Honeymonster and Max the dog Oz Flash Cheating Billy Bullshit Cerberus Desperate Shitfor Shitshoveller Turdtreader Motox SkinnyDipper Madam Cyn Dumper Septic C5 Caboose Potty Nutty Snowballs Skids Simple Little Stiffy Slackbladder The Tremblers BGB Spex Loudon Tasteless Blowjob Twanky Dorothy Fannybag Bogbrush Lisa James Itsyor Fiddler Alex Nick Poser Chopstix Shandyman Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Tom-Tom Compass Utopia Tinopener TT2 Zebedee Florence Cumalot ComesQuicker (from the Nice Riviera H³) Miroslav (aka Bob. See Down Downs)

Turn Again, And Again, And Again…

Litle worrying that three of our number in the above list include Shitfor Shitshoveller Turdtreader. Almost a cornucopia of coprophiliac concupiscence. The latter of the three provided another couple of “c’s”: a comedic cabaret when he slipped either on that after which he is named or a tree root closely imitating one and crashed heavily, nose-first, raising a medium-sized hillock that will surely find its way on to local topographical maps ere long.

Earlier, on my way to the Hash, I had glimpsed the back view of young Caboose who was swinging along from the local railway station. Knowing his disdain of all things wheeled and powered by petrol, and being closely followed by a lunatic in a similar mode of transport, I decided not to offer him a lift but give a friendly toot as I closed on him. Now Mortimer is not renowned as a ‘cruising’ area but I could have sworn he raised the leg of his shorts with a vampish finger and essayed an over-the-shoulder simper. (Bit like our picture but without the clown hair.) Mind you, the sun was in my eyes. Fortunately, it didn’t take him too long to join the seething throng that entirely filled the car park. We had quite a number of visitors and virgins this evening the most exotically named of which was Miroslav, who agreed that to hear us English people saying his name was, to say the least, somewhat grating.

Most of us know this pub and area pretty well so we were interested to see what our Hares had laid on for us. A titter ran round the Circle (no old Frankie Howerd jokes please) when Hare Glittertits told us the Short and Walkers end of the Trail was different to the Long Trail and some wag wondered if it might be in Basinsgstoke. We managed to still our guffaws and On Outed across the field in a spurting stream of Hashers that mimicked the stuttering sprinklers that watered the football pitch. Poca initiated an interesting Hare-ploy by generally leading the Pack. We knew we had only so much time before night fell but this was taking things a little far. Trying to catch up with her was really quite exhausting. But then she may have been on drugs again. Earlier in the car park she had stuck a feather in the top of her car door and informed me the vehicle’s name was Gus. And also that ‘he’ was very happy to be close and friendly behind Donut’s car, Jasper. You know, I worry sometimes. Still, the lass did a great job keeping up with the FRBs and marking out the Trail for the less speedy members of the Pack. Some, of course, attempted to cut a few corners in order to keep up. One of whom was Simple who was more than a tad miffed when he realised his short cut had merely led him to those of us who were traipsing back from a rather long False.

A lot of the Trail ran through woodland which is, perforce, covered with awkwardly placed tree roots. Twanky was tripping gaily along behind me and taking the mickey out of my (I like to think) load n’clear “On On’s” when he tripped, not so happily, on one of these obstacles. It rose suddenly from the earth and lassooed his toes. I heard the “Oourk!” quite close behind and realised what was going to happen. My slender body was about to be leapt on by Twanky’s somewhat chunkier frame. Now I like Twanky but the thought of being face down in the leaves with him gasping, red-faced, on top of me was not a thought I relished. In a panic of self-preservation I changed up to my Usain Bolt gear and legged it like the great man, feeling the puff of dry earth and twigs hit the back of my legs as Twanky bit the dust like a charging water buffalo on the end of a damn good shot from a Sharps Model 1874, .44 Caliber "Old Reliable" with 30 inch octagonal barrels. Fortunately, he got up quickly, only partially covered in squirrel poo and biscuits and was soon on his way again.

After rather a lot of running about at a rapid pace we realised we were knocking about in the woods on part of the ‘Fun Run’ course and many of us shivered in horror while remembering the experience. We lost the Trail a couple of times and some of our younger Hashers began to display their inexperience and lack of self-belief. Alex, it was, who, at least twice ran off from a Check, then ran back stating that there was, “No flour”. Experienced hands knew better than to give up. No blob for a long time generally means you are on Trail and so it was on these occasions. But who am I to make fun of the poor chap? I kept calling him Nick for some reason. Must keep that hip flask of Sanatogen closer to hand.

After a sojourn across the carnival field, where Shitshoveller and I saw a vision of the horrors to come as we skipped past a shambling, aged wreck wearing a hippy headband, droopy shell suit and reeking of fags, we hurtled rapidly onward through several Checks where we just ran straight on through the unmade roads until we popped out on to a pleasant back road where Caboose and I met C5. Nice bloke, C5, you’d think. Ready smile. ‘Eart ‘o gold and all that. So it was with horror and indignation that we saw him trot up to the footpath off the road where an ‘S’ and ‘W’ pointed (for the Short Trailers and Walkers) and begin to gleefully scuff out the ‘S’ with his running shoe. Aghast, we reeled back and asked him what on earth he thought he was doing! His febrile excuse was that Glittertits had asked him to do so since we had all run so fast there was little danger of the Short Trailers getting caught out in the dark. Glittertits had mentioned this split in the Trail earlier; that one way was 3 minutes from the pub and the other was 3 miles! So much for the Short Trail. Though I have to say that certain sensible Hashers, Swallow and Donut among them, opted for the 3 minutes. Much better move. We lost the Trail on more than one occasion, Florence told a herd of frightened sheep that she would, “Never eat ewe”, Shandyman disappeared in another field of sheep and we began to hallucinate, running up that incline towards the end. Luckily, as the cloak of night began to fall we slipped across that last field, on to the road and saw the welcoming light of the Turner’s. Thank goodness.

We may have known where we were on this Trail but we certainly didn’t know where we were going. Nice one, Hares. Thanks for an enjoyable evening.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Simple stood in for Glittertits and presented the following :-

Motox most impressed at the time. And by her drinking.

Up and Coming