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Arborfield Village Hall
Arborfield Cross


Old Dog, Blowjob


The Tremblers Donut Hashgate Spex LoudonTasteless Rebore Slippery Dick Ms Whiplash Salome Bomber Posh Dunny Rampant Rabbit BGB Full Frontal Honeymonster Foghorn Iceman Mr Blobby Horny Brian Dumper Spot Slowsucker Baldrick JWax Simple Skids Desperate Shitfor Billy Bullshit Cerberus Potty Nutty Snowballs C4 C5 Madame Cyn Whinge TC Nappyrash PP and dog Barney Cheating Little Stiffy Slackbladder Fannybag Bogbrush Motox OldFart Caboose Skinny Dipper Messenger Boy and dog Lucy Handful Lonely Bootsie Zebedee Florence Twanky Paella Effin


Something stood by the side of the road as we approached the village hall. Rain dripped down it and off it. Its hands were red and cold, the fingernails ingrained with some white substance. I slowed the car down while Donut fumbled for a few coins to press into this unfortunate’s limp palm. So sad, we thought, that the societal underclass and possible cocaine snorter, perhaps reduced to such a state by the exigencies of the credit crunch, should be reduced to standing by the side of the road, begging in the foul weather. It turned out to be Blowjob, who was directing traffic. The piteous mite leaned towards the car. We rolled down the window an inch (no point in letting the rain in). A puff of warm air from the car’s interior blew up the sodden, lank strands of hair that straggled across her face. It struck me that if a body had been dragged from a lake after a week of immersion this was what it would look like. I felt it best not to torment the poor girl and turned down the heating a degree while chatting briefly about the inclemency of the weather before screeching off to a parking place.

Today’s picture is for the ladies – it’s certainly not for me.

We, like everyone else, got our come-uppance as soon as we stepped from the car. I think it was about a minute before my, ahem, waterproof running top turned into a slippery, sticky nylon mess that stuck to my arms most unpleasantly. The Tremblers, parked next to us, had also just stepped out and were also immediately drenched. So of course all the Hashers rushed for the nice dry village hall and stood about steaming gently. How different it was from the day before with all that warm sunshine. OldDog and Blowjob had sensibly and luckily opted to lay most of the Trail on this day but had then thrown their sensible credentials down the drain by running round the Trail again, in the torrential rain, to freshen the flour, only to find that just about all of it had stuck doggedly where it had been placed, like the proverbial to a blanket.

The night before a good many of us had had a superb time at the Hallowe’en Hash Bash where a number of the participants indulged their passion for dressing up as ghouls and ghosties, especially Gnomealone who had done such a fearsome job of making himself look like Beelzebub that a) no-one recognized him, and b) he was so hot (appropriately, I suppose) that he sweated off 10 lbs despite eating his own weight in sausages, mashed potato and baked beans. We had thought that Hallowe’en was over until we got to the woods, when most of us were suddenly aware of a ghoul-like figure drifting aimlessly among the wet trees. The bulky, hooded figure wore a long blue shroud that almost reached to the ankles. What could it be? It swirled in amongst the Pack like a long-dead blue monk, shuffling silently through the piles of leaves and dripping branches until finally it spoke. The voice was wrenched from it, keening in the inundated forest. One arm slowly raised and a meagre, phthisic hand (a nod to T.S. Eliot there) pointed while we drew back, the hairs on our necks beginning to raise. What would it say? It spake. “It’s a False you tossers!” Bingo! It was Cheating under all that poncho stuff. We of course ignored him completely and ran off in a different direction.

Talking of sausages, we ran past the place where supercook Cerberus had ordered the previous night’s porcine cylinders: Barkham Manor Farm, referred to by la Cerb as Wizzy Pigs. You wonder they can catch ‘em. A very clear couple of blobs led off the track past the farm and this was completely ignored by Posh, Donut and indeed Cerberus as the rest of us brushed through bushes wetter than swans’ wings and sank in up to our ankles in the beech leaves. The colours of these recently fallen objects made a perfectly amazing patchwork of copper and gold that burst into one’s eyes in a vivid explosion of tints. It was almost psychedelic in effect. Certainly cheaper than your average spliff.

You would think that people were wet enough. But no, this is the Hash and Honeymonster and Dumper took an aquatic opportunity to bepuddle each other in a most juvenile (but entirely enjoyable) manner, grinning the while like loons. To keep us thoroughly damp OldDog had kindly laid a 5-blob False deep into the saturated forest, enticing us in with three of the blobs clearly laid on the three wooden posts next to the abortive track. Incidentally, I am happy to report that, though very little quite has the pungency of a wet dog, the dripping OldDog did not exhibit this particular nostril-wrinkling characteristic. Well not much anyway. So we were soaked, yes, but the Hares had one last marine treat for us. A ford. Nice. Depending on one’s height this was either a a slightly more dampening experience or a nadger-wrinkling one. Snowballs unfortunately suffered the latter and stiff-legged it out the other side in an ‘ahve wet me pants’ gait. NappyRash and I are luckily a little taller and by tucking all the vital bits under our armpits we waded through unscathed. The really weird thing was the opposite bank. A perfect flour arrow had been laid below the wavering water line, pointing out of the stream. Damn clever those Hares, we thought, until we worked out that the flour had been laid before the ford had risen with all the rainwater…

Once changed and back in the hall everyone relaxed and enjoyed the coffee, tea and cakes that had been organized and was being poured out (the first two that is) by Madam Cyn and Shitfor. A table next to the serving hatch creaked and swayed with a plethora of sumptuous cakes that had been baked by both lady and gent Hashers. A large apple pie and another fruit pie also came under attack by the hordes of hungry Hashers. Slackbladder especially, filling a small bucket with the former and using a trowel to transfer the contents to his gaping maw.

What a damn fine Hash. Our fulsome thanks to Blowjob and OldDog for a fun day despite the rain. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Motox presented the following :-



Style points


The official RA let Motox do his job today

No style – just speed!


For last night’s cooking

Very well deserved

Ms Whiplash

Doing last night’s raffle

Barely touched the sides


Last night’s best costume

No hanging about


Table hopping to get fed early

How does she do that?


Being married for 40(!) years

Drowned his sorrows


Wearing that poncho and looking stupid

Reasonably fast…


Coming all the way from Bristol

Almost choked, then recovered

Slippery Dick

Today’s returnee

Not bad, on top of coffee and cake


Leaving a booze bag at the barn dance

Not too bad I suppose :-)

Shitfor, Madam Cyn

Today’s tea ladies

Shitfor beaten by a woman

Blowjob, OldDog

Today’s excellent Hares

Who cares – they done well!

Motox then got several DownDowns while C5 attempted (vainly) to teach us a new Down Down song – he didn’t mind.

Up and Coming



Grid Reference






The Lamb, High Street
Hartley Wintney RG27 8NW





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