Lambs To The Slaughter

OdFart Istyor Fiddler Donut Hashgate BillyBullshit Cerberus Desperate Shitfor Iceman Zebedee Florence The Tremblers Cheating Nick with children Josephine and Benjamin Messenger Boy and dog Lucy Handful NappyRash PP and dog Barney Diver Simon Motox BGB Foghorn OldDog Septic Slowsucker Swallow Bomber Posh Potty Snowballs Caboose Fannybag Kyle(now renamed Young Lemming) Ms Whiplsah Effin ShutupWally and dog Bonny FullFrontal Hamlet Fukawe Lee T Twanky SkinnyDipper Spex

A Trail of Two Halves

Erratum – last week this organ reported that PP had almost got the car stuck in a small culvert behind it while vainly attempting to park without attracting attention. Unusually we got it wrong. Even more unusually it was actually NappyRash who was driving. The aforementioned gent mentioned that he actually dislikes driving intensely. We can understand that. Not unusual for someone who holds an HGV license. The Gobsheet apologises unreservedly and our reporter has been severely discliplined (which we believe was not only enjoyed intensely but did not involve Ms Whiplash).

Arriving late at the Hash (petrol stop) has its pros and cons. Pros being that the Trail is ready marked. Cons being that one has to catch up with the swift moving Pack. Particularly when the first few hundred yards are all uphill and one is still digesting one’s breakfast. Donut and I finally, and very breathlessly, caught up with Nick and his delightful children, one of whom (Josephine) he was plying with a biscuit since the poor girl had just slipped over in the mud. Curious, isn’t it, how the sight of a small child staggering to her feet with the shiggy dripping off one elbow clutches at the heartstrings while the sight of, say, Billy disappearing into a pile-o-poo has you hooting with laughter so hard your ribs ache.

And talking of Billy, he was the first and only FRB we saw (not much surprise there) as we cast about by the Bar beyond which the Walkers had earlier trod. There were so many Bars early on that, viewed from above, it was like peering into a box of matches. Fortunately, neither Donut nor I took much notice of them otherwise we would never have caught up. It was quite hard going in the slippery, glutinous shiggy that had been churned up by the storm the day before. We were lucky that Sunday was relatively calm and rain-free. Shandyman recounted to Caboose and me how singularly unpleasant it had been running with R2D2 (no surprise there, he wrote waspishly :-) ) on Saturday when the storm was at it’s height. Glad I was in the pub watching the rugger (kind of).

The first part of the Trail up to the Beer Stop was a typical Hash through mud and ankle-deep water. Lovely stuff. Punctuated by the sublime and the ridiculous. The sublime being that Dipley Mill. Since Itsyor had been down to the little viewing bridge and had come back with the others, having lost flour, he kindly described it to me in terms John Milton, Shakespeare and Dickens could only dream about. “The old brick mill house sits back contentedly like a rubicund elderly fellow smiling in the wan winter sunshine. Friendly and welcoming, it beckons the eye, which is led to it by a placid mill stream fringed with the green streamers of weeping willow. What stories can it tell, its window’d eyes sparkling from the telling; it’s throat chuckling with the waters of the stream?” Crikey! Much more of that, Itsyor, and I’ll have to hand over my writing boots. He was quite right, the sight was very lovely – apparently Dipley Mill was mentioned in the Domesday Book. Since no-one could find the Trail we all milled (geddit!) about until Shandyman arrived and kindly laid a large flour arrow so that even the most mentally challenged of us could see where to go. Which was alongside the river Whitewater in a narrow, shiggy-filled track that threatened to slide us into the river. But fortunately didn’t. ShutupWally meanwhile was running down the road after an i-pod wearing runner who was quite evidently (to us!) not a member of the Hash and shouting at him that he was going the wrong way. Itsyor again encapsulated our thoughts when he said to Caboose and me, “That Wally’s such a brick sometimes.” At least I think he said ‘brick’…

Cheating had divested himself of the blue monk’s habit he had been wearing a few weeks earlier and had been tripping along in that curious staccato running method he has – racing like a demon for 50 metres, then walking for 200 before shouting at the rest of the Pack. So he did today while standing by a stile. “Come on, you tarts!” He called out generously. Florence rather surprised me as we headed towards him by calling back, “I’m on my way.” Hmm. We came upon a field with a rather interesting family of what appeared to be pedigree cattle. What was amusing was that mum and dad were large black, glossy beasts with a broad white stripe running around their middles while the younger beeves had exactly the same markings. They all regarded us with a mixture of curiosity tempered with caution. Which was exactly what we were doing with them. Dad did look quite chunky.

Another long, slippery hill, striding after the power-walking Trembler. A brisk trot through the woods by the attractive West Green House and we were at the beer stop manned expertly by Lee and T. Unfortunately for Shandyman he was spotted keenly perusing an OS map of the area. We wondered why. Some (Shitfor), more vociferously than others. We soon found out. The way back was an almost non-stop jog along tarmac. At any moment I expected to come across a swinging-jowled, thundercloud-eyebrowed Gordon Brown. Or a slightly bumptious Frenchman having palpitations. Full marks to Young Lemming who trotted alongside Fannybag like a professional athlete. Unlike Diver who was being overtaken non-stop by elderly Hashers exhorting her to “Keep going dearie.” And, “I’ve got all my own teeth you know.”

Eventually, we caught up with Shandyman who was laying flour along the main street in Hartley Wintney and we wobbled unsteadily into the pub car park where our exhaustion gave way to eyebrow-arching surprise as we spotted Caboose bringing out a drink he had just bought for Desperate! Of course we weren’t surprised at Desperate. She is aptly named and would accept a drink off any old dosser. But that Caboose – he’s a bit of a dark horse and needs watching. No doubt Desperate will do that. Especially if he’s at the bar and has his wallet out.

Thanks for an interesting selection of Trails, Hares. Though I think we preferred the first one… :-)

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Shitfor presented the following :-

Must do better

Up and Coming