Slippers

Swallow OldFart Donut Hashgate Florence Nappy Rash Heavy Petting and dog Barney Lunchbox Simon Diver Hannah Will Blowjob Foghorn JWax Baldrick Dunny Rampant Rabbit ShutupWally Penny Pitstop C4 Mrs Blobby Mr Blobby Ms Whiplash Iceman SkinnyDipper Handful Lemming Mother Theresa Shitfor Desperate TC Whinge Cerberus Billy Bullshit Shandyman Chopstix NoNuts Spex OldDog Martin (now named Doggie Stile) Fannybag Bogbrush Triple Nipple John and dog Pissoff Full Frontal BGB Dave Motox Twanky Dorothy Murphys Cheating

A Proper Hash

It could hardly have been a better Hash. Torrential rain had turned the ground to mush and running water and the Hares were marginally unsure of the Trail since they had shortened it considerably from their original plan, fearing more of the downpour we had experienced for a day or so. Which meant that, instead of the expected marathon, we ran a much more Hash-like 5½ miles, according to Iceman’s wristy distance calculator. So a proper Hash it was.

Of course, nothing runs entirely smoothly on the Hash and it appeared that there was either a church service or a meeting at a building next to the currently closed Church which loomed above us on the hill. So Donut and I sat in the car enjoying the antics of the Sunday parkers who had trouble finding first gear, then engaging it, then placing the car in the expected place of parkage. Masses of ‘em turned up and either abandoned their cars or drove them on to the soaking grass by the roadside, skidding and sliding and, in one case, knocking over a road sign and driving over bits of it. They were all dressed up to the nines and picked their way across the soaking road and up the hill towards their meeting place. Nappy Rash turned up in the new car, plonked it on the soggy verge and debarked Heavy Petting, Simon, Diver, Hannah, Will and a excitedly barking Barney. They all burst from it and one was left to wonder if Barney (or perhaps another) had externalised a digestive problem. Whatever it was, they all looked very pleased to be out in the fresh air.

Lunchbox wandered over rather vacantly, holding the Hash bra and boob. “I may need some help with this?” He offered vacantly. You must be joking mate! Was the first thought and we made polite conversation regarding the inclemency of the weather while ignoring the proffered handful of black lace and globular object. He eventually gave up trying to figure out how to apply the lady-harness and ran round with the things in the front of his rain top which gave him the look of a curiously pregnant marsupial, wearing black-rimmed glasses. Incidentally, an apology for an erratumin last week’s Gobsheet. It wrongly reported that Motox had been awarded the thing. He actually awarded it. Must’ve been the ‘ox’ on the end of the name that threw me.

On Out we went quickly for it was a tad nippy. Up through the churchyard of the silent church and down the running stream that had been the path on the other side, before splashing out on to the sodden playing fields. This was where Martin provided the first cabaret moment of the day. Now the lad is not what you’d call in the Size 0 category and when his legs slid out from under him he went down like a charging rogue elephant on the receiving end of a well-aimed bazooka. KERSPLOT!! The ground under him rucked up like a snatched tablecloth and it was touch and go whether the goal posts over yonder would remain upright. Lemming helped our struggling friend by kicking as much water as possible all over him. No doubt to ensure he was in a conscious state after his fall. What a kind soul. This wasn’t the only Hash Crash of the day by Martin who managed to provide a similar moment of high mirth when approaching a stile at speed later. Hence, his naming as ‘Doggy Stile’ at the Down Downs. Interesting, isn’t it that children imitate the actions of others? Diver decided on a spot of liquid resuscitation a little later though the objects of her attentions were fully conscious. Personally, I regard soaking your mum (Heavy petting) and friendly old dog (Barney) as a spot of abuse.

Crikey! (For those of you reading this on the website) we’re already on the second page. Let’s get to the Regroup fast. Which we did, way up that rather long tarmac hill. Although Billy tried to sucker us (there you go, Florence, I got your favourite word in!) by getting there first and running back from it, calling, “Bar-9”. What a git. Foghorn ponced around looking Mexican – he had found a pointy Mexican hat somewhere. It rather suited his craggy features. I could see just see him in the remake of ‘A Fistful of Dollars’. “Eh gringo. You looking at me a leetle funny? Maybe I shoot you in thee cajones, eh?!

A long, leg-sapping schlep through sodden woods with deep shiggy paths led us up to Wellingtonia Avenue, a wide road leading off into the distance that is edged with massive redwood trees planted in 1869 to commemorate the Duke of Wellington soon after his death. Pity the set of flour blobs leading through the woods by the side of them turned out to be a rather long False. Still, it did allow the FRBs to enjoy the arboreal skyscrapers all over again on their way back :-) More and more thigh-tiring shiggy trails led us deeper into the forest. Desperate was obviously near to hallucination since she was mistaking bits of froth at the base of the fir trees for flour blobs. She also rabbited on to Full Frontal and me about bluebells in one of the more open areas. Lovely, we thought, raising our eyebrows at each other after viewing the pristine and no-blue ground. Luckily, we got a small break from the running by a stream in which that doyen of the genteel arts, Mr Blobby, stood, kindly helping the ladies across. The Long and Short Trailers had all met up by now and we galloped, gallumphed and glooped our way out of the woods and down across a long and very slippery track across one field before slipping and sliding up another. Dunny breathed (heavily) a sigh of relief at that last stile before the road. “That was Church Farm and this is Church Road.” She gasped. “Think we’re just about back.” She was right. It was just a quick nip up the hill where the rest of our soggy, straggling band were applauded as they gasped in to view.

Must thanks the Hares for laying the Trail in that foul weather and taking pity on us by laying a proper length Trail for a change. Thouigh even with the shorter distance there were a few sore leg muscles after that shiggy and those hills.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA C5 presented the following :-

Bit of a lover’s tiff over the method of drinking. A shambles.

Up and Coming