Flour Girls and Boys

Lemming Mother Theresa Donut Hashgate Snowballs Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Fannybag Bogbrush Old Fart Chopstix Shandyman Cerberus Billy Bullshit The Tremblers Fiddler Itsyor Spex Old Dog Bomber Posh Desperate Messenger Boy Honeymonster and dog Max Twanky Slapper NoSole Slippery Dick Handful Lunchbox Spot Cheating Shutupwally Slippery Dougal John Alan Iceman SkinnyDipper Nicky Don Florence Lonely Tinopener Lilo and dog Emma Call Girl Doggy Stile

Spot The Trail

My heartfelt thanks, again, to OldDog who very kindly scratched out the last two Gobsheets while I was away. She can splice a dipthong with a deft flick of the wrist. Her circumlocutio puts Bernard Levin in the shade. She has no peer. Let us be thankful. Ta dahlin’.

“Come my dear. I shall teach you the finer points of minimalist Trail Laying.” So opined BGB as he took Full Frontal by the arm to lay the first blob of the Trail. She was perfectly prepared, with a wheelbarrow of white powder and a large scoop. On her arrival BGB had pursed his lips and sucked in a horrified breath as he viewed such profligacy. They stood at the start and from the mobile phone pocket in his jacket he extracted with a flourish a tiny bag of finest Whitworth’s. Had it been placed in a mouse’s kitchen it would not have been out of place. The tiny writing on it would have taxed a hawk. Cerberus would have been hard put to see the bag itself. Deftly slipping open the top BGB inserted the very tip of finger and thumb. Before the powder had even coated the ends of his nails he pinched, hard, to squeeze off all extraneous dust. “Behold!” He exhorted, glasses glinting slightly manically, and he carefully withdrew his fingers. Full Frontal peered at his hand, desperately trying to see anything white. But failed. “And so. The first blob is laid.” He cried theatrically, sweeping his hand to the earth and apparently depositing something there. As a piece of mime it was beyond compare and Full Frontal was thinking she would certainly pay to see him at the Covent garden piazza… anything as long as he wasn’t here, really. “Come, my dear.” Uttered BGB, flouncing camply into the forest, intent on laying another blob perhaps in another mile or so. Full Frontal quickly stuffed handfuls of flour into her pockets. She knew she would have to lay blobs with stealth and cunning. She was determined the Pack would not get lost… and never to lay a Trail with BGB again :-)

You’d think, from the fuss made by some of the householders near the pub, that no-one had ever parked on the public highway outside their residences. The debate on global warming and the credit crunch was never so hot as their complaints. Braces, vests and large bellies waddled down to gates to view the apparent automotive carnage. It was probably the most many of them had spoken to each other in years and our arrival may have mended many social fences. So not too bad an effect then.

The Pack burst off into the soggy woodland and I accidentally pushed OldDog into a festering patch of ankle-deep shiggy just before Spex pointed out to Lemming that his lace was undone and muttering under her breath hopefully, “Perhaps he’ll fall over.” A harsh start to the Hash but quite prescient with regard to Lemming who did indeed twist his ankle and fall over just outside Broadmoor. However, since he was running sideways while insulting one of our members we felt fully justified in laughing like drains while helping him to his feet. We were looking around for Wally at the time since we figured that if we trussed him up and dumped him by the Broadmoor entrance they might see him as an excellent potential customer and take him in. His credentials would have been verified by the fact that he was carrying with him a home-made traffic lollipop with the word ‘Petrol’ emblazoned on the top which he had been using to stop traffic as we crossed roads.

We eventually reached the Long and Short split and those of us on the Long Trail enjoyed the sight of Bomber skipping like a demented spring lamb across the hillocks, tussocks (there you go, Itsyor!) and gulleys on the blasted heath over which we stumbled. Billy was in his element, wittering on about how well he knew the area from when he used to run races over it. Confidence began to wane in him a tad when he sent Bogbrush down a long False. It waned further after confident speech about how the Trail had to go to the left… when it actually went to the right.

Shortly afterwards we met up again with the Short Trailers who stood around looking at Max, who was cooling his doggy feet in a puddle. You could see the steam coming off the water and the pleased look on his little foxy face. Good little runner, Max. he may not be entirely the sleekest dog about but if he keeps running like he does he soon will be. Barney – look to your laurels!

While Lonely and I followed the longer loop which joined us back with the Short Trailers again Old Fart wandered over to tell me a story. It seems he was reading The Times recently which was carrying front page stories about the Pope and the general church response to the abuse stories that have been circulating. It seemed a very serious subject for Old Fart to bring up on such a lighthearted occasion but he soon told me why. After wading through the reports his eye was caught by the name of The Times correspondent. His name was Roger Boyes. Oh dear.

After a reasonably lengthy, shiggy-strewn trek behind Mr Blobby and Iceman we got back to civilization and dragged tiredly along the road. Apart from Lonely who decided he had not put in enough mileage and shot up a small hill behind Old Fart (probably not a good place to be). At the pub BGB kindly provided a couple of large cakes to celebrate his birthday and we all tucked in thankfully. A good, reasonable length Trail through some good territory. Thanks Full Frontal. Oh, and you too, BGB.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

(Despite his good lady’s protestations) RA Shitfor presented the following, getting most of it right.

Went down well…

Up and Coming