Crazy People

Helen Pancake Emma Whinge TC Dunny Rampant Rabbit Donut Hashgate Cerberus Billy Bullshit Desperate Shitfor Nappyrash Diver Old Dog OldFart Utopia Mrs Blobby ShutupWally BGB Frankie AnalCondom Baldrick JWax Iceman Fanny Bag Bogbrush Twanky Bomber Posh Caboose Spex TT2 Zebedee Florence Messenger Boy Slapper NoSole 2Bob and dog Lucy Cheating Honeymonster Motox Tom Rob Thomas Josh Fiddler Itsyor Woodentop

The Hash

Pity poor TT2. He had to park his precious Mercedes among the rest of the hoi polloi with all the paint scraping apprehension that went with it. He needn’t have worried. Old Fart was the likeliest paint scraper and he parked right next to me. I think it was the fact that he roared in to the parking space backwards about a millimetre from my car that had Billy and Shitfor hopping from foot to foot, flapping their arms about.

Behind us in a small paddock next to the pub garden were some creatures that had both males and females cooing and wanting to stroke them. There was a lovely, gentle, friendly white donkey and two of the smallest Shetland ponies we have ever seen. Lovely animals. I looked around the members of the Hash. There were very few that I wanted to stroke.

Since our regular GM was laying the Trail tonight Shitfor stepped in and performed the welcoming role. I had always thought (backed up by his agreement) that Slowsucker occasionally wielded the vocal bludgeon but tonight’s surrogate GM pulled on the big boots, picked up a Goliathan club and battered the Circle into submission firstly with a somewhat disrespectful limerick about our outgoing GM that ended with a word that rhymed with ‘sucker’. Then rather embarrassed the two boys of the new family that had joined us tonight by laying bare their lineage and their mother’s relationship with her partner. It had a similar effect on the audience as someone farting in the Queen’s presence. Certainly it was a tour de force and we marvelled at the audacity of the fellow. However, prior to this he gave us a potted history of The Horns 16^th century pub that was quite interesting and possibly true.

We On Outed. The runners and long-distance walkers one way. Bogbrush, JWax, NoSole and I, led by Swallow in a rather nice pair of shorts, the other. Our walking wounded group stepped lively onwards since we were due to meet up with the runners at some point. Our confluence was to be later than I thought although we could tell where they were as we stumped into the sticky earth of the forest by listening out for the calls of ‘On On’ somewhere to our left. As usual, Iceman’s blood-freezing bellow-cum-yodel was the main sound that bounced off the mighty oaks and slid through the saplings. We stomped quietly on, determined not to reveal our position. Just then we came across a little well with a portico emblazoned with a picture and words Rebecca and the servant of Abraham written thereon. Jwax and I stopped to inspect it while the others disappeared rapidly. It took five minutes to catch up with the racing trio. I figured it would be best to get ahead and skipped lightly across a couple of Checks, getting it right both times. But, of course, just as one begins to believe in one’s own cleverness Fate takes a hand. This time it was a Bar-6. I stonked back to meet NoSole and Bogbrush who had lost Swallow and Jwax and were scratching their heads over a small and clearly marked map that was proving no help to them at all. At least we had the pleasure of watching FRB Rampant as he skipped lightly past our grinning selves, uttering a self-pleased, “Everyone less is miles behind.” Then skipped back from the Bar-6 having learned the same lesson as I had a little earlier.

We backtracked to where the Trail went off into the splintery underfoot woods and followed Caboose, Posh, Donut and Diver who were yapping away twenty to the dozen as we crackled downhill. There were a number of 2-Way Checks and others that confused the Pack and enabled us walkers to meet up with them time and again. We were even overtaken by BGB at one place.

After several miles of tramping with NoSole and Bogbrush we came up to Swallow and Slowsucker in a field where a herd of young bulls had gathered without their permission. Swallow asked me how I was with bullocks, which I felt was a tad personal. Mrs Blobby, Utopia and OldDog had caught us up and there was a minor amount of concern before we saw the herd hoofing off into the next field. Curious, but it saved us having to run like hell. It turned out that JWax was standing by a gate in the other field offering her map to the inquisitive beeves who had gathered round. On the shortish walk that led us over a road and through a dusky snicket we met TC and Cerberus who had foolishly gone way down a False Trail. A quick trot and we were back. Unlike Zebedee who had arrived at the start rather late and didn’t appear until the end of the Down Downs.

And now a new occasional feature. We all need a little advice now and again and the Gobsheet has secured the services of Aunt Betty, a lady of wide experience who has not always given her services for free. I’m sure you will find her guidance interesting, informative and perhaps a little challenging. If you have a problem ask Aunt Betty.

Dear Aunt Betty. I have a fat leg and am unable to run on the Hash. This is very distressing. What should I do about it?

Dear Limpalong. Frankly it’s better to have a fat leg than a fat lip and much more whinging is likely to earn you the latter, along with a shiner. If it doesn’t look like a leg on a billiard table consider yourself ahead. I do hope the rest of the losers who write in aren’t as much of a pain as you.

Our thanks to tonight’s Hares for laying an thoroughly enjoyable Trail and laying on a fine pub.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Old Dog presented the following while Slowsucker handed out nomination forms for committee positions at the forthcoming AGM. Nappy Rash asserted that he’d like to get Shitfor down in any position...

Even more messy with one pint and three straws

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