Populace

Iceman Donut Hashgate Lynne LoudonTasteless Spex Honeymonster Cerberus Billy Bullshit Dumper Septic Snowballs Nutty Potty Dave (now Booby – see Down Downs) Blowjob Horny Handful Posh Bomber C5 FullFrontal Simple Skids Lunchbox SkinnyDipper Bogbrush FannyBag Whinge Tc Lemming Mother Theresa Messenger Boy and dog Lucy Motox NonStick Cloggs Fukawe Lonely Bootsie Chopstix Shandyman Florence Zebedee Caboose

Vox Populi*

It’s been a long time since we’ve seen them. Old Fart had specially laundered, pressed and lovingly prepared them and now they depended from the dark and fortunately secret environs of the legs of his shorts. His lurid, striped, Blackpool deckchair leggings gripped his sleek members (don’t even think it – we’re out of the shorts area) and made the eyes of his little grandchild widen with innocent wonder that anyone of such a noble age could dress himself up like such a ponce. Mind you, it was more than a mite nippy and covering up any areas of bare skin was something of a necessity. Simple didn’t seem to notice and did his GM thing for an overly long period while those who could still move their faces uttered chilled cries of, “On Out” and desperate squeaks of, “Over to the Hares.” It was no good. The old egotist had taken centre stage and was not going to relinquish it so easily. Facts and information spilled out of him like a kicked over bucket. If I could remember any of it I’d report it. I was too busy enjoying the heat from a warm Donut. We On Outed, finally, stiff legs clicking their way out of the car park.

A curious sight awaited us as we slipped through into a small estate. A gentleman (for it had to be a male) had converted his vehicle into something pseudo-military by painting it a variety of matt greens, swathing bits of it with camouflage netting and welding… a gun turret on the top. One occasionally has to wonder about some of the individuals who live in our society. What do you reckon? A macho, steriod-munching nutter with a fetish for handguns or some sad, skinny welder (sorry Whinge) who spends most of the day playing shoot ‘em ups on his Xbox?

Fortunately for me… Hmm. Or maybe not so. My concentration on the tinpot tank was broken when Lucy, Messenger Boy’s beautiful dog extruded a temporary portion of itself with such a hideous and invisible cloud of intestinal gas that my nostrils and eyelids slammed shut of their own accord. The former action prevented the worst of the miasma from penetrating my nasal cavities – a good thing. The latter prevented me from continuing forward – a bad thing. With the last of my breath I managed to chug out (fairly politely) to M. Boy (I assumed I was facing in his direction) that his dog was a fiend in canine form with the bowels of a dyspeptic skunk. He responded smilingly that it was actually the second time that morning that the hound had emptied itself in a manner designed to strip the paint off a chieftan tank.

The Hares had used their long, long, very long association with the Hash to lay a very sneaky Trail that kept the Pack together despite the best efforts of the FRBs. For example, Shandyman and Billy had reached the Check by the golf course and were fannying about over it, looking for the the Trail. Honeymonster (the lad’s getting fitter and fitter!) and I reached it and pasted forward along the narrow track, frightening two ladies and their young spaniel in the process. Three minutes later, after we had found the ‘F’ we frightened them all over again as we pasted back. The blighters had laid the real Trail parallel to the track. Zebedee, despite a hangover, found it and careened down it, eyeballs bouncing in his hollow skull like marbles. He had been one of those who had joined Baldrick and Jwax on their Stag and Hen dos the night before and had duly ‘tied one on’ with the result that he looked even more dessicated (and probably was) than usual. He couldn’t even face a pint after we finished.

The cleverest piece of Trail laying was not far from the end when we tripped lightly up a rather green piece of forest to find a Bar-2 to the right and a Bar to the left. Somewhat disconcerting. But this presaged a number of similar delights that had us disappearing into thick forest and finding at one point an abandoned and stripped Landrover with a floury sign next to it that read, “Motox BS?” The kind of thought amongst us assumed the the ‘BS’ stood for Beer Stop. Nice one, Hares.

Further on, a long slick of water awaited us and few opted for it apart from Dave, who streamed through it like a long-haired gazelle and earned himself a naming. Blowjob did not actually go through this patch of water but managed to soak herself to the knees anyway. I might add that the soaking was from the knees down rather than down to the knees, if you see what I mean. While chatting with Donut she stepped on what appeared to be a firm patch that turned out not to be. Poor lass but she took it in good spirits…

… just like Dave during his naming. It was interesting to note that he had been chatting with Lynne, Donut, Fannybag and Cerberus about the ceremony in the pub after the Hash. Cerberus had been recounting how much pleasure she gets from rubbing large handfuls of flour into the hair of the namees. She got her chance again this time while Dave bravely whipped off his top in the freezing cold and supped the beer very rapidly. He was named Booby after the Blue Footed Booby which is a seabird that is very happy to dive in to water and, according to Wikipedia, ‘is clumsy on the land, can be very tame and therefore easily captured, killed, and eaten by humans'. Hopefully the last bit doesn’t apply. Good to have you on board Booby!

Excellent Trail by our experienced Hares and a new (to me, anyway) and very nice pub. Thanks.

On On. Hashgate.

* populi - poplars

Down Downs

RA C5 presented the following :-

Nicely done!

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