“I’m a laaady”

Bogbrush Fannybag Donut Hashgate Handful Snowballs Simple Skids Nutty Potty C5 Whinge TC OldDog FullFrontal Blowjob Kevin Mandy Zebedee Florence Slippery Bumwipe and dog Ebony Diver BGB Motox OldFart Foghorn Desperate Sh*tfor Iceman Ms Whiplash Poca BillyBullsh*t Slapper NoSole TT2 SkinnyDipper Penny Pitstop Cerberus Gita Pancake Lungs Cheating Slackbladder Little Stiffy and dog Maisie Lonely Spex Loudontasteless Dipstick Straddlevarious Frankie Miss Direction Charlie Jessie-May Sam

BH³ Red Dress Hash

It wasn’t San Fransisco during Gay Pride week. It wasn’t Rio de Janeiro during Carnival. More an amalgam of the two with a dash of Hashing. The Baron Cadogan pub hadn’t quite seen anything like it. Handful and I opened the big double doors to the pub, expecting to see at least one other dragged-up Hasher but were met by a number of older patrons who had been enjoying their breakfasts. I say previously since a few of them were now gazing at the sight that met their eyes. One old chap was midway to forking a tasty curl of crisp bacon into his open mouth. Handful looked quite conservative in her fishnets but I, on the other hand, was wearing a rather short red/white chequered dress and a scoop neck bright red top with a nifty black bow. It was probably not what the breakfasters had been expecting when they sashayed to the pub for their cheap and tasty morning meal.

Frankly, the punters were lucky. Outside the back of the pub our garish group began to gather. It would have caused the most hardened navvy to choke on his tea and a wad. Particularly Old Fart and Snowballs, a picture of each appears to left and right. Old Fart’s cloche hat gave him the appearance of a transvestite pixie. I could have been a lot ruder about that hat, and was going to be, until he told me it used to belong to his mum. I can only say it must have looked at lot better on her than it did on him.

So let us turn to Snowy. Note that vague and failed attempt at simple innocence. He’s worn pigtails before but nothing quite so exotic as the two-tone Rapunzels he sported on the day. He looks like a cross-dressing, itinerant watch seller. Would you buy a watch off him? No, nor would I.

On the other side of the sartorially appalling was Poca who looked as pretty as a picture in her shiny red outfit with red, feathery wings attached to her back and her hair. She did give me a fright, though, during the Trail when she hauled up her dress and began heaving up her pink stockings, explaining that she’d stiched them to her knickers (a secondary and more durable pair apparently) but that they kept slipping down. She managed to complete the Trail without exceptionally baggy ankles. Motox and Cheating had really gone all out this year, especially Motox, who wore a red cap with his red sweatshirt.

Our hares had been exceptionally devious before today by spreading disinformation about the route. Even to their closest friends hints about the Oracle, that huge shopping centre in the middle of Reading, had been spread. NappyRash had been especially keen to jokingly mention he wasn’t sure how he could lay flour blobs on an escalator! The subterfuge worked as we headed towards the centre of Reading in the cold rain. Everyone was convinced we would run through the area and every time we drifted away from it we just got slightly more confused. That’s probably why we were so easily caught out by the Bar (7, I think). Slapper was leading the way with Lonely and Spex and the rest following as they crossed the Loddon river near the library and wondered why Hare HP was still on the other side, waving and grinning. As we all backtracked, Lonely (brave soul) floated off down the main road in his off-the-shoulder long dress, careless of his effect on the Sunday morning drivers.

So the Oracle was not where we were heading. Or was it? Yes it was. The Long Trail led the dull of mind and keen of leg to the Oracle in Thames Valley Park. Oh how those Hares laughed. A nice trick and subtly executed. I believe the only Trail more confusing to Hashers was an A to B laid by a German gentleman, name of Mobious Tripp. They ran for twenty four hours before anyone figured it out…

It began to get colder and wetter after we split. Skids was obviously suffering, or looking to malinger, when she mentioned she would be perfectly happy to ride Snowy back to the pub, using his plaits as reins. Despite the chilly weather, Snowy considerably perked up at the thought.

I found myself in a delightful group of ladies including Skinny Dipper who asked me if I was sporting exotic underwear beneath my dress. I had to disappoint. Far too cold for the rhinestone thong. We trolled past the damp and dripping backend of Tesco, over the playing fields and spotted another breakaway group that included Spex, Foghorn and Snowballs. Thank goodness it wasn’t too far to get back as the weather closed in, the rain fell down and the temperature dropped. A roast dinner and a couple of pints beckoned. We sped eagerly towards its metaphorical crooked finger.

Darn fine Trail by our Hares, enjoyed not only by us but many people out and about on the Sunday morning. After the Red Dress Run many of the male contingent have consigned their flimsy concoction to the wardrobe for another year with a wistful sigh. But no need to worry this year dahlings. It’s the Women Only Run in just two weeks! Tra la!!

Quote of the day came from Slapper in the pub later: “I’m up for anything.” Quite so.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA C5 presented the following :-

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