Wellingtonians

Florence(!) Zebedee(!) Donut Hashgate Honeymonster C4 C5 Blowjob Twanky Dunny RampantRabbit FullFrontal ButtPlug Caboose Spot Poca Cerberus BillyBullshit Ms Whiplash Motox Lungs TT2 SkinnyDipper Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Foghorn DragonLady Skids Simple Tim (now BarbyDoll) Ben Lonely Slapper Potty Nutty Dumper Snowbals SlipperyDick NappyRash Diver Itsyor Fannybag Bogbrush Slowsucker Swallow Posh Bomber RedRum Dorothy Nutty Mark Nick Phil OldFart NoSole Julia (may have missed a couple due to machinery malfunction – apologies)

Our Waterloo

“Hello.” Said Donut and I to a tall chap with clean running shoes we had not met before. “First time with Berkshire? What’s your name?” “I’m from London.” He replied. “My name’s Butt Plug.” A short silence stalled the nascent conversation. We didn’t ask him the origin of this sobriquet since we felt it possibly not the best time to get to the bottom of this. Fortunately, we spotted Florence and Zebedee who have both been awarded a little punctuation baton each above since they had actually arrived at the Hash a full twenty minutes early! (Oops, there’s another one! … and another!)

There were quite a number of welcome guests we had not seen before who were attending Shitfor’s birthday bash. Some of the regulars were ungenerous enough to suggest that the large volume of attendees was due to the free barbeque that he and Desperate had been kind enough to put on for later. Impossible to believe, I know, but I have to report the facts.

Now our hares had been crafty enough not to lay any flour on the main road going through Twyford. I thought I might steal a march on the Pack at the On Out by going the opposite way to that which I had driven in and took Foghorn and Billy with me. It all turned horribly blancmange-shaped as we realised our (note the sharing of responsibility there) mistake and reversed our steps to join the absolute back of the Pack and Desperate, who was dropping blobs of flour as she went.

Even more delights awaited us. The entire troupe decided to turn left down a leafy track at a Check on the road, then mill about hopefully along the three grass tracks in the field beyond. The Hares were (rightfully) quite euphoric that everyone had got it wrong. I think we can chalk that up as a first.

We crossed the A4, which Itsyor failed to recognise, and entered what seemed like a tarmac conveyor belt. However much we ran there was more of it. Feet slapped down on the wet surface. Bushes slipped by to right and left. NappyRash and Shitfor engaged in mucky male conversation to take their minds off the pain. And eventually we fetched up at a little bridge over a lovely stream with long leaved green plants wavering in the slow current. As we arrived we heard the end of a strange conversation between Florence and Posh. Florence was just pointing an informative finger towards Posh and stating, “You’re lacking moral fibre”. Now Posh, as we know, is a lady of such breeding that the only interpretation I could put on this exhortation was that Florence was intimating that she was short of breakfast cereal that not only nourishes the body but also the soul.

A field full of cows, calves and a bull appeared. Fannybag wisely took a side route that led her to the regroup. The rest of us cautiously edged into the field of mooing beasts. Two small calves had decided to appear on the left of our meandering group while the rest, including their mother, were on the right. The mum lowed fervently, as though the louder she mooed the more likely it would be that the furry infants would be magically transported over to her. They stepped nervously to and fro while Poca, NappyRash and I stepped nervously between them and mum. Eventually, they rushed through the gap between us and Snowballs, who seemed to be trying to usher them over with strange beckoning gestures and encouraging words. It worked and the rest of the Pack steamed through the field, prompting Simple to moan later that this kicked off something of a bovine stampede when he had crossed the field.

The Regroup stood about chatting until Simple regaled us with a joke that had us stitching up our sides and rolling on the floor gasping out gales of laughter (yes, there is irony in this statement). We sympathised with Skids who ruefully advised us was that this was what she had to put up with all the time. OldFart redressed the balance of humour by making a ruder joke about Simple being tossed in the field. Rather amusing we thought.

The Long and Short split bifurcated from here and those with tired legs, like NappyRash who had been cycling in France – possible an étage on the Tour de France – took the sensible option. Except this started off with another tarmac conveyor belt. Aargh! Followed by a Bar 3 or 4. Desperate wasn’t too sure since Shitfor had laid it earlier and he hadn’t been too sure either. We darted off into a beautiful cornfield. Lovely. A rolling piece of land graced with golden stalks underneath the grey skies. The colour contrast was dramatic and enjoyable and I trotted along behind Diver, SkinnyDipper and Skids, heading once again for the A4. Crafty Hares. Saving flour and effort they had reused the Out Trail. As NappyRash remarked at the time, BGB could learn a few lessons here.

We trotted back up to the pub past Red Rum and, since my office I opposite the pub, I slipped in and enjoyed a luxurious shower before joining Dount and the rest at the excellent barbeque in the pub garden.

Many thanks to our Hares and parents for making this a really fun evening. Happy Birthday Shitfor! (wow! There’s another one of those. Actually two…)

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA C5 presented the following :-

Marginally slower than usual

Up and Coming