Old Nags, Young Fillies, Stallions and Geldings

Fannybag Bogbrush Donut Hashgate OldFart Itsyor Potty Nutty Dunny Rampant AWOL Honeymonster Slippery Ms Whiplash Spot Skids Simple Hitchhiker Snowballs Cerberus BillyBullshit Shitfor Desperate Chopstix Shandyman Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Utopia Motox Foghorn DragonLady Dumper FrenchLeave Poisoned Chalice Lungs Spex Twanky Blowjob C5 RedRum Motox Booby Dumber Stefan TA JuicyLucy and dogs Milly and Margo Linda SkinnyDipper Butterfly Dribbler Lonely Woodentop Phil Shaun Neve, possibly Niamh (hope one of them is spelt that right!) Florence Zebedee TT2 Handful Cheating

Horsing About

How Mr Blobby, Mrs Blobby, C5, Dribbler and Butterfly summoned up the energy to join us after all their efforts on the weekend is beyond me. Saturday had been the date of the 330^th celebration. That number being made up of the following: two fortieth wedding anniversaries (Blobbies and Butterfly/Dribbler), two 65^th birthdays (C4/C5) and two 60^th birthdays (Butterfly and Mrs Blobby). Work that one out mathematically and I take my hat off to you. On a hot day we had a long Hash followed by a few beers at the superbly laid out Scout hut at Mortimer. Then a game of rounders where people who had carried their beer out on the field managed to kick it over in the heat of the match, LoudonTasteless proved to everyone he cannot catch a ball – as indeed did most of the players… who couldn’t hit a ball either. Then to the barbeque, the jazz band, the dancing where OldFart and his good lady bounced around, jiving on springs. More food, more drinks, more dancing. And the next morning for the organizers came the clearing up. Followed for C4 and C5 by hordes of energetic grandchildren visiting. On behalf of all of us who enjoyed the hospitality thank you to all the organizers and helpers and congratulations to those in Club 330!

Maybe the steamy heat had got to him. Maybe a general psychological malaise. Potty wandered slowly up the quiet little road towards the lovely old church. Then stopped at the other little road running across it. Like a sniffer dog on Valium he swung slowly from side to side, eying the tarmac. What the hell was he doing, thought OldFart and we. It seems our optimistic Potty had losty his car key at the Hash here a year ago and figured he might find it if he looked. Hmm. Nice to know someone with a positive view on life even if the lights are on but nobody’s home.

Now we have had a few injuries at the Hash over the years. The term ‘doing a Baldrick’, for example, has gone down in folklore as a description of someone who trips over and breaks many of the bones in their upper body. We regularly experience hamstring problems (Shitfor tonight, desperately trying to blame it on Saturday’s 330 rounders match), achilles sorenesss (Old Fart, Bogbrush), curious bandages on the knees (Dunny). In fact, you open a book on sporting injuries at any page and one of our group is suffering or has suffered from it. But Swallow received quite a different one this evening. While laying the Trail with Slowsucker they found themselves in a field with horses. These creatures can be variously described as sleek, proud, glorious, stately, friendly. This lot were thugs. If there were such a thing as horse hoodies they would have been wearing them. The small herd in this field had become fed up with plucking scrubby grass from the dry land and munching it speculatively. They eyed the bag of flour in Swallow’s unknowing hand and bustled round her. “Gi’s the flahr, darlin’”, they sneered, their horsy nostrils flaring (they were from the East End). Swallow tried a little horse whispering and murmured to one of them, “P**s off you long-faced git.” That didn’t seem to quite do the trick and one of the others grasped her shoulder between its grass-stained gnashers. Swallow turned and felled the beast with a fearsome right cross before stalking off out of the field gate. We offered our commiserations before the start while Dunny rooted in the depths of her capacious first aid kit before grasping triumphantly the smallest antiseptic wipe ever crafted and draping it ceremoniously on Swallow’s reddened shoulder.

We seem to have wandered inadvertantly on to the second page (if you are reading this on old-fashioned paper) and nary a word about the night’s Trail. Due to a bull and several stroppy heifers with youthful beeves we couldn’t go our usual way down the hill and into the field. This tarmac trip was rather prescient since we enjoyed rather a lot of this on the way. We were photographed by a friendly chap with a camera in the first field and came across him later near the On Inn, strolling happily through the grass under the mackeral skies. It was a truly beautiful English summer evening with scarcely a breath of wind. We scarcely had any breath after trekking through that estate where a bunch of us got (Slow)suckered by a False and a Bar before following Slowsucker into the woods beyond. We came across a most unusual flour marking, an arrow with what looked like the letters ‘ARS’. Certainly foxed Dribbler and me until Slowsucker explained this had been a place where the Hares had come across a snake, possibly an asp. Fortunately, the slinky creature hadn’t bitten Swallow. We were fairly lost though on the Trail. Our small group was made up of Donut, SkinnyDipper, Twanky, Dribbler, Butterfly and Blowjob and we trotted happily through forest and over yet more tarmac (“Thought we’d go somewhere else apart from the Ridges.” Slowsucker told us later). Cheating popped up from nowhere, in that inimitable way he has and raced a small boy on the other side of a garden wire fence, failing dismally to beat the infant who went on to crawl away and enjoy his mother’s milk.The Long and Short split followed the Regroup and those who wished to be munched by horses took the Long. A jaunt round the rather pleasant California Country Park and, guess what, some more tarmac after which we met Swallow loitering redly by the entrance to that last field that led to another bit of road and the pub where C5 stuffed large wedges of sticky but delicious apple pie into our hands. Rounding that off with a pint with some excellent chips and hot nibbles organized by our Hares finished a very pleasant night. Our thanks.

Lastly, let’s say what we hope will be an au revoir to Stefan, our visitor from Switzerland for the past two weeks. He thoroughly relished the Hash and we look forward to seeing him again.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Bugger! The blasted recording machine has deleted my Down Down information. RA C5 presented them and this is what I can remember.

Donut and I got one for allegedly canoodling during the Trail. Two straws and a pint of orange and Ice! Crikey it chilled the gizzard.

Phil, Shaun and Neve got one for being virgins. We’ll have to watch those kids – they’re too good at running.

Shandyman got one for having what he fondly called “a farmer’s tan”. i.e elbows to fingertips, knees to ankles, face and a v-shaped wedge down his chest. Very fetching.

Itsyor was awarded one for wearing dark socks with his trainers. Very non-U.

Potty got one for his key searching.

Our hares were awarded well-deserved refreshment. One swallowed. The other sucked slowly.

Up and Coming