Brass Monkeys

Cerberus Desperate Shitfor Donut Hashgate Twanky Blowjob Ms Whiplash Motox Swallow Chopstix Shandyman Bumwiper and dog Ebony DoggyStile Dumper Bogbrush Fannybag Messenger Boy and dog Lucy Matt Roz CrustyToasty Snowballs Spot Foghorn Iceman Simple Skids Pissquick Glittertits Poca Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Whinge TC Slapper NoSole RandyMandy Jeanette Phil OldDog Booby C4 Blind Pew Gflorence Zebedee Bob BGB Tequilova NappyRash HP Spex LoudonTasteless Mother Theresa Lemming Dan and much later, Cheating JJ Aqua New Boiler

This One’s For Billy

Now Billy is known not only for his impish sense of humour and inability to pass a Check without kicking it out the wrong way but also for his fitness. So it was with alarm and surprise that we learnt the poor chap had completed the Bash laid round my way on Saturday only to suffer a heart attack afterwards. The 57 people who were at the Hatchgate on Sunday know that Billy is ok and recovering but if you were one of those people that weren’t, well he is. A get well card was produced after the Sunday Hash and was completely filled with best wishes from all of us who are lucky enough to know him. Apart from reiterating the sentiment, Mick, may I also say on behalf of all of us that we will be very happy to see you back on the Trail… sometime in the distant future  Fortunately on today’s Trail NappyRash had volunteered to fulfil Billy’s role by running at the front, kicking out all the Checks and calling “Ooooon” very loudly, immediately followed by a quiet and indeterminate “hrn”.

A vapid rumour had spread round BH³ prior to most of our arrivals at the pub that it was shut. Secondly, the addresss given was Fleet, some miles away. So it was with some surprise that, as Donut, Swallow and I turned into the car park we saw a mass of cars and a seething herd of Hashers all jabbering away excitedly. Especially as, despite the beauty of the azure sky and brilliant sun, it was cold enough to freeze the knackers off an elephant seal. Which meant that during Slowsucker’s inaudible Hare’s address (which went on for what seemed like ten minutes in that searing cold), followed by C5’s sealion-like barking (which made sense but which just bounced off one’s auditory equipment – one’s cochlea having frozen to one’s anvil) we skittered about, stamped up and down and blew on hands the colour of beetroot in an anxious attempt to keep warm. As soon as the On Out was called (we knew which direction since there’s only one way to go), with a creaking of cold knees, a crackling of crepitus and a snapping of sacroiliacs we got on our way and drifted into the plantation.

As we ghosted through the frozen scrub and woodland we began, eventually, to warm up. Our hearts went out to our intrepid Hares who had turned out on this cold and frosty morning to lay the Trail before traipsing round it again with the Hash. Slowsucker told me later that his GPS had recorded about 13 miles. Though Swallow pointed out that some of that may have been while he was getting the car to the Beer Stop. Hee hee. So we were inwardly applauding our Hares… until Foghorn and I got near a lake and could not find flour at all. Until I spotted it. A lovingly laid Check. On the whitest, frostiest patch of grass you can imagine! The Hares reputation began to wane as NappyRash and JJ hove off from a Check in the opposite direction to where most people seemed to be running. JJ expostulated that the Hare, Slowsucker I believe (now squatting down by the Check and drawing a flour arrow pointing away from us) had given him to believe that this direction was right. He followed it up with a fine Telegraph-reader harumph before protesting heartily that, “They shouldn’t allow lying b*astards to lay Trails!” You could almost see him furiously twirling his walrus moustache while leaning way back, dressed in rufous plus fours, monocle shining, fists on hips and finishing off with an exploding saliva-fuelled, “TCHA!!”

Thank the Lord that, after a fairly long sprint under the pylons, we reached the beer stop. Oh, we don’t ‘arf ‘ave some raight posh Beer Stops and today was no exception. Picking our way through the mud and huge dirty puddles filled with flowing chunks of icy cat wee we daintily selected a freezing mini-lager from the boot of a car. Coo ‘ow the other ‘arf live! Five minutes later all heat had evaporated from our bodies and rigor mortis began to set in. I have to say, it seemed to be setting in rather rapidly for certain, ahem, more mature Hashers than others. So we had a choice, barked and grumbled our Hares. The Long Trail is that way. The Short Trail straight back to the pub is that way. Donut and Swallow made the wisest choice of anyone. They got the keys to Slowsuckers BMW and drove back to the pub. Now I had given Donut my car key in the expectation that she could get quickly into warm clothes and high-tail it into the pub with Swallow for a restorative potion. However, when I finally got back to the car park exhausted, frozen and worried for my true love I found both of them snuggled up to Whinge while he showed them his DS. My initial thought, as I wrenched open the door to his car and was toasted with a blast of warm air, was that DS stood for Dogging Station but he allayed that thought by pointing out that it was a Nintendo DS. Phew!

But I get ahead of myself. I haven’t mentioned the really enjoyable trot through the forest on the Long Trail. Followed by the interesting splash through the ankle-deep pond. Just before the suck and clump along that shiggy-laden track where more than one of us damn nearly lost a plimsoll. I must also mention a classic moment with BumWiper and her lovely black and white spaniel, Ebony. The little creature is incredibly eager and BumWiper attaches her lead to her belt (Motox mentioned to me that it seemed cruel that such a little dog had to pull such a large woman up hills). Which worked fine until they approached a big, fallen tree that blocked the path. Ebony took one look, decided to take the four faults and zipped under it. Which left BumWiper almost bent double over the top. We also were bent double. But for a different reason.

Mother Theresa was simply flying along today and there were those who whispered (out of her earshot) that she was being ass-isted by that albatross. Like I said in a previous Gobsheet, if I find out who’s been accusing Mother of being steatopygous… Personally, I find her callypygian.

Having crossed the main road again that led directly to the pub some of us decided a short-cut would be preferable to another yomp through the forest and took the long, straight track. Shitfor, Desperate, New Boiler took the front. New boy Phil and I the middle and Lemming and Mother Theresa brought up the rear. A pleasant end to what had been a fearfully enjoyable Trail through perfect hashing country in lovely (if very cold) weather. Nice one, Hares. Thanks very much. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Motox dragged us back out into the freezing cold and presented the following :-

Twanky by a neck

Up and Coming