Heads and Tails

Cerberus BillyBullshit Donut Hashgate Shitfor Desperate NappyRash HP Itsyor Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby C5 Whinge TC Iceman Swallow Slowsucker Spex LoudonTasteless Foghorn RandyMandy BlindPew Simple Skids Slapper NoSole Motox Fannybag Bogbrush SkinnyDipper Utopia CSGas Cheating ChocChuck

Crowning Moments

Before I get started, let me remind you that the AGM is but a couple of weeks hence and there are amazing opportunities for gifted individuals who pass the stringent psychometric and intelligence (I know, there won’t be many) tests to bid for power and influence by putting themselves forward for a position on the committee. Couple of points here – the work is not onerous and largely consists of swanning around at Hashes advising lesser mortals that, “I’m a committee member you know” and every now and again attending a ‘committee meeting’ which consists of agreeing with everything that everyone else says for about an hour, followed by tucking in to delicious grub, swilling beer and laughing ‘til your sides hurt. In the post-Olympic and current Paralympic glow of volunteering why not give it a go? Email or chat to any of the outgoing committee members and bask in the knowledge that you’re helping BH3, one of the most successful, long-standing Hashes, to continue with its success.

Appropriately enough we got ‘reigned’ on as we stood around chatting before the Hash. The clouds lowered, greyness rushed across the sky. It did not bode well for a dry Trail. But, luckily, it cleared a little as we formed what passes in BH³ as a Circle. Having enjoyed Simple’s introduction to the evening’s festivities during which he lauded the landlord and landlady of the pub who, having bought the pub only three week’s ago knowing nothing about our event but had agreed to open the pub on the Bank Holiday day when they thought they could put their feet up, we were handed over to the Hares, the lady of the duo making little sense with her Harriete instructions which prompted Donut to ask loudly, “What the hell does that mean?” That might be one of the longest sentences ever written in the Gobsheet. Bernard Levin, eat your heart out.

We On Outed across the road, me trotting with the running wounded group which consisted of Shitfor (groin strain), Desperate, HP and NappyRash (all knackered from a nine mile run from the day before). I was suffering from the effects of an inspirational but eaten far too late in the afternoon Donut meal. No, not eating doughnuts, but a large portion of spicy chicken and assorted good-for-you vegetables chef’d by the good lady. Interestingly, it was RandyMandy who suffered a stitch during the Trail, rather than me. Rather fortunate, I felt, in an ungentlemanly moment.

It was RandyMandy who powered up one of the first real hills across a rolled field to a rather greener one where we stood gasping at the top. “On Hare!” shrieked a number of Hashers gleefully as a real hare bounced, long-legged and bristle-whiskered in a rapid zig-zag across it. The Hash actually split here with the stupid (myself included) stonking all the way round the far edge of the 100-acre while the sensible (including Cerberus and, surprisingly, Billy) skipped lightly round the short edge to where we would join them. We puffed and heaved. They grinned and breathed easily. At least Hare Rampant supported the longer trekkers though with a somewhat wry smile. We entered the woods once again and were tripping along a muddy track when Blind Pew was attacked by a killer rabbit. The grey, furry beast shot out in front of him, scut bouncily cockily, attempted a swift gnash with its incisors at his left running shoe, decided rapidly it wasn’t very fond of cheese and zipped into the bushes, nose wrinkling disapprovingly. I could understand where it was coming from. An aged running shoe filled with a BlindPew foot covered in a sock of indeterminate heritage would not be something I would regard as a gastronomic titbit. Even Heston Blumenthal would struggle to make something of it.

Slowsucker disappeared down a little road, closely followed by Mr Blobby and Slowsucker. A fold of smoke rolled across where he had gone, prompting Mr Blobby to observe that perhaps our friend had spontaneously combusted, something he is known to do if you splash him with shiggy. Go on. Try it. You’ll be amused by the results. Fortunately, all three had just wandered down a False and soon returned to join the rest of us as we fetched up at the Regroup where loitered such itinerants as Skids, Simple and Bogbrush. After a pretty fair hack to get here everyone was expecting there to be a Long and Short split. But this is a Dunny and Rampant Trail and, of course, everyone is always encouraged on their Trails to fully participate in the enjoyment of the entire route. We duly conformed to the expectations, hoping that the rest of the damn thing wasn’t quite as hard going as the first part. Fat chance! This is hilly, rolling countryside, beautiful from a helicopter, a little more challenging on foot. But perfectly beautiful nonetheless. We slipped past fields of excited horses. Down huge slopes with lovely views. Up bloody great big, slippery, muddy hills. Through darkling woodland. Donut, to her imense surprise, found herself FRBing right at the front of the Pack for all of three minutes before that true gent Slowsucker took her out like Mo Farah slipping past, well, almost anybody. He gave her a swift ‘Mobot’ and planked off into the woods.

After finding Mrs Blobby and Utopia slightly lost in the forest we stonked down yet another steep slope before heaving up the other side with Dunny in tow. The ‘On Inn’ appeared. Hurrah! And it was just beginning to rain. We stepped wearily towards, then into the welcoming pub.

Many thanks to our Hares for a quite magnificent, if exhausting, Trail.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA C5 quietly presented the following due to a ninety four year old and a dog trying to sleep upstairs. The ‘Down Down’ song was sung with a hushed reverence inside the pub (it was raining cats and dogs outside) which gave it a pleasant, almost choir-like timbre. Very nice – we should do it more often. Though the ‘Twenty Toes’ ditty sounded a little strange… :-

Very smoooth

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