Dick Turpins and Lady Fanshawes

Chopstix Shandyman Donut Hashgate Motormouth Spot Lemming Mother Theresa Honeymonster and dog Max Ms Whiplash Dunny RampantRabbit LoudonTasteless Spex SlipperyDick OldFart BlindPew C5 C4 SkinnyDipper Iceman Motox Shitfer Desperate Messenger Boy Matt Bob Angella Mark Florence Zebedee Slapper Dorothy RedRum and baby Ben and lad Damien (now named Cinderella – see Down Downs) TinOpener Lilo and dog Minx Cerberus and Billy AWOL

Hashers They Came Riding, Up To The Old Inn Door (with thanks to Alfred Noyes)

He couldn’t resist it. The large plastic bag of pink flour lay at Hare TC’s feet. Lemming wandered over, eyeballs bulging and a huge grin on his face. Poor Chopstix, with her back to him, never had a chance. One minute her hair was a neat coiffure, the next the back of it was Barbie pink as Lemming plied a handful of the flour with a Teasy Weasy flourish and stood back to admire his handiwork. Chopstix uttered a resigned sigh and rolled her eyeballs. No point in complaining. You can’t change the spots on a bald leopard.

Whinge and TC really deserve a medal for this Trail. The good Cheating, who was down as original Hare decided (surprise, surprise) that he would, at the last moment, be unable to do the job and the intrepid two had stepped boldly into the breach. To add to their delight they found, via NoSole who cleverly thought she might just check with the pub that they knew we were coming, that they didn’t. Deep joy. So they spent most of last week recce’ing the Trail until darkness fell, in the damp and the rain. And on Friday, Molly, their dog lodger, decided to bugger off ten minutes before they returned to the pub… in the dark,,, while it was tipping down. Apparently, several nocturnal woodland creatures placed their little paws over their ears as the verbal shrapnel from the curse bombs rent the peace of the rain-lashed evening. Molly, it seems, had come from a long line of bitches who had engaged in consensual ‘dogging’ with a variety of gentlemen canines of indeterminate lineage. Curious really how the truth can be so stinging. Eventually the naughty beast reappeared, wearing a hangdog expression. To cap the week, many of the flour marks had been washed away when our Hares checked them on Saturday so they had to re-lay. We must also realise that Whinge, after severe and unjustified criticism some time ago by a complete ignorant who had totally ignored the voluntary nature of Haring, had vowed never again to lay a Trail. So for him to put in all this effort (and for Dee, one of our injured group, to join him) is certainly worthy of the presentation of DHMs (Distinguished Hash Medal – usually awarded with bar).

But enough of the Hares. What about the Trail? I was very pleased to see that my son, Motormouth, had decided to join us this morning and he turned up with a huge pair of Union Jack shorts and more stamina than the rest of us all put together. The lad came Hashing first when he was about six and Lilo was stunned to see he was now three times the height he was then. I thought I would give him the benefit of my vast Hashing experience and, just after we On Outed, I led him up a steep hill from the first Check. Then led him back down when we found absolutely no flour. Oh well.

Lots and lots of wet, squidgy, muddy forest followed. I can count on the toes of one foot the number of times we tripped lightly on tarmac. More like slipping heavily in the shiggy. As Donut found out half way through. Most of us had got half way down a slimy slope when we heard Whinge, at the back of the group, roar, “HAAASHHGGAAATTTEEE!”. Everyone stopped and looked at each other. Was that an ‘On Back?’ they wondered. Whinge continued. “DDDOOONNN’TTT SSSTTTOOOPPPP. JJUUUUSSSTTT HHHAAASSSHHGGGAAATTTEEE!” I never knew he could speak in capital letters. Fortunately, Donut limped bravely into view, no lasting damage done. Old Fart confided to me later that he had been close by when she had slipped over but, gentleman that he is, had decided to continue on by since she was still moving.

I followed on after Slapper who was wearing a pair of shorts borrowed from the Scunthorpe United Hall of Fame and last worn by Kevin Keegan in the 70’s. It reminded me of one of the reasons why I rarely followed football in that era and confirmed my resolution never to run behind him again. We passed Motox who had just blundered through a person-high sapling. “Mind that tree, Motox.” I warned, a little late. “You have to caress trees, Hashgate.” He replied. “If you caress things they grow big and strong.” I hurried past with a worried look on my face. To find Desperate kicking out a Check in one direction. Just before ‘freshening’ that side and kicking out the other when the ‘On On’ was called.

The Hares pulled off a humdinger at the next Check when four Falses completely phazed the FRBs and everyone else. We to’d and fro’d. We tarried and dallied. Many of us sat down to a couple of hands of canasta and a quick read of War and Peace, waiting for Whinge to arrive and point us bumblers in the right direction. With a broad (mainly toothed) grin, he did, enjoying a successful bit of Trail laying. And, after only half a mile or so, C5, Florence, Lemming and Slippery Dick and I found a pink, floury ‘On Inn’ sign. Whih was a bit confusing since Whinge had told us at the Circle that regular runners should not follow pink flour. We stopped to discuss briefly whether we should take the direction the pink ‘On Inn’ had indicated. It took all of fifteen seconds to decide. We ripped over the A4074, through a little wood and popped out on to the minor road to the Highwayman where Florence pointed out the place sign that read: ‘Exlade Street – hamlet please drive slowly’. Obviously Hamlet had been expected. Pity he wasn’t there 

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Up and Coming