Iceman and Women

Chopstix Shandyman Donut Hashgate Snowballs HP NappyRash Butterfly Dribbler Blowjob Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Itsyor C5 OldFart JohhnyWalker Bumwiper and dog Ebony 2Bob and dog Lucy BGB Tequilova SkinnyDipper RandyMandy BlindPew Desperate Shitfor Cerberus BillyBullshit Motox Fannybag TinOpener Whinge Slowsucker Iceman FullFrontal Dumper CabinBuoy Florence Zebedee

Cold

Two Hashers were incredibly sensible today. Separately, yet possibly linked by some inexplicable telepathic silken Hash thread, they had decided that, just this morning, Hashing was not for them. As I understand it from Whinge, TC was busy hoovering, dusting and washing “like women should do”. Ladies, please note that I disassociate both myself and this organ of the free press from this chauvinist opinion. Swallow, I believe, was wafting languidly round her centrally heated house wearing silk edged with ermine and a hint of Chanel No. 5. After seeing the weather earlier in the day no-one could blame them. It had been raining liquid ball-bearings for some time when I had prised open a gummy eyelid at 07:30. When it flickered open again at 08:30 you could still hear it rattling off the roof. And later, when I uncloaked a timorous leg from my fluffy (but manly) dressing gown and stuck it out the front door to check the temperature (so much more gentlemanly, I feel, than sucking a finger and holding it out) the cold breeze left my entire member stiff (steady, girls), chilled and shorn of its light (but manly) mantle of hairs. I whipped it back indoors, in the warm, and applied a mustard poultice with a mink glove (I recommend it on a cold day. Not the mustard poultice. The glove. Actually, any day will do). Worry not, dear reader. I recognise when I start rambling. We’ll get to the Hash in a minute. The point is, it was damn cold and fearsomely wet.

Luckily, on this day of Russian Unity, as GM Shandyman advised us during the Circle, it was not actually raining. Though the sky looked greyer and fluffier than Billy’s hair. Shandyman handed over to Hare Slapper who was, unfortunately, wearing those dreadfully tight Kevin Keegan shorts the Gobsheet mentioned a couple of weeks ago. His legs are quite muscly and descended from the shorts like beefy Doric columns. Health and safety were also highly visible in a) the form of Itsyor who wore a fluorescent safety jacket (probably to warn people he was in the area), and, b) the way Slapper advised us he would be leading the ‘runners’ in the group safely across the busy road. Whinge immediately skipped over to hold his hand and enquire if he had a lollipop. We duly formed a crocodile and followed Slapper over the crossing.

Given the freezing weather a number of us were more than a little disappointed to be going away from the welcoming confines of the nearby Costa coffee shop and we dawdled stiffly across the green, finding little of the Trail until Slapper pointed us in the right direction. Which was up, down and across a bit more of the green. The surface consistd of slippery tussocks with small pools of cold water between ‘em that dampened up the plimsolls and gave the toes something to think about.We bumped into CabinBuoy, driving his Sherman tank people carrier and pointed him in the direction of the car park, before slipping (literally) into some woods. C5 and I discussed if we would ever see CB since Slapper, our Hare, was completely lacking in spare flour to mark the way for the latecomers. We needn’t have worried – we just never saw him again.

Things began to get a bit gnarly. There was rather a lot of tarmac (not in the woods dummy – we came out of them) and it all began to get surreal as Donut and Snowballs FRB’d up to a Bar-3 before turning back to a ripple of applause from the cold-handed followers. A ginnel here, a snicket there and we finally jumped back on to a wet field and a pair of horses separated by electric fences. Slapper had warned us to take care with the ‘horse’ and fence so we were somewhat surprised to be confronted by a pair of snorting, inquisitive beasts. Whinge wandered over to one and stroked it on the muzzle. Now either he is a secret horse whisperer or the smell coming off his perspiring form so mesmerised our equine friend that she stood, stiff-legged and quiescent, putty in his hands. I mused briefly if he has this effect on other females then realised that, generally, he has the opposite effect – they usually scatter rapidly.

We reached a low point in the land, where the cold rainwater had gathered in calf-cramping lakes. Slowsucker and Iceman decided to wade through one from a Check in a fruitless search for a flour blob. RandyMandy delighted us all by squeezing her form between the horizontal bars of a stile. Anyone who has seen Mr Fantastic in the Famous Four film can visualise the scene as she toothpasted through. Quite some scene. We entered a field that caused Whinge (yes, him again!) to ask if we were in Ireland. “How do you mean?” We asked. “Well, it’s a paddy field isn’t it?” He chortled. How we laughed. Lucy, 2Bob’s lovely collie, raced up and down in the waterlogged field, thoroughly enjoying it as we slogged across, freezing our legs.

The Regroup was set by a (in summer!) lovely pond with a sweeping lawn up to what had been a fine old farm building and was now a set of holiday lets. Still pretty nice but we were happy to get going again. Despite Slapper’s attempt at mis-derection by bleating on about a possible Back Check we all scurried off up the hill and off on the right path. Where we bunped into Florence! Bit of a surprise really. It turned out Zebedee had got a flat tyre so Flo had agreed to help out by going for a run while he waited for the AA (no, not Alcoholics Anonymous) and had bumped into Mrs Blobby, one of our walkers. She had given Flo a map of the route and… well, you know the rest. As we stamped round the track at the end of their enclosure a group of what I believe were Gloucestershire Old Spot piggies oinked their way over to us. Fine chaps and Dribbler wondered what they usually eat since they seemed rather peckish. I offered to throw him in with them so he could find out. He politely declined.

We entered an area of scrub, furze, shiggy and running water. And proceeded to lose the Trail. Lovely area… in summer, and we clumped and sloshed our way through it after Slapper kindly showed the way. The second Regroup appeared, next to a very deep, very cold, very large puddle. NappyRash, Slowsucker, Shitfor and Foghorn grabbed HP with the intention of availing her of the bathing facilities but a lot of kicking and struggling convinced them to turn their attentions to Desperate who was equally determined not to indulge in public cleansing and the lads retreated, somewhat bruised. Desperate later gave me the quote of the day by letting me know “If you see marks on NappyRash’s neck that was me.” We enjoyed a perfectly lovely loop through yellow and gold-glistening beech woods where the fallen leaves lit up the day with their brilliance. Like the others, I delighted in the experience, though falling a*se over head at the top of one hill put a slight crimp in the day. But not for long. We skipped lightly down through an alley and on to the main Hartley Wintney road where it was but a short, now even colder step to the pub.

Our thanks, Slapper, for turning out on such a snappy day to lay our Trail.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Up and Coming