Happy Hashers

Beaver, Derek, Nutty, Potty, Simple, Skids, Snowy, Slippery Nipple, Billy, Cerberus, Doughnut, Hashgate, Shitfor, Whinge, Desperate, Heavy Petting, Nappy Rash, Tarmac Cuddler, BlowJob, Cinderella, Horny, Mr Horny (aka Michael), MessengerBoy, Quackers, Red Rum, Baby Ben, Twanky, Carloss, AWOL, C4, C5, Mrs Blobby, Mr Blobby, Dumper, Fanny Bag, BogBrush, Skinny Dipper, Motox, Iceman, Michelle, Miss Whiplash, Penny Pitstop, Spot, Sydney Mae, Tamzin, Phil Smith, Full Frontal, Florence, Zebedee, Chopstix, Shandyman, Slowsucker, Swallow, Lemming, Mother, Slapper, No Sole, SlackBladder, Little Stiffy, DragonLady, Foggy, Dribbler, Butterfly, LoudonTasteless, Spex, Caboose, Cabin Buoy, Randy Mandy, Two Bob, ChocChuck, Johnny Walker, Bumwiper, No Style, Alison, Booby, Blind Pugh, Just Moist

Happy Hashmas!

At least Zebedee didn’t turn up in his Christmas nurse’s uniform but the car park was full of Hashers in festive gear, including little Ebony who wore a striking black cape with a little red scarf. She looked much cuter that RandyMandy who sported what alleged to be a red Christmas coat, edged with white, that was somewhat too large for her and seemed more like a loose judo jacket. I expected to be thrown over her shoulder at any moment. Iceman, well Iceman wore that knackered old turkey cap he wears year after year, carefully restoring it under its glass case when he gets back home, to fester for another twelve months.

We digested our revered GM’s address, enjoyed the eupeptic euphoria engendered by his matchless Welsh prose… and forgot instantly the outpouring of useful historical information he had bestowed upon us. Hare Foghorn took up the oratorial reins and informed us that the Trail was about “seven and a half” long. Brows were smote. A sense of choking despair enveloped the throng. Until he qualified the bombshell by adding, “kilometres”. Phew. Most of us would have been too knackered to eat after 7½ miles. In fact, two of our number were too knackered after about 7½ minutes. While the rest of us On Outed, Donut and HP, citing severe woman flu, headed straight for Savacentre, ensconced themselves in Starbucks and slurped hot chocolate! Now that’s what I call true Hashing spirit.

You wouldn’t think that, with the A4 within spitting distance and the M4 within a minor regurgitation there would be much in the way of green fields. Surprisingly, there was. Not quite so green, though. More mud and puddle-covered farmland that sucked at the running shoes and tired the legs. This was supplemented by a number of merry, festive hills up which we sucked and schlepped our way. In the middle of one such rolling shiggy was a folly. A tall, round structure built for no apparent reason. Though Whinge advised Bumwiper and me that it was probably built by and so that the wealthy landowner who in lived in yonder manse (he pointed knowledgeably) could see it while he munched on his Weetabix of a morning. “Breaks up the skyline, you see.” He intoned sagely. I wonder about Whinge sometimes. I know we all have at least one molecule of Einstein inside us – maybe he has a few more than most. A number of our chaps ankled over to said monument: Mr Blobby, Booby, C5, Zebedee and Slowsucker among them. Which sparked something in RandyMandy, who whipped off after them in a red blur. They all disappeared into the building. A number of startled pigeons erupted from the open top. And after a few minutes everyone emerged, looking satisfied. Those who cast aspersions on RandyMandy’s good name should be ashamed of themselves…

Lots of slippery, muddy trail followed, along with a few ankle-ripping brambles and I found myself bracketed by Slackbladder behind and LittleStiffy in front, with their fine black labrador, Masie, springing easily between the two. I was most impressed by LittleS. Having not been Hashing for some time she was blasting along the Trail like a frenzied elf. The surprising thing was that none of us had Hash Crashed in a welter of mud and biscuits but, luckily, no-one did. It took a while but we eventually staggered out of the woods and on to the downhill tarmac through the urban sprawl. And who should I see but Donut’s sister and husband, just applying the key to their front door. They took one look at the mud-spattered Santas, waved briefly, jumped inside and slammed the door shut. You can’t blame them. A bit more road and we stepped gratefully and dirtily into the hotel car park.

The BH3 Christmas Do

Well done, Twanky, for a superbly well-organised party. The tables were set beautifully, the decorations glistened and the bar was open. BH³ fell on the bar like a pack of thirsty sheep and ordered everything in sight. On a projection screen was a video of last week’s Hash, courtesy (I believe) of Messenger Boy’s head cam. So much easier to run a Hash virtually, we felt, raising our various glasses. Santa (Snowballs in an itchy beard) appeared, handing out his Secret Santa presents. Flo’s enormous bosoms were appreciated by all, while Zebedee’s bright green mankini (as soon as he put it on) sparked off mass retching among the partygoers and waitresses alike. I got one of those incredibly useful boy-toy gadgets that has little scissors, a pen knife, pair of pliers, bottle opener and two objects which none of us can figure out. Though if my daughter’s horse ever needs its hooves cleaning…

A great time it was and the ‘On On’ quiz, Santa-masked athletes on a sheet of paper whose names we had to work out, and the ‘which film’ quiz taxed us most enjoyably. The food was very good and the service was efficient and friendly. Thank you so much to all who helped.

These are just two photographs from Twanky’s album – Lord knows what’s going on in the F. Christmas one! If you would like to view all the photographs ask Twanky to share the album with you online.

Now, since my recording machine has disappeared – possibly nicked by a naughty Christmas elf – I can’t do justice to the Down Downs, except to applaud Shitfor, our RA, for his innovatory use of drinking glasses: a curly, transparent tube in the shape of a pair of spectacles, one end in the drink and the other sucked by the Downer. Slowsucker, I remember, very much lived up to his name after being given a Down Down for wearing a Val Doonican sweater! So, in place of the usual details, here are a few ideas for Christmas presents for BH^3:-

On On. Hashgate.

Up and Coming