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Run Number: |
1845 |
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Visit the
website – http://www.berkshirehash.co.uk |
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Venue: |
The Black
Horse |
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Hares: |
Spot, Fannybag, Gnomealone |
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Runners and Riders
Whinge TC Donut Hashgate Cerberus BillyBullshit Desperate Shitfor OldFart SkinnyDipper, Bogbrush, Motox, Blowjob, Bomber, Posh, Tequilova, BGB, Slowsucker, Nappyrash, HP, Snowballs, Lemming, Mother Theresa, Diver, Ms Whiplash, PennyPitstop, C5, Iceman, Woodentop, MessengerBoy, LoudonTasteless, Spex, RandyMandy, BlindPew, Debbie, RampantRabbit, Dunny, Zebedee, Florence, Alison and Didcot H3
Horsing About
A little information is never a bad thing. So let’s rip a bit of trivia from ‘The Dictionary of Pub Names’, a fascinating tome produced as part of the Wordsworth Reference Series. The Black Horse as a pub sign appears to have its origin in at least the fourteenth century due to its convenience as a visual symbol. By the seventeenth century the term had become the nickname of the 7th dragoon guards, who had black collars and cuffs on their jackets and rode mainly black horses. The sign was also used by this time by goldsmiths in Lombard Street. It is now associated with Lloyds Bank. Whinge advised me that the pub has been run by the same family for over a hundred years (as a lad he used to visit his older relatives who live in the house in one of the ‘Quiet Lanes’ that lead to the pub. Quite why Oxfordshire needs to designate them as such when it’s bleedin’ obvious to anyone with half an ear that they are so is beyond me.) I understand that there has been a village hereabouts since the seventh century though whether Whinge visited his relatives that far back is unknown.
Also
unknown is why Donut and I spotted a white emu (possibly ostrich) in a field on
the way to the pub. Guess we’ll never find out. We turned up and parked, opened
the car door… and shut it damned quick. A mutual whimper escaped our lips.
Crikey, it was cold and, as we all know, Donut has more than a penchant for the
equatorial when it comes to metreological conditions. We suited up and strode
towards the Circle. Our BH3 amoeba had been invaded by Didcot
bacteria – friendly bacteria, I hasten to say. They too stamped their feet and
clapped their hands in the cold, bright morning as Hares Fannybag and
Gnomealone told the tale of the Trail. It struck me that Gnomealone had
effected a somewhat Ezra Pound look, what with the little tufty beardlet that
adorned his lower lip and the wavy, swept back hairstyle. I rather expected the
Gnome to trot out a bit of poetry but then no-one would understand it so I was
glad that he didn’t.
We On Outed eagerly and, of course, wrongly. Fannybag tutted lightly as she called us all back from every direction but the correct one. There was quite a lot of this. Slowsucker was one of the main protaganists, leading (I think) Iceman up a hill and calling, “On On” while Fannybag forlornly squeaked, “On Back”. She and I scurried along down the track that led deeper into the wood when she suddenly tripped on a finger of gnarled root, causing her to squeeze tightly the plastic water bottle which contained her flour. A grand puff of the stuff spurted out in a hazy cloud shaped like Nigel Mansell as she righted herself. Really quite impressive!
Unlike Fannybag, our friend from Somerset, Hairnet, crashed spectacularly on the cold shiggy. Being tall, she had a long way to go. But, fortunately, no harm was done.
RandyMandy, on the other hand, had other things on her mind. By the first Regroup (there were two) she asked C5 if he would like to bend down. Since we were moving on we didn’t find out whether she needed a footrest in order to tie up a loose shoelace or was intent on rogering him with a curly carrot. Incidentally, how good to see her beau, BlindPew, up and about and looking sprightly. Apparently, his ankle plaster cast comes off this Thursday. We all look forward to seeing him running again. The Regroup was by the delightful church and equally delightful cricket pitch. Or they will be in summer. While all the personal heat we had just worked up evaporated into the bitter air Snowballs warmed us up, at least mentally, with tales of the curry tasting and cookery lesson Slippery had given him as his birthday present.
Rather
a lot of running after this Regroup. Hills, dales, roads, trails, tracks,
snickets, paths. You name it, we ran along it, up it or down it. Which
naturally tired a few of us, including LoudonTasteless who muttered a dark and
heartfelt, “Shite!” on finding a False. The second Regroup unveiled itself on a
steeply rising back road through a wood with the choice of a Long and Short
Trail. A very sneaky Long Trail, in fact. Our Hares, knowing that some of us know
this area reasonably well, had gambled that the exceptionally steep, uphill
track would tempt a few who would be followed by the main flock. So it was. The
long False claimed many a would-be FRB who trailed back down with world-weary
grins and even wearier legs.
Those with stubbed toes (Dunny), dicky legs (TC and Whinge) and the downright lazy (Hashgate) took the shorter route, though this led straight up the tarmacadam hill and initially without the benefit of Hare Ezra… oops, Gnomealone. But he eventually caught up with us and uttered a breathless (and I felt, poetic) “On Up” before collapsing theatrically by the wayside, clasping the back of his hand to his brow. We stumped off, eventually fetching up opposite the Quiet Lane I mentioned a few miles ago. One of the quickest changes ever (due to the bone-burrowing cold) was followed by a rapid scuttle down to and into the pub. Brrr! Our Hares kidly handed out little cakes (Fannybag) and sheep-shaped biscuits (Spot), both delicious. Snowballs also got himself outside a bacon bap in less time than it takes to let out a small burp and sat back contentedly. So did we. Thanks Hares. Now on to the summer schedule – let’s hope the weather knows J
On On. Hashgate.
Down Downs
It being rippingly cold outside and us being ensconced warmly inside, Shitfor opted for Down Downs in the comfy parlour. Those awarded buttered each shoulder and squeezed into the packed room between the serried press. Breathing was kept to a minimum since oxygen levels were low. Raising the glass to the lips was an exercise in contortionism.
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Who Got It |
Why and How They Did |
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BGB |
His birthday. A gentlemanly swallow. |
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Whinge |
Being a perv. Relished every mouthful. |
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Hairnet |
Today’s Hash Crasher. Very ladylike. |
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CSGas |
Didcot’s disjointer. A dashing Down. |
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Spot, Fannybag Gnomealone |
Today’s Hares. Well deserved on this cold day. |
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Up and Coming
|
Run |
Date |
Grid Reference |
Venue |
Hares |
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1847 |
15Apr13 |
The Pelican |
C5 |
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1848 |
22Apr13 |
?Knights & Damsels? |
Sir Blobby |