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Run Number: |
1847 15Apr13 |
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Visit the
website – http://www.berkshirehash.co.uk |
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Venue: |
The Pelican, Tadley |
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Hares: |
C5, Slowsucker |
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People
MessengerBoy Aqua Donut Hashgate Twanky Blowjob Desperate Shitfor Swallow Cheating Itsyor Booby Horny Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Utopia Uplift (how nice to see her again) C4 NappyRash Whinge TC Flash Lonely NoSole Slapper Ms Whiplash OldFart Potty Nutty Hamlet Dunny Rampant Dribbler Chopstix Shandyman Alison PennyPitstop FullFrontal CabinBuoy Iceman Motox AWOL Spex LoudonTasteless Dwight and a variety of R2D2 Hashers (some confusingly wearing Bourne Valley Hash T-shirts)
Pamber Perambulation
A plethora of
perspicacious persons packed the parking place at The Pelican… near Pamber.
That sentence is almost as stuffed with alliteration as the car park was with
Hashers. Obviously the move to evening Hashing has enthused the masses. They
had turned up in droves. You might have wondered at that since the Hares were,
respectively, C5 and Slowsucker whose Trails have been known to meander for
days. Luckily, we knew that daylight wouldn’t last too long – maybe we might
not be out all night…
Our revered RA, Shitfor was lucky to have made it since, for some reason, he drove to The Pineapple instead, having become confused by the P’s. Surprising really since he and Desperate had in the car with them, Swallow, our Hare Slowsucker’s lady who you would kind of expect to know the destination.
After the heavy rain on the weekend the nearby forest contained more bogs than a public toilet. We made for them rapidly and immersed ourselves. The terrain was scrubby, with leg and groin-scratching furze, the situation not helped for me by Spex in front of me carefully bending the stiff branches; then letting them go with Ms Whiplash-like relish. The first of those bogs appeared. An uphill slick of ankle-deep, almost black, shiggy. Spex tippy-toed around what little reasonably solid edge there was while Zebedee and I splotted our way lurchingly up the damn thing, turning our running shoes into foot-shaped mud pancakes. The smell was old, earthy and rotting. No, I don’t mean Spex you naughty people!
The pace, urged on somewhat by C5, was pretty fast and we slopped across the sward and up and down slippery hills, particularly enjoying the sight of Dwight steaming past us down an extremely muddy slope in a whirl of arms and legs as he desperately fought to stay upright. Best piece of mud/grassland ski-ing I’ve seen for a long time. Of course, not everyone stayed upright and Mudwoman and MissDirection essayed spectacular pratfalls for the delight of the surrounding crowd. They were duly ‘rewarded’ later during the Down Downs.
Lonely approached me. He advised
me that he has taken on the rôle of Scribe to Surrey Hash and could I give him
a few tips. His main problem is that the format of the Surrey Gobsheet (or
Runday Shag as they would have it!) has been set in stone for some decades and
changing it might result in a public hanging – flogging at the very least.
However, as I told him, if you make the damn thing interesting enough, chuck in
some humour, mention everybody who attends(on pain of considerable
ostracisation), couple of good pictures, no mucky jokes, don’t insult anyone
too much, keep the 
standard high every week, you might just earn a tiny bit
of praise. Sounds easy, doesn’t it?
Lonely featured a bit later when he discovered a fallen tree spanning (and about six feet above) a stream. He called us over to save soaking feet. What a kind chap you might think. While he and I stood on the opposite bank, Blowjob, then Desperate inched across, using the upstanding branches that grew from the log for support. Chopstix stepped on to the tree, a little worriedly. Lonely piped up from behind me, “There’s a thick one,” pointing at a thicker branch that Chopstix could grab for support. She wasn’t concentrating on him. “Pardon?” She asked. “We said there’s a thick one.” I replied, helpfully. Her lips pursed. Eyes narrowed. “You talking about me Hashgate!?” Of course, Lonely had skipped off by this time,leaving me right in it. Being a Knight by surname I well know that discretion is the better part etc. so legged it through the shiggy in a vague attempt to emulate Usain Bolt on the bathroom run after scoffing a dodgy curry.
I spent the last mile or so in the stimulating company of LoudonTasteless, abjuring the final Long loop in order to get back to the pub, rest the weary limbs and sup on the excellent Ringwoods Bitter. It was good to get back after an excellent Trail that may have left us mud-spattered but didn’t leave us in the forest in the dark. Many thanks, Hares.
On On. Hashgate.
Down Downs
Shitfor hosted the Down Downs inside the pub, having decided it was too dark and scary outside. The bar was packed with gossipy Hashers and in the middle of it all sat Flash, eating his dinner. While Downs were downed and raucous braying emitted he slowly and deliberately stabbed chips, ensuring they were truly in potato heaven before easing them one by one into his gaping maw. A fascinating oasis of gastronomic, geriatric peace amid the hurly-burly.
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Who Got It |
Why and How They Did |
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Shitfor |
For going to the wrong pub. A fine ½ with two straws. Some ungentlemanly blowing by the ‘gentleman’ |
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MissDirection |
Tonight’s Hash Crashers enjoyed their beakers |
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ChocChuck |
Requesting a piggyback to get her over the bogs |
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Hashgate |
Unsulting Chopstix by calling her a ‘thick one’. Not too bad for a change. |
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Yangor(?) |
Our visitor from the Burma Hash rolled up his trouser legs for some reason |
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Shitfor |
Awarded another by GM Shandyman for getting lost on the way to the pub |
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C5, Slowsucker |
Our Hares. The latter enjoyed a leisurely quaff. |
Up and Coming
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Run |
Date |
Grid Reference |
Venue |
Hares |
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Sunday |
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Away Hash with |
Pissticide & Piles Driver |
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1849 |
29Apr13 |
The Novello |
NappyRash |
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1850 |
06May13 |
The Bottle & Glass |
2Bob |