Berkshire Hash House Harriers 



Run Number:



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The Novello,
Littlewick Green


NappyRash, Shitfor. Desperate

The Confused

RandyMandy BlindPew Donut Hashgate Swallow Slowsucker Foghorn DragonLady C4 C5 Booby Iceman Blowjob Slapper NoSole Whinge TC HP Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Spot Honeymonster Diver Treacle Lynne Mick Motox OldFart Itsyor Desperate BillyBullshit Pippa Dorothy Twanky Spex LoudonTasteless 2Bob and dog Lucy Puddleduck Lungs Mark Angella Horny Laurie Julia Florence Zebedee SkinnyDipper

Ivor Good Trail

Booby adopted his first Tai Chi posture in the pub’s car park space. Step Up and Raise Hands, I believe. Followed smoothly by Parting Wild Horse’s Mane (left) and Parting Wiled Horse’s mane (right). Shitfor and NappyRash paused while raising their lager glasses, quizzically viewing the unfolding cabaret. As Booby essayed the Step Up to Grasp Bird’s Tail, Blowjob drove into the car park and failed spectacularly to stop, change gear and back into the space opposite Booby’s car without whacking its rear with her front end. As an example of diametric opposites her parking and Booby’s Tai Chi were perfect. The lad had just slid out of a Go Back to Ward off Monkey and into the Golden Cock Stands on One Leg (right) when Blowjob gave up on the reversing and zipped forward, damn nearly running him over. Booby’s smooth transition converted rapidly into Man Running Like Buggery From Female Driver and he skipped on to the safety of the grass where we stood.

Motox called me over. “Have a look at this, Hashgate.” He chortled, waving a blueish disc about the size of his outstretched hand (quite large, this). Last week, while on the Planet Thanet bash the group had gone for a walk which took them past the B&B where Motox was staying. Slapper pointed out to him a blue plaque on the wall (which was similar to one they had seen earlier). It was a superb fake, crafted by Slapper out of cardboard and printed. Headed ‘English Heretic’, it stated that here was where Motox had eaten an 11-course breakfast! Nice one, Slapper.

At the Circle Shitfor had advised us that the Trail might be a ‘bit complicated’. Given that, at the last Trail Shitfor had jointly laid from here, Slowsucker blew a gusset at the complexity of the Trail we quailed a bit at the news. Rightly so. A small group, expecting the last Trail’s On Inn at the back of the pub to now be the On Out (especially so since a very large blob of flour adhered alluringly to a discarded old jersey in the field) hove off down its hard, pock-marked, dry mud slope. It was quite a long way to the Bar… but not as long as it seemed to be coming back up the breath-sapping slope. It all went downhill from here. Well uphill actually. Hashers were running about in all directions. Generally with no idea where they were going. I found myself with Horny, Blowjob and new girl Laurie, heading through brush and scrub towarrds… a sheep skeleton! We stopped to view it and Horny poked its upturned whitened ribs with a cautious toe. Though it didn’t seem to me that it might suddenly leap up and give her a nasty “BBBAAAAA!” Difficult to get the “B” out with no lips after all. We scurried on across the field. Then back across it. Then up a bit. Then stopped to view some of the rest of the Pack who were running across the footbridge, calling “On On”. Very much like the other group who were calling “On On” in a nearby field. In the event, most of us seemed to have gone wrong amd our Hares ushered us through a narrow and rather unpleasant track which led into a housing estate. Delightful. And rising all the time via tarmac and shale track to a classic 3-way Check whose arms variously pointed up a grassy track, a rising field in front of us and a rising field going back on ourselves. Spotting a blob and knowing the forest that stood enticingly opposite I set off up and over the field, 2Bob and Puddleduck going in the same direction but lower than me. You know, it was a real disappointment to puff my way over to the flour-free tree-line and have to puff all the way back with 2Bob and his son, knowing that we would have to run up and over yet another field when we got back to the Check. However, this was excellent Trail laying, a proper Hash that taxed the FRBs and confused the Pack. We may have been out of breath, with hearts thudding like steam hammers but, by Jove, we were enjoying ourselves. As were the Hares. Shitfor particularly. There’s nothing he likes more than being in charge and confusing people (apart from total immersion in a vat of aftershave, that is) and he chortled redly and deservedly at our confusion, uttering the immortal phrase, “You’re all fecking useless today!” Which, quite rightly, none of us could dispute.

The FRBs lost it again after that run by the freshly creosoted fence around a large paddock. “What’s that fence for?” Asked a panting Blowjob. “They keep horses in there.” I replied, flinging an arm out in the direction of the empty field. “They don’t keep them very well.” Replied Blowjob. “They’ve all gone.” It was a lovely view as we trotted up a smooth tarmac hill. The Hares blasted off in the middle of us, the hills were darkening green as the sun lowered itself gloriously behind the trees lighting the underside of a slick of grey cloud (possibly lenticular) way off to the West. The beauty of the moment was somewhat marred when we found the Bar-7 atop the hill.

Back down and through patches of shiggy where Lungs hesitated a mite too long before planting her foot on what she expected to be firm mud. It wasn’t and a spurt of mud smelling like a three month dead donkey (you haven’t sniffed one? Really?) shot up her leg and decided to cling on, grimly festering. We reached the A4 by the pub just as the light began to dim, the cars had switched on their headlights and Desperate was shepherding the walkers towards it – perfect timing at the end of a superbly executed Trail.

The question is, has Lungs been doing a little ‘moonlighting’. In the car park while we changed Booby wandered over to her, saying, “I owe you some money don’t I?” “Don’t worry.” She replied. “I’ll see you next week.” Curious. And even more intriguing when Slapper offered, “I owe you some money too.” A tad brazen if you ask me. But a girl’s got to eat.

In the pub later, OldFart, Itsyor and I chuckled in a juvenile way at the fact that we were drinking Rebellion Brewery beer Zebedee in the ‘Spring’ and that the thought of raising Zebedee to our lips and blowing off the froth was almost too much to bear. How old are we…? J

On On.  Hashgate.

Down Downs

C5 officiated, wearing a pirate’s hat and standing in for Shitfor who had advised him how to be RA (C5’s only been RA about 15 times after all)

Who Got It

Why and How They Did


She’s actually done 100 runs and enjoyed her Down in her silver goblet.

Mick, Lynne,

Their first Hash. Nicely done by all three.


Trying to run Grasshopper Booby over. Swiftly done.


Our Tai Chi master. Showed us the Man Drinking ˝ Pint Rapidly move.


Allegedly got the hump before the Hash and did his own thing.

Iceman, 2Bob, Hashgate, Zebedee

Terrible Checking. Not knowing left from right. Unable to remember his favourite pub’s name. Running all over the place at one Check. We all done very well.

Nappyrash, Shitfor, Desperate

Tonight’s excellent Hares. NappyRash by a nose. Desperate received an empty glass for being too picky about her drink J

Up and Coming



Grid Reference






The Sun
Hill Bottom, 
Whitchurch Hill RG8 7PU





“Quiz Run”
The Dukes Head
56 Denmark Street, 
Wokingham, RG40 2BQ