Gusset Nutcracker Binbag Hashgate Ian Wally Spunky Sir Galahad Dave Centaur Dwight Brian Matthew TerryDactyl Emma Spot Whinge Potty Smurf Chopstix Foghorn TinOpener Miranda Hans(the dog) Pieman Iceman Scrumper Tim Cheryl OldFart Cap’n Haystax Khazi Karen Blowjob PonyExpress Buffalo Honeymonster Magic Dribbler Butterfly Paddy(the dog) Ms. Whiplash Eth LaybyLil Chris Tweenie HoneyAnt 2Bob Puddleduck Mr. Blobby C5 Florence TT2 Zebedee BoPeep Dumper Paella Shirley BGB(aka Trailblazer…in his dreams) Foghorn Flash Cap’n Y-Fronts Lonely Anka(?) the German lady from Sweden

The Hash shambled out of the overfull car park and regarded the On Out with all the enthusiasm of a proctologist on his retirement day, snapping on the rubber glove and approaching the very last pair of slack, wrinkled buttocks. We had started a tad late since C5 (our revered RA) had forgotten how to park a car. The pack paused outside the pub; many an ‘accidentally loose’ shoelace being tightened, a stray hair patted into place, shorts adjusted (sometimes by their owners) – in fact, anything to remove the likelihood of having to check the trail. This was carried out initially by Wally (amazingly enough!) who led a small, but eager throng up the first false trail of the day…and then back again past the leaderless, bleating Baarkshire flock blundering about aimlessly outside the pub. Luckily, someone finally found the trail so off we went and I made the acquaintance of the lovely Shirley, who regarded me with the casual ease of a sheep who wakes up one morning and finds its leg tied to a stake inside Whipsnade’s tiger pen. Perhaps she didn’t realise I am the Scribe, not a local nutter in running shoes.

We beasted off into some lovely countryside, with hills and dales bedecked with lush sward and dancing buttercups. Horses grazed. Cows chewed the cud. All was at peace….well, until we arrived shouting ‘On On’ at the tops of our lungs and cursing the occasional stinging nettle that brushed our exposed skin with a fiery caress. OldFart and I hit the front and I managed to ‘luck out’ (a fearsome Americanism, I know) on quite a number of the checks. This was good – I was well ahead of the pack and enjoying the feeling…… and bad – the long grass hid vicious biting creatures. These six-legged sods sank their gnashers into my soft, fleshy parts (luckily not the tackle area) and having drunk their fill, dropped off, all bloated, with their feet in the air, not bothering to trouble the following Ian, Spunky, Centaur et al. Next time I shall ask The Committee to sanction the use of Agent Z prior to the run and we can all run in masks and rubber suits. Now I know some of you are thrilled by that thought!

When Gusset finally minced into view we were all champing at the bit for the off. We had got so bored we were reading signs – Iceman pointed out one which suggested users of the woods acted in a quiet manner! And then we were off on the long trail. Two or three strands of Hashers stampeding through the trees and up the rutted paths. At this point Ian (my circuit training colleague and soon to be Royal Marine) achieved a fine dive, bringing up a 5.8 from the judges and a ripple of polite applause. TinOpener remarked how thoughtful he had been to let Miranda out after she had done her chores and after some hard running a small group of us got lost in some unfriendly wet/woodland. Only the sound of (I think) Centaur’s calling got us back on track. So remember – keep calling; it’s very helpful! Gusset then appeared, popping out of the shrubbery like a blonde elf in a golden T-shirt, and called for an impromptu regroup, since the pack had split dramatically. This was a great idea until we saw Buffalo (still in stampede mode) chuffing up towards us with his shirt off. I did point out to Cheryl that this was an old tradition of the Hash at impromptu regroups and that she should whip hers off as well but unfortunately she was having none of it and gave me the old snake-eye. Lonely suddenly appeared (sans Beaver), all on his own….well, he would, wouldn’t he?

Things then turned into a race and Ian, Centaur, Dwight and I got very anti-social and steamed off at great speed through forest, field and road. This was great fun for us (albeit painful) – and probably not very interesting for you. Suffice to say that since BH³ FRBs have stuffed Newbury AC on a number of recent occasions I felt it only fair to let ‘em have one back – well that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

I would like to point out that Paella indulged in some serious dog abuse prior to the Down Downs. Lovely old Paddy (Dribbler & Butterfly’s hound) had just got his head down and tongue out two inches from his water bowl when said Paella kicked the damn thing out from under his nose! Profuse apologies and (feigned) embarrassment did not fool us. RA C5 presented the following :-