Gusset Lonely and Beaver the dog Hashgate Motormouth Foghorn Chopstix Chuck C5 Sue5 Eth Ms. Whiplash Cap’n Haystax Spot Handful Rosemary and Ann from Lambourn Greenfly The Tremblers Libby BoPeep Hamlet BGB Wally StraddleVarious and Diar’Ear from Bourne Valley Zebedee Florence Cheating Dribbler Flash Butterfly and Paddy the dog

Last week I described the weather as 'as cold as a polar bear's chuff'. This week it was cold enough to freeze (or ease) the piles on a penguin. After a spot of wet snow and temperatures at or below freezing it was bitterly cold as Motormouth and I swept into the pub car park and backed up next to Lonely's cosymobile where he and Gusset were warming up… Despite the cold I had with me the longest horn yet seen on a BH3 Hash so I wound down the window and stuck it out so Gusset could have a peek at it. She certainly appeared very surprised (and strangely pleased) at the length and seemed quite taken with the fluted end. (Perhaps I should explain to those of you who may have got the wrong idea, that I am talking about a four feet long copper and brass hunting horn that Motormouth and I picked up while collecting jumble for his Cubs Jumble Sale next week.) Anyway, Motormouth produced several farting noises from it for the benefit of Gusset's musical education. She rolled up her window. Chuck turned up and had a go, imitating the sound of a goose that has landed bum-first on a frozen lake - without realising it is frozen. Foghorn managed a passable Louise Armstrong, while C5 looked exactly like Dizzy Gillespie, hamster-like cheeks and eyes bulging. I expected another hernia at any moment. His comment was "Oh, bugger the horn." Presumably easier for him than trying to blow it.

At the Gather Round, Foghorn genteely asked the two Bourne Valley representatives (who were giving me their names for this Gobsheet) for silence during the GM's spiel, by kicking bucket loads of water at them. How welcoming! Hare Lonely gave dire warnings of slippery underfoot conditions and advised us IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS to run in the big, wet, but safer puddles where possible. A collective telepathy enveloped the Hash which resulted in the silent message "Bugger off Lonely. It's too sodding cold." And with that we trotted confidently out of the car park to our certain doom.

The skating area took the form of an innocent-looking farm track pitted with deep semi-frozen puddles. Some ran and some picked their way with care 'twixt them. Our mistake. The track was covered with a thin layer of ice, on top of which was a thinner layer of water. Great if you're wearing pitons or have spectacularly long toenails; unbelievably slippery if you're wearing running shoes. Spot kindly took pictures as we skidded about, some dropping as if poleaxed. Others, like Motormouth, executing perfect silent comedy pratfalls. It was certainly worth watching although taking part could be a tad painful to both body and ego. Fortunately, we got off this stuff by turning right into a field and up the hill. If anything this was almost worse. The frosty ground was honeycombed with ankle-breaking hoofmarks and cow poop - all absolutely solid. Chuck and Spot staggered by, closely followed by Florence, Rosemary and Handful, all looking like they'd got rickets and a bad sense of balance. Once at the top a small band of us ignored the further loop and cut across, back down the blasted field. Dribbler simply flowed over it - well, to half way down, where he was joined by Spot who admitted to running 'gingerly'. Dribbler and I exchanged glances and moved a little further away from him.

The Hash moved on, frightening swans (to cries of "On Swan") and Dribbler failed to recognise a canal! Mind you, a little later he and I wandered over to a racing weir where we enthused about body surfing. We decided we needed some bodies to surf on and asked Handful and Florence if they would care to volunteer (with a little on-the-bank practising before the main event). Surprisingly, they declined, with a distinct element of the old fish-eye. Just after here Wally very kindly followed everyone’s advice and jumped in the canal while we tarried awhile by the frozen, sodden banks ‘mongst the frozen, sodden trees. Later we caught up with Flash, Libby, Lady Trembler and Cap’n Haystax as we stonked down a long, canalside path which led to The Rowbarge pub where a) we had filmed Rosie and Jim, and b) the regroup was. A short (led by the doughty Gusset) and a long (led by Lonely) went off from here. Motormouth went off on the alleged ‘short’ trail and I took Lonely’s "about another kilometre" path. Oh dear. Lonely’s ability to percieve distances has obviously waned with his advancing years for this was a three miles or so yomp through, semi-frozen bog, knee-deep freezing water, a gravel quarry and various depths of disgusting shiggy. Oh yes, and then Lonely told us it was one blob and on because he couldn’t be bothered to lay falses! I remonstrated with the fellow. Something along the lines of "A meeting, Lonely. Your ear. My fist. Two seconds time." However, he assuaged me with a bit of metaphysics: "Hashgate; life is a continuous discovery", he opined. Descartes couldn’t have put it better even though he wouldn’t have been wearing a woolly bobble hat and be covered in flour. BGB, C5 and Diar’Ear led the splashing scurry until we got back to the gravel pit. We ended up climbing over, or next to, (or like BGB, legs astride in the pipe humping position) a large pipe across a stream and on the other side was a large conveyor belt, rather like those in coal mines. It sure was different. The bleached and scraped landscape was straight out of Dr. Who – I expected a Cyberman to appear any moment. Zebedee climbed a spoil heap for a photo opportunity by Spot and then we left the benighted place for more fields and frozen shiggy. After further hard yomping I came to a spot where it appeared that either Lonely or Gusset had fallen over with the flour. On closer inspection this turned out to be a short and long split (apparently Gusset felt another loop would do the FRB’s good). The short beckoned (after all Motormouth would have been back for ages, I thought) so I joined Lonely, Spot, Wally, Rosemary, Anne and others. Unfortunately, Beaver also joined us and he’d brought a bone. The bone in question was the hind leg of a long dead deer, complete with dangling furry bits and wagging hoof. "That’s my lot", I thought and beasted off as fast as one and a half legs will allow, the rest of the mile or so back to the pub. Where, incidentally, Motormouth had only just arrived with the ‘short’ trailers!

Baldrick turned up extremely late – but he had just flown in from USA so we let him off with some gentle ribbing. Nice of him to bother, really. RA C5 presented the following :-

Friday, February 16^th 19:00 start - Skittles evening at The Gardeners Arms, Surley Row, Caversham, Reading. £9.50 price, including food. See Ms. Whiplash.