Florence Zebedee Handful Potty Nutcracker Chopstix Ms. Whiplash Salome PartyAnimal C5 Sue5 Diarear StraddleVarious Caboose baldrick Spunky Dave Eric FannySniffer Dribbler Butterfly Hamlet Lonely HeyBabe Skydiver Magic Honeymonster Greenfly Rosemary Anne PonyExpress Buffalo BoPeep Bomber Tony Gusset Flash Wally 2Bob Cheating Cyclogical Mafia.
Dogs – Jake Beaver Paddy

Marvellous, isn't it. Since son Motormouth was playing a football match this morning I thought things would be much less stressful. Only me to pack stuff for, out of the door, off to the Hash. Sadly, it was almost at the A34 turnoff that I realised I had forgotten both my tape machine AND last week's Gobsheets! Too late to turn back. "Oh goodness me." I whispered quietly. "What a jolly old nuisance." Or something like that. So apologies to all for making you wait an extra week for your bathtime read.

The day was beautifully bright and clear, if freezing out of the sun, and ice littered the puddles like glass shards. I pulled up at the pub next to young Trembler and Spot and enjoyed the early variety show starring C5 and his comedy parking routine. He had stopped too far forward on the pub grass and could not move backwards. Foghorn inspected his car and boomed "You've got a great big rock!" At least, I think that's what he said - he may have been making a comment regarding C5's anatomy, though why I know not. It turned out our revered RA had rolled over a boulder so Foghorn and Trembler lifted and I hoiked out said rock. Hamlet then loomed up next to me and at first glance appeared to wearing a pumice coloured flying helmet. Close questioning revealed that this was a haircut inflicted on him by his lad - presumably Hamlet had cut him out of the Will just before the event. Then Flash appeared in a pair of shorts and no socks. References to plucked chicken legs flew thick and fast. The general opinion was that this was the first time the blanched skin had seen daylight for a year or so.

At the Gather Round we welcomed visiting athlete Tony who had the spare, lissom physique of a true marathon runner. Rosemary and Anne had joined us again – nice to see you girls – and Eric (you know, looked like a bald whippet: all ribs and pr**k) turned up with Spunky and Dave. Hare Florence introduced us to the day's flour colour, Tuscany Sunset, and rather craftily pointed us to the On Out. I say craftily since this first bit was a loop that led back almost to the pub. Nice one, Hares. C5, Diarear and I found the trail from the first check and this led off the road into a path full of gelatinous, leg-sucking, suet pudding and dog poo shiggy. Cyclogical went for it in a big way. What a prat! We three took the much drier and nicer field edge next to it. Unfortunately, Hamlet caught up with us. Nothing against the fellow at all, but his dog Jake (a canine with all the subtlety of a Wigan prop forward) kept trying to barge Diarear and me into the canal. We survived, only to come upon a field that had been used for mole racing. A series of raised earth lines did it’s best to break ankles as we trod gingerly (like Spot, last week) across it. It wasn’t long that we viewed the pub at close quarters before sighing and turning left and up the hill. Bomber passed me, all arms, legs and eyebrows. I passed Baldrick who was aiming a friendly flob at an innocent patch of clover. Then I passed 2Bob looking utterly bladdered. Then I stopped at the top…..rolled up my tongue from the ground and spooned my eyeballs back in.

A couple of good checks screwed us for a bit and then all the truly silly buggers (C5, Spunky, Caboose etc) followed me up a steep hill to a wonderful view over the downs – and the inevitable false. Still, it was worth it. From here, we pulled out our niblicks and swung through the golf course before heading off into the rough. And rough it was. Wildwood, wet and leg chapping; eager claws of black bramble; stream-soaked paths by twisted stumps…… Ooer. I’ve slipped into Dylan Thomas (if you’ll pardon the expression). Must get GBH to read that bit slowly, with a pronounced Welsh expression. But it gives you a flavour of the metaphysical wilderness we sludged through. It obviously affected us since Lonely, Smurf and I found ourselves breathlessly discussing Shakespeare’s prose, his contemporary audience and the likelihood of him (nowadays) reading either The Mirror or The Sun! And all this while hacking calf-deep through ‘difficult’ countryside. Perhaps I should have stuck with Foghorn. We could have discussed which of the lady Hashers has the nicest arse…

So, we reached the beer stop at the country park. Several took refuge in the public conveniences while the rest knocked the top off a beer and glugged it down. We chatted to Dribbler and Paddy (well,not Paddy. He’s a dog) and Magic etc. until the restart, when we all lost it trying to find the trail on the soaking common. By now the old leg was protesting somewhat at all the stamping about and the kindly Dumper and then Anne asked about it – neither, I might add, offered a piggyback. Dumper was well knackered himself, what with all that ski-ing during the day and carousing all night. We were passed by Chopstix and(I think) HeyBabe and Chopstix called over her shoulder to me "It’s not often you see my butt". Well, being a gentleman I refrained from several comments and settled for an enigmatic smile. We soon hit the short and long, elegantly inscribed upon the tarmac in upper case pastel peach. There was little choice in the matter and Dumper and I headed downhill to the footbridge and across the bar check, taking the mickey out of Anne who had gone the right way down left of it but decided not to bother and then had to climb all the way back up the hill. From here ‘twas a short step back to The Blackbird and the less than pleasant sight of a Trembler with his shirt off.

RA C5 presented the following :-