Hamlet Fukawe Fruit’n Nut Spingo (unsurprisingly) Hashgate Foghorn Chopstix Noah and various animals LeVoisin Ms Whiplash Eth some aquatic mammals Baldrick John from NY The Cuddles Spot Wally Potty Nutcracker Lonely Dumper Septic The Tremblers Paella the shark from Jaws Anne Mother Theresa Lemming Chuck Zebedee Florence BoPeep a selection of water rats Greenfly NoNooky and various members of Surrey and North Hants

…and the gentle rain droppeth from heav’n. Actually, it pissed down. Foghorn, Chopstix and I sat in the car park (in our cars, I might add) watching Spingo and the good Hamlet returning from trail laying looking like they had been bog snorkeling. In fact, that particular pastime might have been drier than this Hash. Curiously enough, when we did Wally and TA’s run at Lightwater (a pebble punt away) it had flooded down then – perhaps it’s the area. Luckily the skies lightened a little at the Gather Round. It was nice to chat to different Hashers like Goalkeeper, RA of (I believe) North Hants, and interesting to note some very natty (and expensive) wet weather running gear – presumably on the Surrey Hashers. Given BH³’s propensity for mudlarking, this was a bit of a mistake on their part as they were to find out only too soon….

Hamlet flourily demonstrated the alien (to us) method of marking the trail and with a fervent prayer that the rain hadn’t washed it all away we On Outed with all the speed and grace of a pregnant sloth. From the initial, brief tarry on the tarmac we plunged headlong on to a track that gave us a taster of Things To Come. Pristine T-shirts, white socks and pink calves were blotched and spotted with Grade 1 shiggy. The wet path had stirred itself into a slurry pudding, filled with watery craters and the likes of Foghorn and Lemming chortled in ecstasy while raining gobbets over the unsuspecting North Hants/Surrey Hashers. A huge splash from the Foghorn covered me entirely and verily that was good. As I remarked to Bomber, on a day like that it’s best to get wet right from the start – you can relax, secure in the thought that you can’t get any damper. However, some of the non BH³ contingent took none too kindly to the good natured (and entirely expected) dousing and first Lemming was picked on (and up) by three large fellows who dunked him in a huge puddle. Then I spotted Foghorn on the ground in what appeared to be a loving embrace with another chap, but turned out to be a bit of a ruck and maul following said chap’s miffed state at having his expensive jacket dappled with mud paté. Curiously enough none of the ladies I met had any complaints about Hash Splashing – perhaps that says something about the blokes?

Zebedee and Florence finally turned up as we milled at a check. It seems that despite having lived just down the road from the pub they managed to miss the turning and were therefore late. So, a pretty standard Sunday morning for them then.

Now the pack had spread out rather a lot and we middle and back markers rarely had to check it out since either the check had been kicked through or Hamlet had laid helpful flour blobs. The trail varied between glutinous shiggy and troughs of shin-deep water and everyone was getting soaked. We reached the first regroup and stood about in the rain, waiting for the walkers. Wally attached himself to me like a cold sore to a lip but I contented myself with the knowledge that Spot had reported to me that he (Wally) had been flattened in the mud after entangling himself with a large Hash hound of indeterminate parentage (the dog ,that is). We were soon off again and I enjoyed the sight of Cuddles1 leaping across the ditch and almost falling back in the water. Sadly, he didn’t. We mud-slid across the football pitch and were soon up to our knees in foul smelling forest water. I’m sure I stepped on a dead submariner at one point but I didn’t stop to find out! Foghorn was good enough to trip over with a mighty splat just after. He arose, beard dripping like Neptune from the deep. We slithered out of the forest and into a paddy field where Hamlet mentioned that the trail was nowhere near as sodden when they recce’d it earlier. At this point I asked him the name of the blonde lady behind us (purely out of journalistic interest since she had enquired earlier how I kept my machine dry in such conditions). "Arsehole." Quoth Hamlet. "Er. I only asked". I replied. "No, no. That’s her Hash name". And indeed it was, though even Fukawe couldn’t entirely remember why, though she did remember that she had chosen it willingly. Not a name I would select!

Let’s break here for a joke. A bloke goes to a fancy dress party with a girl sitting on his back. He knocks on the front door and is greeted by the host. "Hello. What have you come as?" he asks. "I’m a snail." Comes the reply. "Well who’s that on your back, then?" "That’s Michelle."…..

Wally appeared again, informing me that he thinks John from New York is not calling at the front because, being from New York, he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself and get mugged. Well, I thought that was quite good….for Wally. We splashed on through forest paths literally streaming with liquid mud and popped out on to a road next to a rifle range where I followed Potty to the welcome beer stop. Here we supped, steamed and chatted and Spot took a Hash photo while everyone was busy putting their teeth in or standing with their back to him. Should make a good addition to the album. So we started off again and Lonely, Bomber, Lemming and Foghorn behaved in a very juvenile manner in the puddles and one bald Hasher (not one of ours) was spotted washing his head in a mud puddle, presumably hoping for a trichological miracle.

We then hit Shiggy City in a big way. I was half expecting hippos to rise, snorting and ear-flapping, from the morass. Some of the best stuff we have seen held us in it’s gooey clutches. Florence and I caught up with Paella who was carrying a large bottle of beer. We didn’t ask why but just nodded to each other sympathetically. And very soon the On Inn appeared. Potty and I had just geared up for another mile and a half when….there was the pub! Magic! We duly On Inned.

The Down Downs were carried out with unseemly haste, though supping frothy beer from well chipped enamel mugs certainly caught the spirit of the moment. No less than three RA’s officiated including our own BoPeep.