StickyDicky GulabJaMoon C5 Lonely Bomber John from New York Chopstix Foghorn Cerberus Steve(see Down Downs) Potty Nutcracker HeyBabe Tony(ShaginaJag) Spot Iceman Baldrick Dumper Septic Spex Wally Elvis Danish and son Tom Dribbler Andy Tinkerbell Ms Whiplash Eth Rosemary and Kundun the dog Ann Pilot 2Bob Amanda Abnormal Tweenie(sans horn!) Honeymonster Mafia Marta and Sherri the dog Motox Florence Zebedee BGB

You know that supremely gormless, utterly blank look Mr. Bean exhibits from time to time? Well, that’s the one I’m exhibiting at the moment. Due to the fact that I was walking on the Hash I saw absolutely bugger all of anything that happened – unless you count a brief glimpse of Baldrick bending over to tie an errant shoelace. Mind you, the thought is so appalling I won’t dwell on it any longer. No, a small group of determined plodders that included Danish and son Tom, Zebedee, Tony, HeyBabe, Marta and Sherri (the dog) trod the tarmac, meeting nary a Hash soul; only seeing the ghostly white flour marks left by the kindly StickDicky and imagining the flying feet as the pack thundered ever onwards. So I’m going to ramble in this Gobsheet as much as we did on Sunday. Not everything you read may be 100% true…..

There was a goodly turnout for such a cold day, with visitations (is that the right word?) from Andy and the aptly named Tinkerbell, who usually Hash in Geneva. I’m sure I saw GM Ms. Whiplash and Eth sweep majestically into the car park but I never saw ‘em again and C5 announced that our revered GM had a hangover and was unable to address us at the Gather Round. Perhaps she had parked the car and then parked a pizza or two on the tarmac – we’ve all been there haven’t we? Anyway, we On Outed and that’s the last we saw of just about everybody.

The picture shows Zebedee using his Zimmer frame on the walk, following yet another calf injury caused by his recent bout of skiing. Not sure why he’s dressed as a vicar, though. Apparently, he was careering down a couloir after consuming several glueweins and a small bucket of schnapps when the left ski snapped off his boot. Gamely continuing on one leg at ever increasing speed, he spied two fir trees close together coming up fast. Realising he was as pissed as a newt and seeing double he chose the left one. Oops! You can guess the rest. Arms and legs wrapped round either side (rather like the sound an elephant makes – see last week’s Gobsheet) and his nose jammed up a squirrel’s jacksie. The poor innocent creature had just bent over to count it’s nuts when wham! A bank manager’s nostrils invaded it’s privacy. Still, ole Zeb did manage to trot off round the long trail from the regroup so I guess he’s all right really. And on that trail he met Motox who was puffing round in his own inimitable style. Now, I use the term Motox because everyone seems to be returning to that Hash name rather than the more recent BoPeep and bearing in mind that he was never fully renamed (with flour and beer annointment) I believe we should return to his original cognomen. It certainly suits his rugged grandeur rather than the more effete Hash tag. This leads me to a story about Motox. He organised another excellent Curry Run recently. Everyone returned from the trail and repaired to the restaurant in order to chat, scoff and get lagered. Part way through the meal Motox impales what he thinks is a green bean on his fork, shoves said veg. Into one of his facial orifices and bites hard. Mistake! It’s a chilli! "Aaaarg. I’s a hucking hilli!" gasps our open-mouthed curry chomper. Steam begins to rise. He beats the table with his fist. Eyes popping, he drinks his lager in one gulp. No good. He wrenches the daffodils from the flower vase and drinks that. He slumps back in his chair sweating like Red Rum after a particularly fast Grand National. Luckily the shooting pains subside after an hour or so and normal life resumes….. until the morning.

But to return to the Hash awhile, I must congratulate HeyBabe’s companion Tony on his walking attire. Compared to last week’s plus fours and shoes (ideal though they were for the Tilehurst shiggy) his trainers and running trousers were better suited for this week’s stroll along the suburban highways. At about this point (mid way) we left Marta and her dog Sherri (this is my way of spelling the name since Marta has no opinion on the subject). The faithful, but old, hound was drifting further and further back on his extending lead. It was a bit like Shep and Gnarler, only in reverse. I continued chatting with the delightful Danish who informed me that Mother’s Day in Denmark is on a different day to the one in Britain. Bet you didn’t know that. Oh, yes. And who, having read this has suddenly realised with horrror that they’ve forgotten that Sunday 25^th March is Mother’s Day?! Those of you reading this on the web may just have time to nip out for a card and nick the daffs from next door’s garden. But those of you reading the paper version can consider yourselves well and truly buggered! Shame on you.

We wandered on, following Sticky’s arrows and missing the sound of his Mukkinese battle horn. We came to the regroup and decided not to wait for everybody else, but sped on remorselessly…until we got to one of Sticky’s signs that seemed at least a bit strange. We had got used to the single-barb arrows but this appeared to be either the result of a seismic sneeze by the aforementioned (and probably as a result aptly named) Sticky, or an ancient rune possibly indicating that the nearby Toyota Corolla was standing on the very spot that used to be a meeting place where druids held strange rituals. Difficult to believe ‘mongst the leafy suburban tidiness but a supernatural chill swept through us and we hurried on.

The bear? Oh, I don’t know. I just rather liked him even though it looks like he’s just been decapitated. Perhaps that’s why he’s shouting. It’s got to hurt.

We got back to the car park and GulabJaMoon gave us directions to the Crooked Billet at Honey Hill. Now, as everybody knows no-one can ever find this blasted pub so when Dumper sped off in his car with a knowing gleam in his eye, hotly pursued by HeyBabe and Tony in the Shagmobile I thought I would follow. We got as far as the garage on the periphery of Crowthorne before Dumper stopped, totally lost, believing he was near Edgbaston. Luckily, I had a map and even though I tried to lose them the buggers followed me to the pub!

RA C5 presented the following :-

They have banned all animal movements after discovering some nibbled beds in Tokyo. They suspect an outbreak of Futon Mouse.