Buffalo Sherpa HeyBabe ShaginaJag Hashgate Motormouth Florence Greenfly Spot Foghorn Gutbucket Potty Hamlet Motox WetDream Jane and Megan the dog Anorak TrainSpotter HoneyAnt Puddleduck 2Bob Bev Neil Mick Cerberus Kay PartyAnimal Insider and Kundun the dog Lonely and Beaver the dog Ms. Whiplash Salome Eth Shamcock Iceman Bomber Tom Einstein SpeedBumps BakewellTart Khazi Janine Liz Tacky Bollox Tweenie Ladybird OldFart Dwight Centaur EricTheViking Skydiver Cyclogical Baldrick Mafia… and that’s just ours. There were loads of Oxford and Bicester H³ too but you want to read the news, not another list. Here it is:-

Absolutely millions of people turned up for this Hash, presumably hoping for a little off-road round the fine Benson area. They were, of course, soon to be disburdened of that idea but we were happy to chatter exitedly in blissful ignorance until the On Out. Potty turned up early, swept majestically into the car park , then had to back out again in a rather sheepish manner – it being already full. Most of us parked a couple of miles away and had to yomp to the pub, arriving knackered before we even started. Three fine dogs and a canine yeti scurried about in the car park. The fine dogs matched their owners exactly. There was Jane’s Megan (border terrier – lively, friendly and well-mannered), Insider’s Kundun (labrador – intelligent, friendly and well-behaved) and Lonely’s Beaver (retriever/farm dog – likes water, very friendly, goes his own way). The yeti dog was about the size of a shetland pony, with bloodshot eyes and slavering jowls (sounds just like some Hashers before breakfast). We kept out of it’s way and it kept barging into ours. There was another of these monsters in the pub laying down behind a door. It was either having a kip or it had died and was too heavy to pull out. I didn’t prod it to find out.

It was Oxford rules, quoth Buffalo. So an ‘X’ was a False. And off we went . Mick, Neil, Dwight and Hashers unknown but equally daft led the way, all of us expecting the turn off into the woods at any moment. We hurtled inexorably towards the Reading/Oxford road. Spot for some reason was noted taking photographs of goats, no doubt to add to his extensive collection. We hit the main road. We ran along it. We ran along it some more. And then a bit more for good measure. I mentioned to one of the Oxford chaps that the blobs were exceedingly neat and he explained that they were made by dipping a tennis ball in flour and bouncing it. What a damn good idea! I’d never heard of that before.

After a few miles along the road we actually turned off towards a field full of beautiful buttercups with a mare and foal in it. Mick and I sent Neil through the stinging nettles to check the stile (we’re not that silly!) and he very kindly made a complete arse of himself by bunny hopping over it, catching his feet and falling headfirst into the shrubbery. Thankyou, Neil. It made our night. Now despite this enjoyable sojourn across the sward we (of course) dog-legged straight back towards, and over, the blasted main road again. We were getting sick of the sight of it. On we pasted, young Motormouth and Puddleduck bravely keeping up with the rest of us. We finally hit a check and OldFart croaked a heartfelt, "Oh, good!" as we got a little breather. Luckily us back markers had been caught up by Buffalo who was delighted that the rest of the pack had gone in the opposite direction to that which he told us. Us being Motormouth, Jane, Gutbucket, 2Bob, Cyclogical and Spot. Sadly, Spot’s creeping senility kicked in and he started off after the pack – until we shouted at him not to be such a plonker. So there we were, leading the field and going along (you guessed it) a road. And a road with a paucity of flour. The old tennis ball trick may work on paths ok but the cars had worn away nearly all of it on the road. Spot and I ran bent double, desperately seeking de la farine but bugger all was to be seen. And the road wound ever upwards. On and on and on. I slowed to allow Motormouth to catch up and had a jog and a chat to Insider. Very pleasant it was until we drew level with the appropriately named OldFart and an horrendous whiff assailed our nasal organs. No, it wasn’t OldFart but a huge, long heap of them – in lump format. It was the biggest, smelliest, throat-grabbing dung heap I have ever seen. Amazing how fast people can run when they really have to isn’t it? Dogs and Hashers flew up the hill and round the bend to the regroup, sucking in the purer air and wondering if any permanent lung damage had been done.

There was a long and not-quite-so-long from here and we all made our choice, the long choosers little realising the strength-sapping, tendon-cracking, heart-stopping thrash that was to come. Jane kindly let Motormouth and Puddleduck take Megan on the shorter trail and off we went. Buffalo streamed past Lonely and me. "I must get to the front!" He exclaimed. Presumably because he wanted a head start in case we realised quite how far we were going and decided to duff him up. We did actually go down the side of a field for a fair way, although the bone-hard,rutted ground threatened a broken ankle at any moment. Gutbucket attempted to get one while overtaking my more sedate progress. This caused me a certain amount of inner mirth.

We hit the tarmac once again and stayed on it for the duration of the trail. It was rather like a road race with Dwight, Centaur, Lonely and others keeping up the pace. Mick and Neil were somewhere ahead. Greenfly and Ladybird (sounds like an insect Hash!) were up there too. Hamlet was pasting along in his pink dress. OK, it was his T-shirt. At least, he said it was. We eventually fetched up at the pub and did lots of that stretching stuff so beloved of Reading Roadrunners while Hashers dribbled in in various states of distress. When Puddleduck arrived back he was most impressed to notice that the little shop opposite the pub was called... 'The Puddleduck'. Congrats to him and Motormouth for running all that way on nine year old legs.

This week’s RA was Amnesia from (I believe) the Oxford Hash. Bearing in mind the dearth of nominations he did remarkably well. It was all going swimmingly when that bloody great yeti decided to try and mount Kundun. Insider took great offence at this rampant display of canine homosexuality and fetched it a hefty boot in the cobblers. This dampened it’s ardour sufficiently for us to resume :-