Motox Iceman Chopstix Hashgate Cerberus Mick Binbag Spot Gusset Caboose Wally Centaur InCider and Kundun the dog Hamlet and Jake the dog Legover and Megan the dog Dribbler Butterfly and Paddy the dog Baldrick Gutbucket Shirtlifter OldFart Tweenie EasyRider Sue5 C5 Dwight Florence Zebedee TT2 Foghorn Ladybird Lynda Ian UtopiaDumper Septic Scrumper Lorraine Claire (all the way from South Africa) Eth Salome Ms. WhiplashLonely and Beaver the dog Dave Flash Cap’n Haystax Chuck Cloggs

This, of course, is what a well-organized AGM should look like. Note the attentive manner of the attendees, the assertive leader bringing the meeting to order, the fact that most of these people have only one arm. The only similarity between this meeting and the BH³ AGM is that most of BH³ are ‘armless too. (In fact, some of them have been known to be legless on occasion… spineless, chinless and toothless can also be applied to certain members.) In fact the AGM will go down in the annals (yes, Dribbler, ‘annals’) as probably the shortest on record with Ms. Whiplash appointing herself Supreme Commander and hurtling through the proceedings at breakneck speed (unlike her running style). Anyone who has read P.G. Wodehouse will know what I mean when I speak of ‘Yes-men’ and ‘Nodders’. The ‘Yes-men’ are slightly higher in the Hash pecking order (i.e. The Committee – a bunch of self-serving power fiends whose only other purpose in life is to lick the GM’s boots) and they say "Yes" with an obsequious smile to anything the GM puts forward. The ‘Nodders’ are those sycophantic persons, carefully placed amongst the meeting by the ‘Yes-men’, who nod vigorous agreement to anything the GM puts forward. So you can see that the AGM ran on truly democratic principles and only BGB asked any testing questions.

But to the Hash. Motox, as usual, had laid a testing trail with more than one place where a Long, Short or Medium choice was to be had. Not only that but the bugger had gone against his own principles and instead of ‘it always goes this way’ it was ‘it’s never gone this way before!’ We were indeed very glad to get going on the On Out since it was damn cold and windy, with just a hint of incoming squall in the background. Spex had wrapped herself in a Father Christmas fleece, Cerberus was in a (I’m wearing the merchandise but I didn’t do the) 2001 London Marathon top and OldFart festooned himself with a pink puff-sleeved running jacket like some gnarled old fairy. Zebedee and Florence had got it right with some serious tracksters stuffed with old newspapers. At least, I assume there were newspapers down there – could have been their legs I suppose.

Iceman made an early mistake by bumping into me with the arm that was wearing his neat, flashing red warning light. His face crumpled into Gealic dismay as the bits tinkled all over the tarmac. C5 and I made the next mistake by chatting too much about world affairs and not noticing we were going East while everyone else was going West. Not that it made much difference in the end; we went West a bit too. And North. And South. We roved like a benign Mongol horde through the windswept canyons of Nether Theale, fetching up at a check and pretending we weren’t all knackered from the first mad rush of enthusiasm. Not so Jake, Hamlet’s crazed black labrador. He plonked his hairy butt down on the road and sat there tongue dangling, eyeballs rolling, lungs heaving. If ever there was a dog that was dying for a fag, he was it. Every syllable of his body language said "For Gawd’s sake. Where’s the car?!" Little did some of the early spring-heeled Hashers know that ¾ of the way into Motox’s trail they’d be looking the same…

Dribbler and Spot led us forward via short cuts/running over falses and we were soon to loose our way in an industrial estate under the gleeful gaze of the knowledgeable Cap’n Haystax. Still, the pack was keeping together as we ploughed onward to Burghfield Yacht Club although for some unknown reason I split off to check out an obvious no-hoper down a road evidently used by the Schumaker family for a bit of acceleration practise. Had it not been for the distant, stentorian tones of Foghorn calling the On I might be lying stiffly in the road, feet in the air and tongue out, like a giant pink, squished hedgehog. I was lucky to get back in time to see Gutbucket attempting an acrobatic swing on the metal bar of the overhead entry gate prior to jumping off and not seeing the impending ditch. His sideways lurch and desperately flailing arms were a joy to behold and I duly ratted on him to RA C5, although it was all I could do to stifle my laughter. I managed to get back up with the pack, passing Scrumper on the way who was pretending to wait for Lorraine and Springbok Claire although it was perfectly obvious that the ‘Jake’ syndrome (see above) was beginning to set in. TT2 hove into view and we ran awhile, discussing his knee which had had a cartilage op. but two weeks hence. Obviously made of stout stuff these bank managers. Personally, it was seven and a ½ weeks before I ventured to slice the top off a boiled egg after mine. So sad I had to delay all that decorating…

In the gathering gloom Motox was unable to distinguish a bench by a lock. "What’s that, then!?" He asked excitedly, pretending to point to a flour blob to a confused Hasher. Salome and I pondered his object recognition problems as we plunged on into the night, for once getting it right by following Foghorn into a bush (not generally recommended). The Long trailers all began to run like the clappers; this in order to not lose the dimly viewed figure in front. Problem was, the Hasher at the front thought he had lost the dim figure and ran faster to catch up, which resulted in all the rest of us poor bas****s blindly hurtling on ever faster over the bumps and hollows, swearing inwardly as we tripped and stumbled since no-one had the breath to speak.

The becapped, wraith-like form of Motox appeared every now and again, berating us for not getting back while it was still light. At least we knew we must be on the right trail when we saw him. Tweenie laboured past, not enough breath even for a bum note on the bugle. Handful and Florence were left trailing in our wake. Centaur whinnied excitedly at the front as lights appeared across the playing field. Then we were into the tarmac, weaving through roads, paths, tracks and grass before popping out next to Pincent’s Lane. AHA! Now we knew where we were and nothing could stop us heading for the footbridge over the M4 and home. Nothing did. Not even Motox’s perfectly drawn - but ultimately ignored – checks. Thanks Motox for the usual well laid trail – and we didn’t get wet like last year!

Outgoing RA C5 presented the awards and I think we owe a debt of gratitude to him for the past year’s presentations. It ain’t easy being funny all the time, but he certainly makes me laugh…

By Mick. To his query regarding her limping progress, Ms. Whiplash replied "I’ve pulled a muscle". "Oh, is that in your tongue?" He riposted impishly before speeding off into the night.