Greenfly Caboose Hashgate Alan GBH CircuitBreaker Ms. Whiplash Eth Spot Paella Mother Theresa Lemming The Tremblers C5 Sue 5 Cap’n Haystax Dumper Septic Ben Motox Foghorn Potty Flash Nutcracker TinOpener Miranda Baldrick Handful Zebedee Florence Neil Mark Shep and Gnarler the dog Lonely and Beaver the dog Dorthe Bomber PoshTart Mr. Blobby Mrs. Blobby Dribbler Butterfly and Paddy the dog Drexel and Maggie the dog Jenks Squirrel

"A tad parky." Was one way of describing the weather. Any brass monkey venturing out on a morning like this would have been well advised to keep the oxy-acetylene torch and welding goggles close to hand. It was a damp, marrow-chilling atmosphere similar to that during the GM's report at the AGM. Luckily, a fine drop of warming mulled wine was being doled out by young Ben and Alan (a virgin I had found wandering the streets who happens to be a friend of GBH and CircuitBreaker) and I quaffed it with relish. Various Hashers bounced up and down in an effort to keep/get warm or, like Nutcracker, wore a puffed-up Mr. Michelin-type jacket. At least I hope it was the jacket that was all puffed up…

Caboose, in a soon-to-be-regretted flush of generosity, had agreed to help Greenfly to lay the trail and he looked suitably shell-shocked and covered with flour after his ordeal. ( I know. I've laid some with Greenfly myself - the mental scars are almost healed.) Obviously, this was a meticulously planned operation for even though Ms. Whiplash had handed over to the Hares at the Gather Round they pored over maps spread out on Greenfly's car, feverishly trying to remember where the hell the trail went. Eventually, Greenfly strode forward and informed us that not only was there a standard sort of trail but an extra, no cost, free, gratis and for nothing semi-live trail for the completely brainless on top of this. It was a 'fifteen minute trail' he smiled. We were to remember his words (much) later…

We trotted down the road, led by the sprinting Trembler, BH³'s very own Linford Christie. However, he had obviously over-egged the Nandrolone pudding and fell by the wayside in the first field - a gasping shell of a once-proud etc. etc. This allowed Foghorn, Iceman and myself to make the very first cock-up of the day and find ourselves right at the back of the pack. Still, we got to chat to Lonely and Septic before racing off to find the front again. There was much to’ing and fro’ing, particularly when we followed Shep, Bomber and PoshTart through a flour-less field. This was followed by the mother of all bar-checks as we pelted down one side of the steep and spectacular valley, up the other, into the wood and on to a bar-9. Why thankyou Hares. Not wishing to deprive anyone of the enjoyment we clambered further up the hill, the better to observe the poor slobs following behind as each jaw fell to the ground with a clunk like a dropped flat iron. There were various bar-checks later that certainly did their job of reversing the pack and keeping us all together. A bar-4 in the forest had everyone mumbling under their breath and streaming off in all directions. A Spot here, a Motox there, a Blobby over there. We eventually found the trail and were rewarded with the sight of Zebedee taking a dive and trying to put his eye out on a stick (luckily he didn’t but his left eyeball bears a striking resemblance to Christopher Lee’s in any Hammer Horror vampire classic). We sallied on and a crafty false caught out Neil, Iceman, Zebedee, Mark and Baldrick not long before we arrived atop the big hill, in the usual place, for the regroup. The ‘usual place’ doesn’t do this location justice. There are far-reaching, superb views down to and across the Thames and the day was clear enough for us to be lucky and spot the dreaming roofs of Tilehurst. Spot took a group photo while most of us teetered on the edge of oblivion. Only Bomber managed a bit of a roll down the hill – he was showing off to PoshTart who was having a bit of a girlie chat with Dorthe at the time.

Of course there were those who went miles down the hill to the false while the rest of us backtracked over the stile. And, may I say, Mother Theresa was very rude about my stile-hopping technique. She ought to talk to CircuitBreaker who had been very kind with her remarks about a similar stile earlier on. Actually that reminds me that I only saw Lemming once during the Hash. The poor sod had accidentally got near the front and was pelting along in the shiggy, steam spurting from his plimsolls for all of ten seconds. I must congratulate him on his headgear. His ear muffs had a massive snowman on each side and must have weighed a ton. Perhaps that’s why he was a little slow…

Despite the landlord swearing blind he knew nothing of our attendance we all got a drink eventually. Christmas Carol sheets were handed to all (apart from Handful and Florence who agreed they sing as flat as a pancake) and Lemming led us all in a fine old sing-song with some welcome appreciation from many of the patrons. It was like the Luton Girls meets Cardiff Male Voice (well, when GBH started up).

RA Motox presented the following :-