Squirrel Jenks Alastair Catherine Lynn Kitten Hashgate Glittertits Pissquick Soapy Shyeena Mother Theresa Lemming Baldrick Potty Nutcracker Spot Scrumper Limpet Motox the Tremblers Ms. Whiplash Salome Iceman Wally Flash Sue Shep and Gnarler the dog Daisy Hamlet and Jake the dog Lonely (amazingly enough – read below) and Beaver the dog CanOpener Caroline and Emma the dog Kate Jill and HappyHarry FloppyFlorence BabyBisto (these last three are all dogs who are as daft as their names) Ladybird Artifuct BlowJob Cheating C5 Sue5 Bomber PoshTart Florence Zebedee Septic Dumper BGB Richard(later named) GBH Kim

Firstly my thanks to Baldrick and Wally for writing the Gobsheets for the past two weeks. Baldrick’s was a fine piece of reportage. Wally’s was an arcane jocular conundrum, allegedly written in my style, that must have had most people scratching their heads in puzzlement. It was in colour, though.

We must also mention Lonely who has finally succumbed to lunacy. The poor old chap bumbled his way along 40 (yes, forty) miles in 8½ hours on Saturday. Luckily, he had rammed a couple of industrial-size Vick’s nasal sprays up his nostrils before the race start. These turned out to be extremely useful. Anyone in front of him leapt to one side with a strangled scream, believing that a huge, pink-rimmed double-bore shotgun was directly behind. Pity poor Beaver though. I’m sure he was three inches shorter on Sunday and, of course, you can’t get canine Vick’s anywhere.

When I got to the car park Lemming was dusting the flour off his lovely, clean black car. Jenks had kindly sprinkled a little of it across the bonnet to show he had plenty left. The other Hares were nowhere to be seen at first. Kitten had apparently disappeared after laying a solitary check – no doubt completely knackered after his exertions – and Squirrel limped round the corner in an exaggerated manner, expecting sympathy. Nice to see Nutcracker ‘back’ again. I was surprised she was there, given her drunken ravings and debauched pole dancing that took place at the Committee dinner the night before. By the way, thanks to all who have paid their subs. The meal was delicious.

But to the Hash. We On Outed rather surprisingly in a different direction to the usual ones. This obviously confused the normally intelligent Scrumper, who had to be taught how to open a farm gate. Luckily, Limpet stuck with (to?) him to make sure he was all right. We trotted down a long forest road, BlowJob making obscene remarks about having his horn in his hand. This was too strong for my delicate constitution so I suggested he went and checked up a woodland track full of deep shiggy, knowing full well the trail lay in the other direction. Iceman wholeheartedly approved of and chortled over the action as the ‘On’ was called and BlowJob foot-sucked his sticky way back to us. The lad took it well. We tore up (ok, staggered up) a steep slope to a stile where the lithe Daisy had got her leg over. "Watch it. It wobbles." She warned me. I duly watched it as she stepped across and it certainly did wobble – very nice it was too…

After trotting lightly through crunchy-leaved forest floor we found ourselves on the first of a couple of extremely long, wet tracks. Bomber, BGB and Spot led off and half an hour later (or so it seemed) we reached the end where we all stood around hawking and coughing by the life-saving check. Spot, Richard, Zebedee and I made entirely the wrong decision and hurtled off down the beckoning mud trail, returning after a mile or so from the false. Potty actually got the right direction, zipping across the rolling sward in a passable imitation of a man with his arse on fire. Glittertits and Soapy followed, pursued by the gazelle-like Florence, Motox’s charging rhino and a whole gaggle of people like PoshTart, Richard and BlowJob. We met up with Jenks and his kids in a deserted farmyard, stopping briefly for a friendly chat.

I followed C5 into the forest. Not the wisest move, I know. We ambled on through some winding trails before fetching up at a back road where a small convoy of immaculately polished motorcycles and riders swept past, the tail-ender giving me a cheery wink as I waved and grinned. That’s what I like about Hashing. Something unexpected nearly always happens. And so it did almost as soon as we found the trail again. Shep and I had gone miles down the wrong way and cut back across the wood to rejoin the pack. We suddenly came across a back garden and two skips full of, well, stuff! There were bikes and gnomes and prams and rocking horses. Fridges and mangles. Divers suits and butter churners. It was a cornucopia of bric-a-brac and… stuff. Blowjob leant into the skip and pulled out an ancient brass coal scuttle to take home. Artifuct, well Artifuct was peering down a trench. The girl’s got this thing about ‘em. I’m sure the only way Ladybird gets her in the mood for a bit of rumpy-pumpy is to play her one of his mucky videos – ‘Erotic Excavations’, or ‘Dirty Diggings’.

This last bit was the longest and most shiggyful of the long tracks and most of it was spent lurching sideways in the quag and trying not to leave a shoe behind. Florence kindly ran with me and we spent a pleasant couple of minutes watching the crazed Gnarler running back and forth through a deep puddle in evident doggy bliss until called by his equally crazed master, Shep. We slogged on, coming across Baldrick who seemed either to be waiting hopefully for a friend or was bending over tying up his shoelace. Time blurred as we staggered onward. I grew a beard for fun. Shaved it off. So did Florence. What century was this, we wondered. The soles of our trainers wore paper thin. And then, finally, the On Inn appeared and we tottered gratefully down the road to the pub, waving at Kate, Jill and the dippy dogs as they sped off in a welter of tongues, smiles and wagging tails.

RA Motox presented the following :-