Spot Spex Hashgate Keith HeyBabe Honeymonster Foghorn Mrs. Foghorn Chopstix Linda Richard Centaur Paella Baldrick Potty Nutcracker Wally Lynda Mr & Mrs Blobby Utopia Gutbucket Septic Scrumper Limpet Dumper C5 Hamlet Michael Fiona Emma Cerberus Premature Iceman OldFart Greenfly Dave Motox Dana Dwight Julia and baby Sam Glittertits Pissquick Muff SlipperyNipple (what a delightfully named foursome) Jill GrandMember and the two Lorraines Lonely and Beaver the dog Cap’n Y-Fronts and his hound Itsyor Tweenie Fritz Ms. Whiplash Salome Brian and Corby the dog Barry Bev Simon Flash BGB Mudman Mudwoman

Spot loomed up. "I’m not expecting many tonight." He intoned lugubriously. Thereupon hundreds of Hashers new and old squeezed their way into the car park in a car parking, lycra stretching, bouncing up and down, chatting and taking the p**s out of my car sort of frenzy. We were here to celebrate St. George’s day on the morrow and although there was (as far as I’m aware) no-one named George, there was certainly a dragon. Mrs Foghorn had joined us for the night. Mr Foghorn had obviously been behaving himself since no tell-tale puffs of smoke emitted from the good lady and the a**e-end of Foghorn’s running shorts were not charred to crispy tatters. I know not whether our very own dragon-lady is a Swedish Short Snout or a Hungarian Horntail but I must say I think all dragons are mysterious, beautiful creatures with their own kind of magic. Oh, and thanks for buying me a pint after the run Mrs Foghorn.

A bevy of new bints turned up in the friendly shape of Jill, GrandMember and the Lorraines. They were all jolly nice and being ¾ virgin they followed the GM’s example and walked round most of the trail at the back. Unlike feisty Yank student Dana who had a fine trotting style. Michael and Fiona brought daughter Emma who proved that the teenagers of today are a bunch of unfit, beer-swilling ne’er do wells when she exhibited all the symptoms of total collapse after approximately a hundred yards. Sounds like she’ll make a fine Hasher. Greenfly actually deigned to join the riffraff today and showed just how parsimonious he is by bringing the little St. George’s flag that Spot issued us with at last year’s St. George’s Hash.

Following our greeting of the visitors and virgins the whole damn crowd hurtled or ambled hugger-mugger out of the car park and Foghorn, Mr. Blobby, Lonely and I made complete fools of ourselves by getting caught out on the obvious first check. No change there then, as we chugged back to catch up the pack. Greenfly and Iceman were next to be caught, just before we tripped lightly on to a forest path between the trees. This was quite an amazing place, for the thickness of the trees made the forest almost pitch-black inside. The Hares had put this to good use by leading us through the dusky, sylvan edges – except Dumper and Cap’n Y-Fronts, who bundled on straight over the false and ignored my light criticism. HeyBabe did similar just further on, stating with nary a blush that she thought ‘F’ stood for ‘Forward’. The sheer brass neck of some people!

Amazingly, the regroup appeared so Scrumper sat down and took off his shoes, feigning a thorn injury. Good try, Scrumper. This is the first regroup we have had for some time, the previous few trails being eyeballs-out races with no respite. We took our time and chatted, waiting for Ms Whiplash and Salome who were no doubt ensuring the visitors had not lost their way. C5 and I noticed that, despite the bone-dry earth and complete absence of water Beaver and Corby were covered in wet mud and looked very pleased with the result. How did they do that? Spot mumbled something in the background and people started jogging off again. C5 and I agreed that it was probably nothing of any importance and jogged off too towards Spex and Spot’s ‘best check this week’. I had gasped my way up a tarmac hill behind Dwight, Premature and Mr. Blobby. There was a garden to our left, a field to our right and the road straight on. More arrived. OldFart strolled into the garden – no flour there. Mr. Blobby came back from the false on the road. Dwight returned from the false in the field. Hmm. We stood and deliberated. We scratched our heads. Mr. Blobby, Glittertits, Muff and I ventured along the field edge – only to return disappointed. Then we spotted Baldrick and others miles away running along a track and flicking V-signs in our general direction. Spot arrived and explained that we should have come back partly down the hill and turned left into the field. It was so obvious we had missed it. Silly us.

Our charge to join with the pack took us over much deeply rutted, ankle-breaking, concrete-hard mud and Gutbucket amused us by losing his balance at speed and rushing off at a right-angle while attempting to remain upright. He just managed it, to a polite round of applause. Septic blundered into the only dollop of mud for miles in a deep tyre track and uttered a shrill, but strangely exciting, scream right in my ear as I charged past. I was trying to catch up with Dana who (if you’ll pardon the expression) was going like a train. We passed several stations, jumped two red lights and a set of points and finally steamed to a halt at the second, impromptu regroup. What larks! We were due to pass through a narrow, grassed area with a gate at each end. No problem you might think, except the farmer had just filled it with milling sheep and lambs. After some diplomatic conversation with the farmer, Spot led us carefully past the woolly throng – straight into a field with an over-friendly horse! The blighter insisted on cutting out small groups of Hashers in order to nuzzle and be fondled. It was a bit like Motox in the pub after six pints. We finally managed to placate the beast (the horse, not Motox) and be on our rock-solid way past a very large, very still bird standing haughtily on a fence. Lonely and I agreed that we had both thought of pushing it off but had decided that perhaps we oughtn’t to. So we hacked onward until we came to Spot’s flour sign saying ‘Only 4 miles to go’, followed shortly by ‘Only joking’. We laughed until we stopped. It served at least to ensure we were aware of just how much flour the Hares had left towards the finish. I shall say no more.

RA Motox presented the following :-