Motox BGB (obviously really – I don’t know why I bother to put the Hares in) Hashgate (that’s me) Gutbucket Dumper Septic Ms. Whiplash Salome Spot Baldrick Honeymonster Potty Nutcracker Foghorn Tweenie Greenfly Ladybird Artifuct PonyExpress Cerberus Premature and dog Molly Zebedee Florence Iceman Lynda LittleIan Lonely and dog Beaver Chopstix Jan(a virgin) Helen Phil Tony Cheating Flash OldFart…and in the pub: Whinge(nice to see the old sod again)

Well it certainly felt like it after we had finished. On a rain-soaked evening people were staggering back to the pub gasping for a pint after covering almost every inch of the Sulham countryside. The occasion was a celebration of twenty years each of Hashing by Motox and BGB and they had obviously gone out of their way (geographically as well as intentionally) to give us the full benefit of their hard-earned knowledge and experience. The floury output of all this was almost washed away during the monsoon-like downpour that cloaked the area just before the off and those of us who turned up early (Gutbucket, Spot etc) wisely stayed in their cars, praying the rain would bugger off. Others such as Baldrick and Tony (wearing a bush hat and doing a strange warm-up routine) tramped wetly about the car park like dripping gnomes. For reasons that will become clear after the Barn weekend I invited Ms. Whiplash into my crumpetmobile and she accepted in a flash – none of that stranger danger stuff. One minute the old bus was empty, the next a damp Whiplash was steaming up my windows. She didn’t stay long but By Jove it was worth the visit! Zebedee and Florence, now recovered from their Peruvian holiday (altitude sickness, Montezuma’s revenge and llama humping were all de rigeur) rejoined us tonight – nice to see them back safe and sound. Helen and Phil obviously can’t stay away (Helen, I noticed, actually paid up and joined our merry band later in the evening. Not surprisingly, we only persuaded her after she was almost completely ratted. Chopstix, I’m glad to say, is now getting well fit (take that any way you want).

We On Outed soggily the expected way towards Sulham woods but some very crafty trail laying screwed us early on. Baldrick and I had gone to investigate the small estate at the end of which we knew a woodland trail lay. We hit the false and waited like good Hashers for the other FRBs to join us so they could share in our disappointment. Trouble was, every other trail ended in a false too. Early confusion until Zebedee and Foghorn found the parallel trail to our false on the top of the grassy bank next to the path! We liked that one. Into the forest we went. Goodness knows how the Hares did it but they managed to loop the entire pack around a couple of times in the smallest of muddy, wet, leafy areas. Although this particular area of woodland contained some of the most disgusting items of human debris (I shall describe not a bit of it) the trot through the arboreal debris was quite enjoyable, especially when Lonely tripped over the tiniest twig right in front of me and executed a fine one-legged leap that would have put Nijinsky (man or horse) to shame. The pack kept fairly well together and made merry conversation with the Hares who were thoroughly enjoying the general melée. I found myself walking behind Salome and Ms. Whiplash, the former quite brazenly stating that she longed for a big chopper in the woods. I would have been happy to assist but one has one’s duty as the Scribe to think of. I sprinted past, a ready smile on my lips.

I found myself later hurtling along a wet track with OldFart, who was trying to make me choke with laughter so he could win our one-to-one race. He nearly succeeded. He was talking about Stephen Fry who had been on the radio, speaking about unanswerable ripostes to insults. An example was of a man had been sneered at by an uncouth fellow with the insult, "Here how’d you get so fat mate?". Riposted the rotund butt of his sally, "I ate a biscuit every time I f****d your missus."

By now we were up with Greenfly and Baldrick, the former having found a bar-check a way along the forest path. The three of us let OldFart and Premature scoot along the trail while we rather stupidly went off it down the steep, wood and muck strewn hill from the last blob. Sure enough we went down a bit, then along a bit, then back up to rejoin the trail. We figured that one was probably down to BGB and doffed our mental hats to him. Things got a bit more wet and woody from here and we had to walk, stooping and bending through the dense trees until we burst out on to grass and hammered it for about half a mile to a well-remembered track. C5, Baldrick and vaious others got it wrong to the left. OldFart, premature and I got it wrong too. Cheating set off at pace down over the false in the field opposite, racing away from us in his yellow cape like a giant, demented canary. On realising that the check was a back check we cheered him on and made our way towards the regroup where decent lager and doorstep cheese sandwiches awaited us. Apparently, sandwiches had been available at BGB’s first Hash so he felt it only appropriate that we had some today. We lingered awhile and Motox explained that the Long Trail was a ‘one blob and you’re on’ trail and that we were likely to be back well before the Short Trailers. He seemed so sincere we almost believed him. Almost.

We were in for a lightning forest cruise where the devil took the hindmost. It was actually quite enjoyable speeding over the wet and springy ground and we all stopped at the edge of the trees to marvel when the darkling clouds parted to reveal the sinking sun’s rays. The rain-wet field glistened with a million diamonds and the forest was lit with a brilliant russet glow. I have never seen anything quite like it. It was yet another Hash moment to treasure. I shall do so.

Nothing quite like a touch of bathos I find. Following the moment mentioned above I overheard Helen behind me requesting a blow of Tweenie’s horn and asking him how to do it. Almost choking, I waited for the response. "Just stick your lips on the end and blow a raspberry." He replied, surprisingly calmly. I had only a brief wait as we jogged along. From behind came a low farting sound. I could take no more and raced to join Iceman up ahead on the long cross-field track. Despite my pleasant conversation the bugger tried to shove me into a puddle near the On Inn. A little uncalled for I felt and left the tittering fellow behind for the final dusky, damp push back to the pub.

C5 kindly stood in for RA Motox this evening :-