Foghorn Chopstix Hashgate Florence Zebedee TT2 Muff SlipperyNipple Cerberus Premature Linda(a virgin) BGB Itsyor Gutbucket Steve Tony Paul Dumper Septic Neil Baldrick Paella Mr. Blobby Mrs. Blobby Lynda Utopia Greenfly Caboose Simon Ms. Whiplash Motox Keith OldFart Phil Helen…and much later Lonely Anne-Marie Mrs. Foghorn

I was ‘fishing’ around, ‘angling’ for a way to begin the Gobsheet while ‘perch’ing on my chair. The ‘rudd’y words were there but I couldn’t ‘line’ up a ‘reel’y good start. If ‘Salmon’ Rushdie were writing this, I thought, ‘eel’ have some ideas… and much more in that vein. Let’s just start by saying that this Hash had all the ingredients of a stunner; everyone was knackered (including the Hares) after the Barn Weekend (and let’s give praise and thanks to all the hard-working organisers – well done), the pub could be seen from the flyover but was so well hidden by the vagaries of Reading’s road planners that it was almost impossible to drive to, when/if you got there the tiny car park had just enough room for a motorcycle and sidecar, the pub don’t do food on Monday and Hare Foghorn announced at the Gather Round that he and Chopstix had got bored half way round trail-laying so it would be one blob and you’re on. Add to this GM Ms. Whiplash arriving dressed in a manner that clearly stated "I am not running tonight" and you get the complete picture.

Zebedee had arrived with his doppelgänger sibling (doppelgänger – ghostly counterpart of a living person) who has not been seen alive on the Hash for some time and, after this one, will probably not be seen again for quite a while. Paul who, like me, had been introduced to Hashing by Shep had turned up. We chatted awhile, enjoying a spot of builder’s character assasination. I must also mention Caboose who, guessing from his new haircut, has recently joined the BNP. But we had no time to tarry and we On Outed into the narrow streets of Reading, little knowing of the horrors to come.

Most of us couldn’t be arsed to check the first bits of the trail out (exhausted legs, advanced lassitude etc) so we let the mad Zebedee and Greenfly do it. Unfortunately, they bogged it up early on and Mr Blobby and I were alarmed to find ourselves at the front. Luckily, we bogged it up too which meant we could hide in with the pack. The car-choked streets had not seen anything like us for some long time and curious kids leapt out of cramped accommodation to point and stare as we shouted and back-tracked. Caboose and I followed the pelting OldFart, Paul and Tony down a long, long street. This was to be the pattern from here on. Racing down long, straightish bits, desperately hoping for a check or an Act of God. Anything to have a blasted rest! Was there any? Not bloody likely! After fannying about in the densely populated bit we entered the largely deserted, industrial bit. This architecturally uninspiring arse-end of Reading was so monumentally devoid of any interest I shall not dwell upon it. Suffice to say that the only thing that excited my attention was a strong whiff of engine oil near some metal-gated, factory wasteland. Fighting back the rising gorge I hurried on.

The pack had become rather spread out by now so it was lucky that we all mucked up a check on the bridge near the Land Rover garage. Simon, Premature, Zebedee et al had gone off to the right while Greenfly had exited stage left. I thought it best to stay and view the snow-white swans who floated, coughing slightly, on the septic stream. Helen and Phil and Cerberus and Paella and others turned up and went right, after the On On callers. Sadly, they had missed the false in the grass. Many of us beasted after them only to turn back disappointed by the delightfully foaming brook where dead rats, hospital dressings and the occasional severed limb swirling balletically ‘midst the meringue-like topping. However, nature will out and on the other side of the path were fine patches of gold-eye daisies, mauve flowered things and other green things (I am not a gardener) so I concentrated on those on the ½ mile journey back to the bridge.

From here we looped around the sterile but reasonably pleasant landscape of Green Park high tech office estate. Curious to think this all used to be a vast rubbish dump. Septic and Neil had wisely opted for the Foghorn-led shortcut while people like Florence, Cerberus and Motox staggered round the long loop and back on to a stony off-road track (we weren’t used to it after all that tarmac) that led us past Fobney pumping station where we interrupted a couple on bicycles who had obviously thought this might be a good place for a quiet (or noisy!) shag. It obviously wasn’t and they cycled glumly away. Now just past here Mr. Blobby, Simon and I found a bar 3, or possibly 8, maybe 9. We were running on empty by now and Mr Blobby, obviously in a hallucinatory state, stepped across looking for the flour blobs from the loop around it. Simon and I gasped in horror, unable to cross the Rubicon. "On, On!" Screamed the demented Blobby and cavorted onwards. I looked at Simon. Simon looked at me. "F**k the bar check." I stated simply, giving Simon the benefit of a Committee member’s opinion. We trotted over it, scuffing Foghorn’s carefully crafted handiwork.

A further nightmare endurance run ensued until we hit the Kennet river. Cruising along this quiet backwater was reasonably pleasurable apart from the aching legs. I was following Paul who suddenly doubled back from a bar check and we nipped back up the bank by the Lok n’Store place. We were almost there. Hope began to rise that we might finish tonight. It began to rain. We found a giant, floury ‘DD’ which we thought might mean ‘Dead Donkey’, ‘Double Diamond’, ‘Dirty Den’ etc. I found out later that it meant Down Downs since the car next to it held the beer. Anyway we ignored it, hurtling over the IDR flyover and finally to the soothing comfort of the Hook and Tackle. Thank God.

RA Motox presented the Down Downs in the graffiti-strewn, echoing underpass below the Inner Distribution Road. While frightening off the drug dealers it also had the effect of bringing a smile to the face of the odd, lone pedestrian and cyclist as the Hash parted (Moses and the Red Sea style) and each was given a rousing cheer.