Hamlet Lonely and dog Beaver Hashgate Wally HeyBabe Gutbucket Spot Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Utopia Foghorn Chopstix Motox Pissquick Glittertits Sixinches Dana Paella Centaur Ms. Whiplash Salome Honeymonster Steve Tony Judy OldFart Itsyor Potty Nutcracker C5 Greenfly Lynda Helen Phil Baldrick Dumper Cheating Mudman Mudwoman Iceman Florence Flash Neil Chuck Dribbler Butterfly

The evening was cool but bright and only one small, dark cloud appeared on the horizon as I drove into the car park. It was Wally; walking toward me as I parked and talking before I had even switched off the engine. Fortunately, the pint he had half downed had mellowed the fellow and he allowed me to get the odd word into the conversation. As we chatted I noticed a chubby black and white cat limping, apparently painfully, across the pub yard. Wally and I approached, concern writ large across our faces. I knelt down and stroked the friendly creature. "Wonder if it’s been run over?" "It’s certainly limping on its back leg?" We gave it the full benefit of our veterinarian knowledge (gleaned from Rolf and Animal Hospital). Unfortunately, our knowledge (and certainly our observation) was not up to scratch as we found out when the landlord informed us that not only had Minstrel (for ‘twas her name) been dotting and carrying quite happily for many years since her car accident, but she had only one front leg. Ah! We thanked him and backed slowly away, Wally offering the apt comment that whatever medical whinge any Hasher comes up with it is nothing compared to this magnificent cat!

Alas, poor… Hamlet has his own medical whinge at present. Apart from the usual psychological trouble he has a spot of plantar fasciitis which means running about is not necessarily healthy or pleasant. So let us thank him for volunteering to do this one. Having said that, I must point out that most of the Long Trail after the beer stop was one blob and on (if you were lucky), he had to ask Lonely to take the flour and see us round (the lazy git), the pub was having a quiz night and some swine had sabotaged part of the trail so we got lost! Oh, you want to know about the arm? Well, the blasted clips cd had no half-decent Queens and nothing about a College so here is one of a pair of Arms. And a fine, well-muscled one it is too. Based on a photo of C5 during his ‘Terminator’ period. That was, of course, a long time ago – he’s now in his ‘Termination’ period.

We straggled down the long outward tarmac trail, following Greenfly, OldFart, Centaur and others who missed the turn into the woods so cleverly found by Foghorn, Spot and Mr. Blobby! There followed a fair old dash up several lengthy tracks with Foghorn and Spot doing a fair bit of front running. Perhaps they were trying to get most of it over in order to return to the pub ere darkness fell. The fields were verdant, the horse poop shiny and fresh and Spot seemed to hit the right trails from the checks, which saved us a lot of effort. All went well until we edged round a bright meadow and into some damp woods. Greenfly flew thither and I flew hither, both of us hitting a false. Blast! This continued with various people for some time since the wood was criss-crossed with deer tracks. The blighters had been tripping lightly through the forest for centuries just to bugger up our checking. People were crashing about everywhere – that is, until ace checkmeister Dumper swanned into view. On spotting the Hare laying a floury arrow his manful cry of "On On" brought us all to our senses and on to the right trail. Actually, I owe Dumper an apology. On Motox and BGB’s trail in Tilehurst it was he who found the trail from the first check, not Zebedee. Fulsome apologies indeed. Had it not been for Zebedee’s plagiarism and mendacity this foul slur would not have been promulgated. Gutbucket was thoroughly enjoying himself at this point. Somehow he’d got to the front and had guessed a couple of checks correctly. He howled the Ons gleefully, if invisibly, and you would have thought he was being chased by one of those old deers I mentioned earlier. But Ms. Whiplash and Salome were nowhere in sight. However, Gutbucket’s FRB status took a blow when he left a shoe behind in some particularly treacly shiggy and he had to stop to fish it out.

The Regroup/beer stop soon appeared and Motox kindly handed out flat beer in polystyrene cups (the Hash never wastes anything). No sooner had some poor slob quaffed their beakerful than the bugger appeared at their elbow with a flagon of the foul brew and an obsequious smile. No-one had the heart to refuse him though us wise ones sipped the fearsome liquor very slowly indeed. Hamlet drew Lonely to one side and handed him a map, a container of flour and a fiver, muttering "You ain’t seen me," and touching the side of his nose with one finger before melting away to the Short Trail. Most of the rest of us daft people followed Lonely hoping perhaps for a share of the fiver, or at least the chance to give Beaver a good rogering… Oops! Sorry. Drifted away from the plot there. Where was I? Oh yes; the Long Trail. Three miles of sheer pleasure that I started by following Florence as she hurtled through a knee-high meadow of grass and uneven ground. Neither of us could see a damn thing because the sun was so bright. She was running like Paul Radcliffe on EPO and I was having a job keeping up. It was only when we had to stop at the stile that she gaspingly admitted that she had felt compelled to bowl along due to my speedy running from behind! Both of us had been chasing the other, as it were. How daft can you get?

RA Motox presented the following. A seriously stressed Ms. Whiplash decided not to join us…