The Pack…with a pack of dogs

Hashgate TwinCam Cyclogical Georgina C5 Arnie Handful Dolly Itsyor ShutupWally Dwight Julia and baby Sam Spunky Dave Centaur Brian Spex Zebedee Florence TT3 Skydiver Baldrick Iceman Cheating Ms. Whiplash Salome Mr & Mrs Blobby Utopia Niels Septic Dumper Chopstix WetDream SlipperyNipple Eric the Viking Simon Neil Bev Darren David Flash TinOpener Miranda Butterfly Dribbler Tony Lynne Binbag Louise Anne-Marie Lonely Helen Linda Hamlet Legover Cerberus Premature BGB Motox Cap’n Y-Fronts OldFart Tweenie Flash Greenfly HeyBabe Spot PonyExpress… and dogs Emma Molly Jake Beaver Rusty Jimmy Tigger Megan Paddy

Another Regroup? Don’t Mind If I Do.

First of all thankyou very much to Florence who penned last week’s Gobsheet in the polished prose of a true professional – even though she did forget to record the Down Downs and had to ask Spot later.

A very appropriate pub tonight as I spotted more dogs than have ever been on the Hash at one time. They fit the bill perfectly as Hashers, all running round having a great time neither knowing nor caring why they are doing it nor where they are going. On the dog theme I was waiting in a semi-conscious state for a flight last week in Riga airport where it was chafing dish warm at 34⁰ . A couple ambled slowly by leading a fine long-haired (and eared) spaniel. Something about the little chap caught my attention. Was it the gleaming, well brushed coat? No. It’s fine, leather lead? No. Suddenly it clicked and a guffaw rose unchecked to throat level. The poor beast had a David Beckham haircut! A crest of hair ran from from between his eyebrows to behind his ears. He could have slipped on a No. 7 shirt and looked perfectly at home. As I struggled to check the bellylaugh he looked up with soulful eyes. “It wasn’t my idea.” He seemed to say.

An absolute throng of people turned up for this one. The car park was a seething pit of multi-coloured Hashers. Simon counted over seventy, he said. Not that this had anything to do with the number of Hashers. We congratulated him on his progress in the numeracy project, wishing him the best of luck in counting over eighty next week. With a greeting to the visitors and a brief word from Potty we On Outed the usual way each in their chosen method of movement either speeding, jogging, trotting, walking or staggering drunkenly. The early part of the Hash is always the same. Happy, chattering people spring boldly along with not a care in the world. This contrasts strongly with the broken, hacking wrecks who weave back into the car park at the end of the thing. There was obviously one person with rather too much energy early on. This was Spot. The fellow was behind me as we careered down the grassy hill towards and over a stile. Stopping briefly in the lane the other side, I suddenly heard his ragged breathing just a little too close followed by a serious attempt to play ‘spoons’. Now you may like my Gobsheets Spot, and you are a fellow Committee member, but any more attempts to roger the Hash Scribe will be severely dealt with by Ms. Whiplash and her largest studded leather paddle.

We hit the first of the several regroups and a pattern emerged. We would all wait round having a chat. A Hare would appear and roundly abuse us in an attempt to get us going again. Then we would all shoot off in different directions and not find the trail. The Hare would then point us in the right direction. Curiously enough, through all this mayhem Dribbler always appeared at the front. It reminded me of those old blokes you play at squash. They look totally knackered and in imminent danger of a heart attack but somehow it’s you who runs around like a headless chicken on angel dust while they stand on the ‘T’ apparently unable to miss the ball.

The skill of the Hares began to emerge as the trail alternately back-checked, two-way checked or, as Iceman and I found out, bar-checked. If you were FRBing at least you got to meet people many times over as the pack reversed and it was good to see the walkers and more sedate Hashers enjoying the spectacle of us rushing past them one way then rushing back again. A fine two-way check caught out Zebedee, Spunky, Centaur, Eric the Viking etc and I heard SlipperyNipple admitting confusion because it was marked like 9 o’clock rather than the usual quarter to three. Returning past Dribbler I heard him whining ruefully about the number of emails he gets offering him Viagra. It was suggested (perhaps unkindly) by a colleague that he shouldn’t give his address to quite so many of the porn sites he visits. Personally, I can’t believe it of Dribbler. He’s always been a ‘two sticks of celery and an elastic band’ man.

Another Out from a regroup saw Cheating actually leading the pack up a steep hill he’d already checked out. That is, until Greenfly, Centaur and I took him out like three whippets overtaking a St. Bernard. Mind you, we did manage to lose the trail as soon as we met the walking group although this may have been due to Cycological pointing us the wrong way. Now I must thank here Arnie for kindly (and gently) pulling a couple of bramble thorns out of my cheek. Although I was very disappointed when she declined my generous offer to present certain other of my cheeks for bramble inspection. A bar-11 reversed us all again and we burst out on to an open field area with a small herd of cows and one horse. At the sight of Eric the Viking, Greenfly and Centaur charging towards them they not surprisingly threw their hooves up in horror and stampeded towards the forest. Unfortunately, there was an old skip and several chunks of ironmongery in their path. Dull thuds and booming clangs followed their headlong progress. I was pleased to see that they all got through unscathed and with no limping though I expect the skip looked like Mike Tyson’s face after his recent meeting with Lennox Lewis.

The final part of the trail was (for me) a desperate attempt to catch up with Spunky along tarmac and finally down the little trail to the pub. He very kindly allowed me to catch up and we discussed knees. As you do.

So, a cunningly laid trail by a couple of old (very old) hands that kep the pack together extremely well. I heard only good words for it and I agree entirely. Thanks Nutty and Potty.

In the pub after I noticed a little-seen menu item. It was for ‘Smokey Fisherman’s Crumble’. As I understand it this is also a medical condition suffered by long-time workers in the kipper industry. Fish may be coated with a layer of the industrial dandruff and dried nasal hairs that fall from the Scottish curers. This is then sold to the ‘bast**d English sassenachs’ under the same name as the affliction. Hope you enjoyed your meal. On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Motox presented the following :-

Miranda

Up and Coming

Hamlet
Fukawe