BH³ and all the hangers-on who we don’t see for months on end

Neil Hashgate Karen ShutupWally Spot Tony Hotlegs Caboose Gutbucket C5 Sue5 Honeymonster Bev Greenfly Linda Cerberus KnackerCatcher Flash Itsyor Foghorn Nutcracker Potty James BinBag Paella 2Bob GBH TwinPeaks Handful Spex PissQuick Glittertits Dumper Septic Incider and dogs Kundun & Baldrick2 Brian Carl Charlie Cap’n Y-Fronts and dog Tigger Lonely and dog Beaver Hamlet and dog Jake Centaur Dwight Cheating WetDream Dolly Ms. Whiplash Salome Lynda Utopia Mr. Blobby Mark BGB Chopstix Linda Zebedee Florence TT12b Cloggs

The AGM Hash

Before taking over as the new RA Motox performed his last action as outgoing RA during the Circle. He gagged ShutupWally by tying a scarf tightly round his fledgling-like, ever-open beak. There were heartfelt pleas by some to apply the tourniquet a little lower, around the neck. Sadly, it was not to be and we all trooped out on the trail. This was the AGM run and the weather was kinder to us than last week’s downpour. Early on round the ‘rec we were all keeping relatively together and Centaur and I were lucky enough to find the trail. Until it disappeared and everyone got lot looking for the damn thing. Poor Handful stood there apparently weeping and looking up at the sky, dabbing the tears from her eyes with a finger. A small knot of us gathered, also looking skywards in the vain hope of seeing what it was she was looking at. It turned out to be a problem with a gritty contact lens and we slunk away, slightly embarrassed at our foolishness. There were a couple of places where the Hares had laid a false up one side of a hedge and the trail on the other and this led us a merry dance for awhile. People like Greenfly, Tony, Spot and KnackerCatcher sped about, legs going like Maurice Green on speed. Gutbucket tried the same technique but tripped over a small molehill and headed turfwards rather rapidly. Even GBH got in on the act. As we cast about over the combed sward of the golf course he spotted a flour blob on the tree and gave us a Welsh “On On”. This consisted of striking a manly wide-legged pose, one finger outstretched towards the blob, head thrown back, hair (what there is of it) streaming in the wind and uttering a long drawn-out Richard Burton style utterance, “Y’er ‘tis!” Marvellous stuff. We applauded his startling thespianism and hurried on… just in case he did another one.

The golf course gave on to the rough, which was very. Rough that is. Solid, ankle-snapping mounds of mud interspersed with dollops of marsh tested us mightily. C5 lurched into the back of me just before we cracked up laughing at the single, calf-deep Man Friday footprint in a patch of oozing shiggy. Evidently, someone had mistaken the originally smooth patina for solid ground. I only wish I’d been there to see it! Of course, it was only a matter of time before we crossed the mighty M4 and I followed Cerberus and Cloggs up and over the footbridge, stopping on the other side to view the multi-coloured clothes of the pack spiralling up the dull grey ramp across the tarmac divide. Amazingly we met up with Karen, Linda, Incider and Gusset. They must have run incredibly fast to get there before us. Well done girls. The dafter FRBs all wellied off for the inevitable hairpin loop and I followed Mark, Tony and Zebedee along the edge of the crackly stubble field to where a chap sat in a hedge-trimming tractor with a look on his face that said, “What a daft bunch of silly old sods.” I thought about how right he was as we staggered up the short hill a mere Hare’s throw away from Sulham blasted woods. My breathless, gasping voice on the tape machine at this point sounds like either a heart attack is imminent or I’ve been well and truly rogered by Jordan for an hour or so. Hmm. Let me think about that for a moment…

So. Anyway. Now was the time for a long, long, fast cruise down that well-known dirt track back towards the equally well-known Calcot Lane. I don’t know about you but after the first ten minutes of pounding the pain blurred and the distant lights of Reading began to fluoresce and scintillate as oxygen debt kicked in. Of course, when we finally scrambled to a hacking, spitting group next to the grinning Motox the next bit went up the hill between ploughed fields. Poor old Hotlegs weaved his way drunkenly upwards. It wasn’t only his legs that looked hot. However, at the top of the hill I turned to view the scene. It was truly magnificent. In the gathering gloom the dark, well-turned earth of the field swept downwards. A tractor raised its ploughshares and liquid dazzles from faraway street lights reflected off the gleaming steel. In the middle of the field was a gaunt black tower surrounded by a halo of gunmetal clouds . Behind it the darkening sky was a glistering visual feast of reds and golds, blues and greys. It was absolutely glorious.

But no time to stand and stare. We tottered over the dried earth and ruts, clattered down into Pincents Lane and over the bridge towards a) the joke ‘Free beer’ stop, and b) an ambush by a bunch of Nash Hash promotees armed with flour and water guns! Excellent and entirely unexpected stuff. Well done people! We zoomed in, covered and dripping having thoroughly enjoyed the trail. Our thanks to Motox and Iceman for their hard work.

On Out With The Old…

BH3 and NashHash guests squeezed into the meeting room tighter than a fat person in a corset. It was a mini version of the waiting room in a Tokyo knocking-shop, without the Japanese. The walls bulged outwards and the floorboards creaked louder than C5’s knees under the weight. Of course, certain members of the outgoing Committee (Zebedee, Ms. Whiplash, Dribbler) clung desperately to the reins of power and initiated a sort of Mugabe-esque land-grab by placing a table at one end, then sitting behind it and grimly defending the territory, all fixed grins and beady stares. Incoming members (Foghorn) stood tight up against the table, looking for a breach in the defence, ready to take it by storm. The nomination procedure was a classic example of oligarchic democracy as Ms. Whiplash appointed each new member of the new Committee by introducing them to her carefully packed, baying audience, then inviting any lily-livered dissenters to pipe up or p**s off. If any diffident prole did attempt to speak they were immediately given a new haircut and temporary deafness from a close range blast of Tweenie’s bugle. The obsequious fellow’s so desperate to be a full committee member and get invited to the annual dinner that he’ll do anything for the current GM. Muscle-encrusted, low-browed henchmen Dribbler and Zebedee stood by, smacking ham-like fists into their palms in case of trouble but on this occasion the meek did not inherit the earth. Mind you, bearing in mind that I saw only one properly filled-in nomination form and that every Whiplash appointee was given a standing ovation by the baying, unwashed hordes, desperately grateful to have escaped any form of responsibility, I’m not surprised.

On a slightly serious note, we really must thank the Committee members. Without them there would be no trails, no Barn Weekend, no New Year’s do, no Down Downs, no snazzy T-shirts, no awards, no website. Anarchy and lack of organisation would prevail. Fear and hunger would stalk the land. Society would crumble. Our hopes and dreams become dust. Wailing and gnashing of teeth… Perhaps a crimson tinge of hyperbole shades the pleasing pastel of my prose. Anyway, well done to the ones who do all the work and, as for myself, thankyou so very much for voting me on as scribe again. I thought I’d escaped. Below are the names of the committee members and their positions. For some of them their position is quite a novelty for them. They’re usually prone and snoring beneath a pub table. Motox didn’t do any Down Downs this week but kindly awarded the new Committee (which just so happened to include himself) a free pint. He’ll certainly get my vote next year.
On On. Hashgate.