Wise Men, Mothers, Virgins and the Odd Donkey

Motox BGB Hashgate Ms. Whiplash ShutupWally Flash Incider Brian and dogs Kundun and Baldrick The Tremblers FoghornSeptic Dumper Dribbler Butterfly Uptake Glittertits PissQuick SlipperyNipple Florence Zebedee Nutcracker BinBag Potty Lemming Mother Theresa Mr and Mrs Blobby Lynda Kevin Hitchhiker HeyBabe ShaginaJag LeVoisin Cloggs Spot Gutbucket Posh Bomber TinOpener Miranda and Emma the dog Lonely and dog Beaver PussiesGalore NipponTuck LegOver Effin Honeymonster Shandyman(from Bourne Valley and R2D2)

Lack of Sense, Cold and Oo-er

C5, in a futile attempt to mislead the Hash and thereby ensure a mountain of food and a lake of beer for himself at the party afterwards, deliberately transposed the gridref on the winter runsheet. Mind you, it was hardly surprising that the balls-up occurred give these particular Hares. C5 confided that half an hour after starting to lay the Hash they found themselves back at the car park and had to start again! I can’t really point the finger though. I had somehow ended up at Yattendon while trying to find the Common. Then spent a pleasurable ten minutes hard behind the lost Ms. Whiplash’ rear until she turned a corner down which I decided not to go (Blimey! A Goldwynism). Had it not been for two helpful souls who were out gathering dead thistles (no; I do not know why) I might still be driving out there now. So it was that I missed the bouquet-throwing by Mother Theresa (caught by a desperately diving PussiesGalore and assisted by a desperate for a dive LeVoisin) who has entirely taken leave of her senses by marrying… gulp, Lemming! Presumably he has money. It can’t be anything else can it? We wish them both all our very Hash best wishes. God knows, they’ll need them.

The forest dripped and dribbled with wetness as the merrily attired Hash splodged through the ankle-deep shiggy. Oo-er indeed. C5 and Dumper made splendid (Queens) Kings in crowns and flowing robes. Dumper managed to remain upright and regal despite an early attempt by Uptake and Foghorn to chuck him in a huge puddle. Florence (wearing a fine red hat and golden Rapunzel braids) and SlipperyNipple were also thoroughly doused by the rampant Foghorn early on. Honeymonster, too, got the bit between his teeth and covered your Scribe with a tremendous cascade of water before skipping off, hee-heeing with glee. Running past, PissQuick eyed my damp tape recorder and observed that I “… didn’t want to get your tool wet.” I offered her the chance of towelling it down briskly which, sadly, she declined. I was surprised at the sudden attack by Honeymonster since a moment before we had been discussing being splashed and he had (with a somewhat dreamy look in his eye) agreed with me that he “… didn’t mind it up the a**e but not down the neck”. And there I think I’ll leave it.

Zebedee, Bomber, Mr Blobby (large red Xmas danglies – it was a cold day) and I lost it on a Christmas tree plantation before Gutbucket called us back and we joined the impromptu regroup of lost Hashers down the road. There was a frantic wailing, ululation and grinding of teeth until C5 pointed the way back into the soaking forest and we all trekked off for a long cruise through the squidgy tracks that ended up with Iceman and Mr. Blobby going entirely the wrong way. It wasn’t so long after that BGB, Mr Blobby, Zebedee, Bomber, Spot and I got well caught by ShutupWally’s cunning plan. Hurtling up a deep shiggy track the flour blobs just disappeared! There was nothing! As a plan, it worked only too well. As a piece of trail-laying… I found myself alone in the woods and hearing ShutupWally calling the ‘On Back’. Trudging up to the tree-line I was greeted by the sight of Posh’s pert and pliant backside as she bent to re-tie an errant shoelace. “Good afternoon.” I greeted it politely. Well it had given me a lovely (if sideways) smile. Posh sprang up straight. It was Eliza Doolittle all over again. “Effin ‘ell ‘Ashgate yer sneaky b*****d! Wotcher creepin’ up on a lydy like ‘at fer? Oive a good mind ter smack yer in the b****cks yer filfy effin effer!” She leapt into the air, clicked her heels together like the chimney sweeps in Mary Poppins and gave me a swift rendition of “Any Old Iron” before suddenly stopping mid-verse. Pulling herself together with a sharp intake of breath she uttered a cut-glass, rolling ‘R’d “Thankyou Mr. Hashgate. You’d better hurry along”.
…Ok. Well that’s not quite how it happened. But nearly. Oh so nearly.

From here it seemed to get colder and wetter and the water and mud fights lessened as everyone got more knackered and looked forward to the On Inn. This particular mark came half way down a steep, chalky hill as new boy Kevin and Zebedee ski-d past me in a fine attempt to wrench their knees and break their ankles. Luckily they didn’t and we all sloshed along the be-puddled road behind Motox (where the hell had he come from?) to the welcoming, dry cars.

The Christmas Party

A huge number of Hashers (some, like Uptake and LeVoisin wearing their lurid pyjamas) burst cold-fingered into Yattendon Village Hall and descended on the bar where a friendly Septic dispensed best West Berkshire beer and Karen lounged invitingly. I sidled over. “Looking for a good time, big boy? Want to warm your hands on my furry bits?” I accepted her kind invitation to feel the lovely warm fur on her new jacket. We meandered into the superbly set-out hall where Butterfly was in the corner, running her fingers over a large organ. Dribbler seized his chance while I gazed on awestruck and fenced me a brown paper copy of the ‘St Thomas’ Church Family Quiz’. I stumbled away to sit quietly with Florence and Zebedee. Or so I thought. We were opposite Spex and husband Bob who, at certain points during the afternoon, banged lustily on the table. More than once we watched helplessly as our excellent lasagne slapped up and down on our plates. Ms. Whiplash wandered round the seated offering everyone and anyone a poke at her ‘orgasm button’. No-one I saw resisted the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Fortunately, it all settled down as we sang carols, drank booze and watched a confused butterfly winging its way up and down the hall. Father Christmas Foghorn dispensed expensive presents to one and all and snogged everyone – even Potty! Quote of the day comes from Motox who opined “I don’t like kissing blokes with beards. You can get crabs.” To everyone who helped organise this fine trail and Hash event, a great big thankyou from all the BH³ attendees. Merry Christmas. Hashgate.

Merry Down Downs

RA Motox gave the after dinner Down Down speech:-

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