Dim But Undeterred

CreamPuff Hashgate SlackBladder OldDog ScarletPimpernel DunnyStumbler Simple ShitShoveller Motox Spot Cerberus Premature Lonely and dog Beaver Glittertits PissQuick David Mervyn Caboose SlowSucker Steamer LeVoisin TrailBlazer (aka BGB, aka BlouseBlazer) Iceman Itsyor Fiddler

Through The Grass, Darkly

Our congratulations to David and his wife, the latter recently giving birth to a Hasher of the future, Daniel. I understand David had a very small part in the early stage of the process and managed to startle his wife and a nurse at the moment of birth by shouting “On Out!” at the critical point.

Numbers were limited tonight since most of BH³ had spent the weekend in an orgy of boozing and Hashing at Nash Hash although hardy Nashers Spot and Motox came along and staggered round amazingly well. Spot confessed to getting stonkingly wazzed (rather inebriated) on a bottle of Mailbu he’d taken with him. You can just imagine him sitting in his dinky green canvas folding chair, sipping the disgusting concoction through a pink straw and pursed lips, pinky raised, from a twee little glass decorated with a jazzy paper umbrella and a sprig of japonica. Not only that but he admitted taking two delightful ladies along with him and losing one of ‘em! He obviously needs to take a few lessons from those ace crumpet collectors, ScarletPimpernel and Mr Blobby. They bring ‘em and they take ‘em away. None of that leaving one behind. Honestly, how do you lose a lady?! I also overheard the skin-crawling information that Nash Hash was treated(?) to the sight of Hamlet and Baldrick running naked ‘midst the heaving (probably literally) throng. I hope and pray this awful activity is not repeated at our Hash any time in the future.

Now we all know Cheating as a bloke who is reticent to follow any trail so to find him laying one (with press-ganged White Fang and KiwiFruit – founder of the New Zealand Wellington Hash) was something of a surprise. And to have him running with the Pack, helping us on our way, was an even bigger surprise. Although it was a bit of a shock to DunnyStumbler and me to see him driving his car on a road parallel to our course during the first ten minutes! Interesting Haring concept. However, he was merely delivering the beer to the beer stop. The Hares, under Cheating’s insane magnificent leadership had laid a trail of Gordian complexity. It certainly tied us in knots with all the backtracking, Bar-6’s etc. SlowSucker, David and I found ourselves running in entirely the wrong direction early on and the whole Pack had to return uphill from a stinging nettle surrounded Check in order to climb gingerly over a barbed wire fence. Glittertits gallantly assisted wife PissQuick by hurling her over it into my arms. Very pleasant I must say and better than leaving her dangling by the back of her shorts, legs and arms waving spiderlike.

Most of us had started with as much energy, zip and verve as a sloth on valium – Simple in particular. Slowly, years of accumulated Philosan, glucosamine and lubricating alcohol began to kick in. Rheumatic knees clicked into gear. Dessicated muscles (where there were any) began to warm, changing consistency from pemmican to, well, scrag end and we trotted jerkily into the forest. One of Cheating’s little jokes was a Check in the middle of a deep hollow, surrounded by a flour blob on every tree in the vicinity. This prompted the brief joke of running round in a circle shouting ‘On On’ since there were more than four blobs. How we laughed.

Every now and then the trail would apparently disappear. It had usually snaked back on itself or we would hurtle up what looked strangely like a World War I trench only to find a Bar-8, though Premature and David had spotted the parallel trail a little way off into the wood and had streamed along it to reach the Regroup before the rest. Itsyor and Fiddler turned up about this time. It seems that Fiddler’s youth and speed are doing his father some good for the old boy was fairly clogging along – especially downhill. Nothing like a bit of healthy father/son competition to keep the bathchair at bay for just a few more years. Mind you, when the time comes, Itsyor will no doubt thoroughly enjoy being shunted through the forest by the lad, a gouty, heavily bandaged foot sticking up to point the way. Red-nosed and rheumy-eyed, waving open hip flask and walking stick to urge Fiddler to ever faster cornering while shouting, “On On boy! Mush! That blashted Hashgate ish getting away again!”

The trail now split into Short and Long, Cheating informing us that the Long was about twenty five minutes more and desperately trying to ignore the gathering gloom. We sped off and promptly lost the trail. Surprise, surprise; it wound back on itself, going downhill. SlackBladder showed amazing sagacity by stopping at a right-hand turn while the rest hurtled up a grassy track, reckoning rightly that there was a Bar further up. He was damn right (it was a Bar-8!) and a certain amount of muttering and questioning of Cheating’s ancestral legitimacy could be heard as the FRBs doubled back. Obviously the trail was working perfectly. It went even better further on. The one-blob-and-on policy was working all too well, as Iceman and I found out when checking a flour-free track when Cerberus couldn’t be ar*ed. Similarly, further on when SlowSucker, David, Premature et al carried straight on through a gate rather than face the left-turn up yet another damn great hill. Guess we’ll never learn. It got darker. Night creatures scurried about their business. An owl shook its’ feathers, viewed the gnarled and knackered Hashers tripping over roots beneath it and with a shudder, decided against an evening snack until its stomach had settled down.

The Hares, having realised they were staggering under the weight of hoppers full of flour, had decided to lay 3-blob Checks in a vain attempt to persuade the Hash that their trail-laying generosity knew no bounds. We gratefully accepted the help, knowing that the beer stop, the pub and pitch darkness were not far away. Only one thing marred our headlong rush, a local citizen shouted at Glittertits, Simple and me to stop shouting. A bit self-defeating we thought. We also thought it would be good if the gent’s nadgers dropped off and rolled down a drain. On to the beer stop and a fascinating conversation with Dunny, Simple, PissQuick, Glittertits and SlackBladder that started with Motox asking OldDog if she’d had a boob job. All I’ll say is that if OldDog were a galleon she’d be under full sail in a stiff breeze and I for one would be happy to climb ‘er fore top gallants and royal stays.

Nice job Hares. A good Hash through some quite beautiful countryside.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Glittertits officiated at his last presentation as RA in the brilliantly lit petanque court behind the pub:-

Two straws, one pint. There was more sucking and blowing than you’d expect from a couple married so long

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