Birthday Partys

Stuart Lord Lucan Bob Lucy ScarletPimpernel HotLegs Hashgate BillyBullsh*t Cerberus ShutupWally Ms Whiplash Salome Abi Sarah J-Wax SlowSucker Mrs Blobby Mr Blobby Utopia Lonely Baldrick Potty Dumper DunnyStumbler SlackBladder Spot Itsyor OldF*rt Fiddler OldDog Drac TT3 Dutch Spex LoudonTasteless Glittert*ts P*ssQuick LittleStiffy Aqua Motox Caboose Cheating C5 Jenks & dog Dylan Tim and dog Bandit Buttercup Ladybird BlouseBlazer TinOpener Bomber Posh Florence PoisonedChalice Twanky Claire Sh*tfor Desperate… and later, Zebedee

A Magical T(r)ale

A unicorn is a fabled creature, a perfect and beauteous white horse with a single straight horn rising from its’ forehead. It symbolises purity and goodness and legend has it that it will shun all human contact save a virgin maid in whose lap the creature will lay its’ head. Not much of that description applies to Whinge – apart from the fact that he would be very happy to lay his head in a virgin’s lap. But let’s be charitable. After all, it was the fellow’s 50^th birthday and he had very kindly laid on a Hash for us with his good lady. I must say I was rather surprised he is 50. I thought he’d reached that age some years ago. It was very nice for us, and probably rather a surprise for this country pub, that 230 people (yes, LoudonTasteless, I counted ‘em for you) turned up and parked on every spare bit of car park, grass, pavement, in the bus shelter and in ShutupWally’s case before they told him to sling his hook, slap bang in front of the pub. Especially nice too was the sight of Ladybird looking as fit as a Fiddler – good to see you, Frank! Come and sell us some Oxford Hash T-shirts. And a returnee from two years ago was HotLegs who is once again living in the area and told me he decided to come Hashing to help him train for the New York Marathon. Given the length and speed of some of the Hashes we have done recently I reckon it will stand him in good stead. The lad did quite well, even putting in a finishing burst.

Frankly, it was surprising that anyone could put in a finishing burst after this fast and furious trail, which started with the majority of the Pack hurtling hell for leather after ShutupWally who was leading it all the way down a very long hill indeed. I believe at the time he was trying to impress new girl Claire. He may have achieved this on the way down but being wheeled back up later in an iron lung can’t have done much for his masculinity. The crafty Hares had laid the mother of all Back Checks at the base of this hill and we checked out every False trail from it until we finally realised we had to run all the way back up that damn great hill. Posh and SlowSucker had figured it out earlier and were well on the way while the rest of us staggered up wheezingly, led by Stuart and BillyBullsh*t. Halfway up we came upon a rather attractive lady walker who turned suddenly in alarm on hearing our ‘eavy breathin’ on the back of ‘er neck. Of course, when she saw she was being pursued (very slowly) by a ragged pack of hawking and coughing middle-aged prats who were staggering all over the road she almost collapsed laughing. We just almost collapsed before spotting the flour arrow that pointed into a snicket ¾ of the way up the hill. Stuart, Fiddler and I gratefully ran along its’ flat surface, trying to shout ‘On On’. Difficult when your alveoli have all stretched to three times their natural size and your diaphragm is flapping up and down like a wet sheet in a gale.

When we finally caught up with the sensible members of the Hash who had not gone down the hill it was almost no time at all to a sweaty Regroup ‘neath the trees where we came upon the lounging forms of Lord Lucan, Cheating, SlowSucker, DunnyStumbler, Glittert*ts et al. The latter, believing there to be a chance of severe rain and biting cold, had wrapped himself in a long-sleeved top and leggings and the sultry heat of the summer evening was doing for his body weight what no amount of serious dieting could ever do. The pounds were just sloughing off him… and pooling on the ground in unpleasant fatty puddles. It was like someone had stuck a pin in a lard-filled Michelin man and… ok, well it wasn’t that bad. Perhaps a minor spot of exaggeration crept in there. But it was extremely hot, especially after that blistering run up the hill and the catching up. Whinge kindly pointed us to the Long leg of the Short and Long split and we On outed for a bit more crashing through woods at breakneck pace. Baldrick seemed to think we were somewhere behind The Reformation pub and later pointed out that we had likely run a figure-of-8 trail. Lonely and I caught up with each other (in more ways than one) and found ourselves behind the Rev. Jenks and Dylan, his fluffy and growing dog. He has quite an interesting running technique. Not Jenks, the dog. It’s almost a perfect running style – for a dog. Legs go like the clappers but his body and head stay almost perfectly still. We could learn a lot from him. Unlike Bandit, Tim’s little dog. He hasn’t quite learned the method of ‘spare’ running and leaps around like a cokehead who has mistakenly snorted a jarful of dried horseradish root.Mind you, maybe a nostrilful of the stuff might give one that added spur at moments of total exhaustion. Like when one has just run back up a bloody great long hill one has been stupid enough to run all the way down.

Now as a reporter I do like to see what is going on behind as well as in front and, running with my head craned backwards, I failed to see a fearsome and rather vicious bramble sticking out into the path about head height so when I turned back the thing caught me on my eyelid, leaving what felt like a barb in said eyelid. “Goodness me. What a calamity.” I said rather hurriedly and beckoned to a pair of attractive ladies who were just about to run past. Utopia and P*ssQuick slid to a halt. “What’s up Hashgate, old watermelon?” They enquired, obviously having read a little P.G. Wodehouse earlier. “Will you take a look and see if there’s a bit of bramble in my eye, ladies?” I replied, blinkingly. Of course, many ladies, when stopped in the middle of a wood by a half-dressed bloke who spins them a barely believable line and keeps winking at them might have trotted demurely by with nary a glance at the handsome stranger. Yet these brave Samaritans duly took a close look at my site of possible injury, tutted to each other, then both agreed, “Can’t see a damn thing without my glasses.” At this moment Cerberus jogged up. Almost even before I’d opened my mouth she agreed she too could hardly see me let alone an eyelid. Oh well, they did try. Fortunately, Old Dog checked it out thoroughly later; though why I had to take all my clothes off so she could do so I’m not sure…

Before I flourish my literary cloak around my shoulders and stride dramatically off the stage of this Gobsheet I must mention Motox. Poor chap. I must have touched a nerve when I mentioned how well Spex had done in the Fun Run by coming second – possibly due to the handicap he gave her of just 9 minutes. We all know he spends hundreds of red-eyed hours during the dark winter nights in his candlelit garret (well, pillbox), gnawed pencil stub poised shakily over hundreds of crossed-out sheets of paper while he pores through BH³ form books and agonises over the handicapping. It’s a thankless task and not even a Jockey Club handicapper has always got it right. The problem is that it’s ‘horses for courses’ and in this particular instance a certain old nag confounded the expert. So it’s twenty nine minutes next year then Motox?

Space and time, those two great inconstants (philosophy students, discuss) have beaten us once again so let me end by saying that the trail was very pleasant, if knackering, and the pub is a little gem. Thanks Whinge, TC and Florence. See you again soon. Oh, and Happy Birthday!

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

Tonight’s RA, Dumper extemporised the following :-

A slow glass of Chardonnay – the slowest I’ve seen…

Up and Coming