June - Dec 2009 Hash Trash
Hash Trash Hash Number 693 The Vocal Hash, Sun 27th December 09 Morkery Wood
“It is neither good form nor particularly funny to write your own hash trash”, so said Oscar Wilde at the turn of the last century. So I won’t. I will just recall one comment that was made during our jog around a slushy Morkery Wood. Pete (aka Dumplug) had been listening to FNL whilst she squeaked and squealed and giggled and gasped and grunted her way round. “Does this thing make any other noises?” he asked. Oh yes, Pete, this thing does. If a noise can be made, FNL is sure to make it at some point on a hash.
Hash Trash Hash Number 692 The Ho Ho Ho Hash, Sun 20th December 09 Langham
“Meet us at the Rutland Polo Club on the Ashwell Road”, said the hares. There isn’t one, and we ended up driving round and round Langham before we asked a passer-by where we should go. “Ah”, he said, “you’re the seventh person to ask me that. Is it another one of Dogplop’s mystery hashes?” He was right – it was. Eventually we gathered in the snow and the sunshine on the Burley Road. It was a cold, but really bright and sunny morning. Our hares were wearing matching Santa suits. Dogplop’s fitted him – just. Each side of Adam’s was struggling to meet its opposite number. The Santas passed the time waiting for us by smoking tabs. It was a very Christmassy scene. We were told that the hash was laid in flour, in chalk, and in snow sculptures. Hmm. We were off, and we spent the next 20 minutes mooching around the village before setting off into the winter wonderland. There were back arrows aplenty, some numbered, some named, some for all to enjoy. Our shoes were getting a good wash in the snow, getting cleaner and cleaner as the hash progressed. Her Fault’s condition improved with time, too. She could almost speak at the end. Without our normal legal cover we were steered up a private drive – very risqué. Walkie Talkie wasn’t really happy with the conditions since she’s used to running up and down sand dunes. She had left her snow shoes at home. Swollen Bits hadn’t, though, and was nice to hear the metallic sound of SB’s tap shoes on their first outing of the year. In turn, we all felt a little underdressed when we met some local folk out for a walk. They were wearing twenty-six layers of clothing, plus hats, scarves, gloves, snowgoggles, snowboots and crampons. We were dressed in thongs and vests and silly expressions. Despite carrying all this equipment, the walkers kept up with us for the next two miles or so. The snow sculptures were there – vast checkpoint symbols carved in blocks of ice and snow using garden spades – along with multi-coloured chalk crosses placed on everything that didn’t move, and on some things that did. We went out into the country and ran a huge loop to the north before re-appearing in the village. With less than a minute to go before our allotted hour ended, we passed the On Inn and ran back to the cars. At the circle, there was lashings of lovely gluhwein, pork sausages, sausage rolls and jaffa cakes. There were also fines for the hares, fines for returners, fines for those not wearing Santa hats, fines for those who didn’t run enough back arrows, and fines for the one person not wearing hash attire: our hare, Adam. One hare in the circle..... On on
Hash Trash Hash Number 691 The On Inn From Hell, Sun 13th December 09 Easton On The Hill
Swag Bag and Vidal Baboon were in charge. It was a live hash, sort of. We met, we waited, and we stripped ready for action. Mutant stripped more than most of us. The hares, however, had to finish laying the trail, and so we stood and shivered for ten minutes while they sprinted off with their bags of self-raising. Mutant put several layers of clothing back on. Eventually we tired of all this and gave chase. We trawled around the streets of Easton and then.... Look! Over there! There were the hares. We caught them, and this was turning out to be no fun at all. Oh, actually, this wasn’t a live hash after all. It was just an unfinished hash. On we went. Only in Easton would you happen across a pheasant plucker. We did. “Get orrff moi land”, he probably said, before he wandered off clutching his freshly-shot lunch. There followed a very pleasant hash taking the form of an enormous but pleasant loop south of Easton along pleasant footpaths and through pleasant woods. We stumbled onto the road near the end to be met by one of the locals. “Get orff moi land with them there dogs”, he advised, “or Oi’ll have ‘em shot”. We wished him good day and carried on regardless. A shortcut was announced at this point but most of us foolishly set off toward the A1. We went miles and miles and miles and miles, covering entire previous hashes in an attempt to get back to the cars before it got dark. There were no interruptions and most of us needed oxygen when we got back. To the circle. Ah, yes, the circle. We all remembered how to have a good chinwag, but we all forgot how to sing. And how to have a drink. Our hares and our returners (Runny One and Vidal) were toasted, sort of. There were fines but no-one was really bothered. So be it – it was that sort of day. On on.
Hash Trash Hash Number 690 The Muck and Brass Hash, Sun 6th December 09 Bainton
We were off to Bainton for the first time and we found a doody little car park littered with footpaths from where to start. It wasn’t a big space and so we cleverly slotted all the cars in so that no more could enter and no-one could exit without following a precise order and without use of a password. We were all set for the off when one final car drew up. It was Stopout, one of today’s hares. “Ay oop”, he said. “How’s tha bin? This int t’right spot for us cars, like, any road up”, or something. I thought I could hear a brass band playing in the distance. Squeakers translated what had been said into English, and it turned out that we were in the wrong place. No problem, though. The proper parking place was only 200 yards down the road. Some drove on, whilst Vision in Pink and Mudders elected to jog there. Four miles later we arrived and, having got our breath back, we listened to the brief given by our joint hares: Her Fault (“I want no part of this – it’s nothing to do with me”) and Stopout (“It’s reet muddeh and there’s probably ferrets and pigeons. And sheep”). Mystified, we set off. We merrily trotted around the fields and the woods, up hill and down dale, eighteen of us, all grinning like fools. There was shiggy aplenty – enough for everyone. We happened across a big ditch and Squeakers decided to arse-aid her way down into it. She then moaned for the rest of the trail that she had wet pants. What a big girl. It was a grand trail and over all too soon. We emerged onto the road and were confronted by the long trail back to the On Inn – some of us had run it before and knew what a trauma it was. None of us expected the back arrow that had appeared, though, and so double trauma resulted. To the circle! There were fines for the hares, for the shortcutters (Swollen Bits, Laughing Boy and Mudplug), for the overachievers (Dogplop and Bloodhound – really?), and for the wearers of outrageous socks (Her Fault, Dirty Stopout and VIP). Squeakers, when asked for her comments, said that there hadn’t been enough mud. I obliged by kicking some more over her. She didn’t really appreciate this (apparently she was being sarcastic) and retaliated by soaking me in beer. What fun we had. But wait. Where was Pete? Surely he was at this hash? Ah. Here’s Pete. Not content with the length of the hash he had sprinted back to his car and returned with bags and bags of cookies. Good old Pete! Here’s a fine for missing the circle. On on.
Hash Trash Hash Number 689 The Mud and Mince Pie Hash, Sun 29th November 09 Cawthorpe
It didn’t bode well. It was raining cats and dogs when we set off from home. However, things improved as we approached Cawthorpe. True to form, there was a very happy Bloodhound mooching about in the sun. He’d just returned from laying his trail a second time, the first set of markings having been washed out in the downpour. The trail itself was predictably slippery and slidy underfoot but the hash god smiled upon us and it stayed dry for the duration. Staying with the meteorological theme for a moment, it was quite warm during the circle. More of that later, though. In the meantime there was a hash to run. There were 17 of us in attendance, including Well Hung Over in a bright pink floppy hat, and Adam in some very gay trousers. Cawthorpe was as nice as ever and Bloodhound treated us to a very entertaining and well-laid hash. A sizeable part was spent in the northern extremities of Bourne Woods, one of Bloodhound’s favourite hunting grounds. Maybe it was me being a duffer, but not much was recognizable. Bummer was familiar with one junction of paths, though. It was here that he had switched all the direction markers round during the All-England Cross-Country Championships, possibly throwing the event into disarray. Squeakers and Mutant thought they recognized the paths, too. Off they went, only to be stopped by Squeakers’ shriek of “FALSE TRAIL!”. On went Mutant, muttering about how mistaken this newcomer was. Sure enough, Squeakers had blown it, and had called a false trail on a symmetrical pattern of bird crap. Back to the circle and, even though it was still November, there were scrummy mince pies on the menu. Her Fault was fined for being slow, although I didn’t know that was a crime. Stopout and Mudders copped a fine for over-achieving - surely some mistake? The last word went to our returners, Adam and Well Hung Over, who were invited into the circle to pay for their prolonged absences. Adam did the right thing by quaffing his ale swiftly. Well Hung Over shared hers, selflessly, with Stopout, who was covered liberally in Stella and bits of pie, and who stood there shivering and dripping, whilst his bottom lip quivered noticeably. On on.
Hash Trash Hash Number 688 The Muffin Man Hash, Sun 22nd November 09 Sibson
... or was it Hash Number 686? Yes, I was wrong, but at that point my mind was elsewhere and my heart, for the moment, was not entirely in it. If you don’t know why, I’ll explain some time. Geoffrey Quiver and Hash Harlot welcomed 23 of us to Sibson for the first time ever. GQ gave the first of many interesting historical vignettes and then boosted morale by stating that this would be a ‘long hash’. Surely not, we thought, since Hash Harlot had been involved in the plan? There was, however, more detail: there would be soft, fluffy short cuts led by HH, whilst GQ would take the hardcore hashers on a trail to remember. Oh, goody. Off we went down the obvious and road-safe trail only to be brought back by the check-back to face the music, and the traffic, on the main road. Everything would have been fine, but a number of us were nearly mowed down by Swag Bag who turned up, somewhat predictably, late. The markings had suffered a little in the overnight showers, and we flogged along the road getting increasingly concerned by the lack of obvious flour. More rain was forecast and so it didn’t bode well for future markings or, indeed, for us poor souls. We said farewell to the road and mooched downhill to a check. Here GQ went into tour-guide mode again and gave us another five minutes on local highlights. Included amongst them were the half-million pound houses that the owners were obliged to vacate for two weeks each year. Wierd. We stood atop the listed tunnel that serves the Nene Railway. If, by accident or intent, anyone was to step onto the tracks, they would risk being turned into red jam by a speeding Thomas the Tank Engine, but only on the three Sundays immediately before Christmas. We breathed a collective sigh of relief and plodded on to our next check and point of interest, Hallet’s Halt on the same railway line. Here, GQ showed us the nets beside the track that were used for the collection and despatch of third-class passengers back in the 1970s. The poor folk of Peterborough would grunt at the guard as their chosen caravan site approached, and they would be thrown bodily from the speeding train into the waiting nets, thereby avoiding the need to slow the train. Food for thought there, I think. We passed some sad people who were fishing and who had been there, fishing, all night. Don’t they know that you can buy fish in the shops? They were, we were told, fishing for Carp, because some of the locals like a Carp at Christmas. I suspect that, instead, they waited until we were out of sight and then carried on strangling swans. Onward we went into the camping and caravan site for temporarily displaced rich homeowners. Pausing briefly at a very impressive set of lock gates (for this was a very interesting hash), we then followed the Nene Way instead of flour. It was, after all, slightly easier to spot. FNL led the way, somewhat impatiently. She finds that the hash halts interrupt her running. I find that the running is an inconvenience between hash halts. Mutant 1 uses hash halts as public inconveniences. Each to his, or her, own. Uphill to Mill Lane next, where we were told some tenuous tale about a bloke who used to live there who looked a bit like Dick Whittington, or perhaps it was his cat? I don’t really remember, and it just seemed to me like an excuse to stop for a while. FNL tapped her foot very noticeably, so off we went again, back into the fields. There were cows here. ‘If confronted by a mad cow’, the sign said, ‘let your dog off the leash’. I got quite worried. Not only was I surrounded by mad cows, I didn’t even have a dog. I was probably doomed. I was, literally, in the sh*t, but there was, luckily, enough for everyone to slip and slide around in. There then followed that period that occurs in every hash, where we run around a lot, along the edges of fields, chuckling as we encounter back arrows, and searching for elusive blobs of flour. I can’t remember much of it. I do recall a bridge that we crossed twice (for this was also a very clever hash) and a set of stepping stones that were denied to us by the fast-flowing river. They’d been out of action for five years but GQ took us there on the off-chance that we could tiptoe across them. Oddly enough (in light of nationwide flooding) we couldn’t, and so we were subjected to a million-mile run to the nearest bridge and then another million-mile run back to the same place on the far bank. We were challenged like the people of Cockermouth and their attempts to go to the pub. I also recall Rambo coming over all rural on us, by stating that he could “smell foxes”. Is he part-chicken? The cold rain began to lash down. Soon, we decided that we could see the On Inn, but it was simply a mirage. It was further than we thought – definitely out of reach, and so we flogged on round dozens more fields until, seeing our heads drop, GQ took pity on us and steered us back to the cars. Rambo and Aggie had to dash, but not before they declared the hash ‘very enjoyable’. Are they mad? In the circle, and in addition to the hares, Diarrhoea was fined for having talking pants, Fresh As and Natasha were fined for returning, Stopout, Swollen Bits and Canary Boy were fined for making fundamental mistakes, and Bummer, Scotty, Fresh As, Reargunner, Happy Feet and Stopout were fined for being wimps. Canary (bless him) supplied mountains of muffins. They were just the ticket, even those that had had the tops mysteriously nibbled off. You know who you are. On on.
Hash Trash Hash Number 687 The Wet Noses and Shiny Coats Hash, Sun 15th November 09 Folksworth
Mary, Mary was quite contrary. Her garden grew nicer because Canary Boy drooled all over it, as well as all over her. Cryptic enough for you? We were in the very pleasant hamlet of Folksworth, where it was dry, quite sunny and reasonably warm. Pre-hash drinks were served to Mutant 1, who was about to hash for the 500th time, to Rambo (and Aggie, again) for their hash engagement, and to Geoffrey for claiming to have hashed last week despite turning up at Ketton, late and in jeans and slippers. Two of our members, who should have known better by now, turned up without hash attire. Seizing the theme, Geoffrey carried out an inspection to see if FNL was properly dressed. He concentrated on her pant area, did it four times, and used only his hands. Is he old enough to be a sex pest? Anyway, all seemed to be in order. FNL ended up with a smile on her face whilst everybody else showed a look of concern, and of pity. Here was the cock-and-bull brief: apparently Folksworth is where the Magna Carta was signed, where the Queen was born, where man landed on the moon, and where the 2004 Winter Olympics were held – or something of that nature. The hash was going to be four miles long (hardly worth getting your shoes on for) but had taken two hours to lay. Did they crawl round? It was laid in discarded hamster-cage sawdust and so the whole trail smelled of rodent wee. In addition, it was said to be liberally covered in sheep poo. Oh joy. Unable to contain my excitement a moment longer, and thinking it was time we left, I asked Aggie what time it was. “Just nearly before”, came the answer. None the wiser, we were off – across the road, up the path (farewell, fair gardener), through the gate and into the fields. The hash then went off on a big loop of fields, across bridges, down ditches, over steep stiles, and into the woods. We ended up in a deep, wide ditch at one point. This was a special request from Squelchy, one of the hares. To regain the trail, we had to climb out. Some did it by grasping branches. Some did it on all fours. Hash Harlot was hauled out using ropes and a pulley. This was, though, the end of Reargunner. Faced by the ditch, she threw in the towel and headed back to the sanctuary of the cars. Swag Bag turned up as a latecomer, having (probably) had a night on the lash. Some time later, there was a special named back arrow – for FNL, because FNL is the hare’s special friend. We spoiled the party a bit by running it too - anything for a free drink. At every junction we were met by dog-walkers. Each had a dog, or dogs, with them. Bizarrely, they were all Jack Russells. What was going on, we thought? Is there a puppy factory nearby? One ran by at a check, quite close and quickly, and the owner apologized for it. “Don’t worry”, we replied, “we have someone like that”. We meant FNL. FNL was a bit like the dog, we all suddenly thought. “She runs at the front”, someone said. “Very quickly”, someone else added. “But her legs are longer”, somebody pointed out. There was a pause whilst we all thought a little bit. “She runs with her tongue out”, contributed Pete. “And she does have a wet nose”, added someone else. “And nice smooth fur”, someone at the back pointed out. We all thought a little bit more. “But she doesn’t sniff other hasher’s bottoms”, we concluded. And with that, we were on on again. We went into the wood, and traded one pile of brown sticky stuff for another – sticks, this time. We like the woods, but spotting the hamster sawdust became a challenge. Nonetheless, we safely emerged and made our way back via the On Inn to the circle. Bummer was sheriff, and he doesn’t miss anything. The hares were fined, as were the returners (GQ, Hash Harlot, and Squelchy), the sinners (GQ and FNL), the latecomer (Swag), the shortcutters (Stopout and Bummer) the hash attire abusers (Mudplug) and the overachievers (Mudplug, again, and Pete who are, apparently, clones). Mutant 1 was presented with a jacket to mark his 500th hash. He and Reargunner had provided lovely food and even lovelier gluhwein, so we ate and drank like lords for a while. The gluhwein flowed quite nicely, and FNL got all giggly. Sensing that we all had to drive home, we had to call it a day. The gardener, and a pack of Jack Russells, watched us as we left. On on.
Hash Trash Hash Number 686 A Bridge Too Far, Sun 8th November 09 Ketton
I’m using the run list to help write this hash trash. That’s the piece of paper that you sign in on, and on which I make notes during the circle. It’s difficult to see what’s been written, though, because the paper seems to have been soaked in beer, and covered in bits of cake, nuts and vomit. Indications, therefore, are of a successful hash, or at least a successful circle. I will try to record it accurately for you. We were at Ketton. Not at the geological car park as normal, but at the scout hut. Twenty-four of us gathered there, including returners in the form of Dolly (who had spent seven weeks in Jotham City), Manuel (who had missed 16 hashes for some rubbishy reason), and Big Dave – the latter having been on a summer holiday to Afghanistan for the past four months. It was good to see BD back fit and well and, having been subject to Shariah Law for a while, he was presented with a welcome-back beer to help loosen his joints. Joining him for a quick sharpener was Aggie. Aggie was looking her normal colourful, coordinated and pristine self but was also carrying extra baggage in the form of a massive diamond sparkly thing on her finger. Yes – a hash engagement. It seemed to me that she had only met Rambo at the Oundle Hash some weeks earlier, but apparently they were childhood sweethearts too. The engagement has resulted in a change of priorities – Aggie and Rambo have decided that a romantic candlelit dinner for the two of them and all Rambo’s business colleagues is a better night out than our Chrizzy Dinner at the White Horse. Have a word, someone. Rambo had loaned Aggie his car this morning. It’s a shame that she had hit a water buffalo on the way there. That’ll learn him. Also killing things in their rush to go hashing was the South Witham gang. Mutant pulled bits of roast pigeon from the front of his car and laughed. The only thing that would have made him happier was if it was the hooded tracksuit of a chav. It was November, I admit, and it was a little chilly, but was there really any need for Manuel’s massive furry earmuffs? Perhaps there was an IPod in there too? In any event, she couldn’t hear what was being said, so went off in the wrong direction, and wasn’t seen again. Later, I’m told, the weight of her furry headgear threw her off-balance and she stumbled to the ground which made her elbow hurt and blood come out of her bottom. Quite some injury there, then. Not as bad as her dad’s, though, but perhaps that’s because I wasn’t involved. Anyway, we were off, up the road, through the gate and along the path. In due course, we found ourselves presented with an enormous quarry which was to be the dominant feature for the next hour. We stood on Pegasus Bridge and there was some discussion amongst the clever people about what sort of rock was quarried there. Meanwhile, the rest of us got our breath back. Later, Swollen Bits took the opportunity to goose a female. The female, understandably, shrieked in horror. “Ooh”, said the Swollen One, “you squeal like a little girl”, which didn’t help his cause much. We crossed a stile and FNL managed to kick someone in the face as she did so. An FRB option presented itself, and the gallant ones set off around three sides of the quarry. They had almost completed their trek when they were confronted by a back arrow. Off they went to find the knitting circle, starring Nudge Nudge and Laughing Boy, in full swing at the back. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth resulted. The two-minute silence allowed us to get our breath back, again. There was a gate to cross; somehow FNL once again managed to put her foot into the side of someone’s head. At this point Bummer re-emerged having been posted missing some hours before. There were some splendid forest tracks to negotiate next, and all was good in the world. We emerged at the top of a long slope down into town and plummeted earthwards, Laughing Boy and Happy Feet bringing up the rear, giggling like kids all the way. Our reward came in the form of chocolate, handed out by the oompa-loompas of Ketton as a late trick-or-treat snack. Back into the woods we went. There were more stiles, and more people kicked in the face by FNL. The latest latecomer ever presented himself – there was Geoffrey Quiver waiting close to the On Inn. It seemed at this point that we had all had enough – FNL kicked out the last of several hundred back arrows in an attempt to make the pain stop. Finally, we were back at the circle. Birthdays - specifically those of Swag, Knickerdorfe, and Laughing Boy - were punished. So too were the hares and the sinners. VIP was fined for ignoring every back arrow, and there had been many. Shortcutters and latecomers copped fines too. We had a huge down-down pot on the go, filled with beer, cake, muffins and nuts. Diarrhoea showed us how to do it. He’s nails. On on.
Hash Trash Hash Number 684 The Bright & Breezy Hash, Sun 25th October 09 Woodnewton
It was a grand old morning at Woodnewton. The sun shone and the hashers were happy. Not all as happy as one of our hares, though. Swollen Bits declared (for some reason) that he wanted to be gay today, and possibly forever. I’m no expert in these matters but I don’t think you can turn being gay on and off on a daily basis. Anyway, I wouldn’t give two hoots if he was, although the good lady folk of Oundle may have other views. They may be quite pleased. Our hares, the Swollen One and FNL, had gathered us in the village hall car park where, during a previous hash, FNL had served drinks from the back of her car. This was becoming a popular location for the hash having, as it does, a play area in which Doggers and Canary could burn off some energy. Sure enough, off they went to play on the swings before we had to set off. Bloodhound wandered over to keep an eye on the youngsters but, before we knew it, he was whizzing up and down the death slide like a six-year old. Before we left we had to express a hearty welcome back to our returners. There was an entire family of them in the guise of Rooster, Becks, Sporty and Stella and they had, between them, missed a total of 108 hashes. Luckily, they were about to build up a thirst. Becks was there for her first hash as a hasher, if you get my meaning. She played into my hands by claiming to be a virgin. Did we have enough lager for all these revelations, I wondered? We were just about to leave when there was a squeal of tyres and a cloud of dust as Dirty Stopout and Her Fault screeched into the car park. It may have been a late night in Stamford the night before. Both grinned a lot, but said little. Only one managed to make it round the whole route. Both wore very dark glasses, and one was in a stetson. I’m sure you get the picture. Now, I’d like to tell you all about a variety of major events that occurred over the course of the next hour or so, but there weren’t any. I’d like to tell you about the people that fell in the river, or who climbed trees, or who got chased by tigers, but none of this happened. It was, all in all, a splendid hash, cleverly laid and well-marshalled by our increasingly capable hares. There was a moment, though, where one of us foolishly followed the countless blobs that led away from a check along the edge of a field to a hash halt. To the untrained eye this may have looked like the trail, but no, apparently it wasn’t. Anyway, this particular hasher stood at the check for a few minutes, resolutely refusing to move anywhere until it became obvious that this was futile. He (or she) jogged humbly back to the pack – as if the error was his (or hers). Oh, the joy of being the hare. You can mess with people’s minds if you have your hands on the flour. It got increasingly windy but remained a splendid morning, without a cloud in the sky. We pootled around the fields and bounced briefly off Apethorpe, the scene of another hash from way back when. On some slightly raised ground we stood to take in the glorious scene around us and Canary Boy perked up noticeably as he spotted Fotheringhay Church – his holy grail from a previous outing. He was happy now. Next, and without legal back-up (Nudgers still being in bed), we had to dash unlawfully across two fields. We kept our eyes peeled for Mr Giles, but no threat was observed. The bird scaring gas cannon that went off, though, made us run just that little bit faster. It all helps to get us back to the circle. Talking of which, we emerged from a doody little forested path back into the hashers play area and to the circle. The usual suspects were fined – the hares, the sinners, the returners, the sitters, the latecomers, the virgin, the peacemakers, and the meek. There was a hatful of Family Rooster birthdays that had gone unpunished – Rooster himself, Sporty and, most recently, Stella. In fact, Stella had been a hasher for some time now, and so it came to pass that she was named. When we last saw her she was small and called Stella. Hence, step forward Half Pint. She’s not so small now but, hey, it’ll do. Nobody said that names had to be accurate. On on.
Hash Trash Hash Number 682 No Dogs Mellors,Sun 11th October 09 Duddington
The met forecast for today's hash was high winds and heavy rain. So no-one was surprised
by an azure blue sky and little breeze. Our doe had brought her long absent leverets Tash &
to assist in laying the trail through the winding hills, forests, rubbish dumps and gas
venting stations of Duddington. We were informed that while laying the trail they had
run into the gamekeeper ("not the one with the big beer belly", apparently). However, we
were not informed if he had induced any "moments" in our intrepid trio.
An initial hill climb was clearly designed to kill the weaker hashers amongst us, but all
made it to the top, eventually. The trail cleverly veered away from the footpath into
the woods and instead took us for a scenic tour past the rubbish dump, soon to be a
nuclear waste repository. Apparently the government has decided that an increase in
mutations can only improve the area. Rear Gunner retired at this point, perhaps fearful
It was here that it was first noticed Steph had elected to run in a shiny new pair of
Nikes, however, strangely she has yet to imbibe from them. Perhaps because by the end of
the run they were anything but shiny or new. As we plunged into the forest what had
passed for a trail petered out, becoming as overgrown as David Bellamy's beard. Our
hashers bravely ploughed on through the brambles and over the log-strewn wasteland. The
woods claimed its first casualty when Doug went head over feet into the mud.
Truly impressive quantities of blood were seen to run down his arm, while elsewhere truly
impressive quantities of mud were running up others' legs.
After a few brief interludes in the woods, with the hashers forming a beating line in a
desperate attempt to pick up the trail, we returned to firmer ground (although not before
some of us had become seriously enmeshed). Bummer decided to go his own way at this
point, leading a small intrepid party in an attempt to convince the gamekeeper there were
but twenty of us, as promised.
FNL attempted to have her wicked way with Long Runny One, but he bravely resisted
her advances, upending her in the bush.
After a brief photo-call, with all of us naturally looking our mud-splattered best, it
was onwards through the forest. The overnight rain had done nothing to assist in the
clarity of the symbols, leading to a number of the FRBs missing back arrows, for which
they were duly punished.
A lengthy metalled section tested the stamina and speed of our motley crew, but
fortunately by this point our hares had learnt to combine back arrows with numbers,
mercifully saving those at the rear from retracing their steps. Worryingly our route did
take us past what was clearly a German PoW camp guard tower. Have our hares never seen
the Great Escape? We were lucky not be machine-gunned by a bored extra vith a poor
German accent. We were also lucky that the weather held, the few spots of rain rapidly
running out of steam, the only water flying around being mostly generated by over-heated
And so it was we once more climbed the hill to reach the circle. In something of a
departure, the sheriff declared that people were to come forward and admit to their own
sins. Clearly evidence of the growing police state, it will be guilty until proven
innocent next! Sadly, Oldest Swinger was unable to recollect his sin so admitted to a
random collection of other people's instead.
Steph and Giorgio Armani (at least according to his T-Shirt) stepped in to receive their
hash handles; Aggie and Rambo being chosen although the order of allocation is left to
the reader's imagination.
There was some debate as to the appropriate handles for VIP's two returnees, LSG (aka
Lazy Sponging git) eventually being chosen for Tash, while Anya will just have to
come back to be bestowed with her title. We imagine we will have come up with something
by 2010, which is about as long as her previous gap between hashes.
Hash Trash Hash Number 679 Confused.com, Sun 20th September 09 Stamford
It’s a simple principle, really. Have a look at the website and see what symbols we use, then try to use the same. Or, alternatively, run 77 hashes between you and pick up what we do. Take advice, even, but please don’t fox us all by drawing massive street art murals and expect us to understand what’s going on. We’re only simple folk, you see. When we put running shoes on, we are even simpler. So, there we were in Stamford. It was a great morning and the Meadows looked very inviting. The church bells rang out to welcome the hash. All was good in the world until the brief, given primarily for the benefit of Doughnut Slut - a visitor from Scarborough Hash - but, as it happened, an education for us all. Banksy, in the form of Vidal, drew an enormous shape on the ground in chalk. There were arrows, heads, tails, vast swirls, and numbers in it. It looked like an elaborate crop circle, only in chalk. Believing it to be some sort of religious symbol, we asked what it was. “That’s a check” came the answer, “I think”. These hares had confused us before (on 21 June, at about five past ten, and every few minutes afterwards) and today looked to be no different. The trail was laid in multicoloured chalk and the symbols seemed to be designed by someone who had eaten too many additives. Anyway, off we went around the meadows, heading off toward Easton-on-the-Very-Big-Hill. This was quite worrying in itself, because we could see Easton Church about three counties away. Surely not, we thought, not again. The trail seemed to go in that direction, but this was just a cock-up by the hares (which I forgot to fine them for – darn it!). Instead we doubled back and went into town, eventually arriving at the grave of the famous fat bloke of Stamford. The trail went that way, and so did we, right up to the dead end (in a cemetery – geddit?!). Out we came again, and we all had a little dig at the hares. This was not the first such dig – there were confused looks on many faces, and Doggers was beginning to have one of his ‘moments’. Things looked up as we entered Burghley Park. The blobs were on posts, but there was about a million miles between posts. We soldiered on. Happily, the walkers found it easy to keep up, since we spent a lot of time milling about, asking questions, and staring at strange markings on the ground. The park was nice and we got to see The Big House before throwing in a u-turn and retracing our steps toward town. Ooh look, there were the outbound symbols, still no clearer from the other side. A bit of steering by the hares brought us back to a long path toward the exit. Suddenly the hares rediscovered back arrows, and three lay in wait for us, including one for the first 20 hashers. 20! Ha! At the park gates we discovered Swag’s little car, groaning under the weight of beer within it. A pleasant beer stop (with a smattering of impatience – you know who you are) was followed by a steady jog over the bridge to the chavvy part of town, where LRO gave us the history of the place, year by year, since the time the Domesday Book was in hardback. We plodded happily through Stamford’s wonderfully historic streets, up and down alleyways, and back to the On Inn. The Meadows looked even more inviting and the circle was convened on the grass. The hares were ridiculed, the sinners were punished, and we were sung to by the trio of Swag, Her Fault and Well Hung Over, in the style of a Bananarama tribute band, only a bit more pissed. Regina said that she had been confused. She actually said that she is often confused, but that today she went beyond confusion into bewilderment. So did we, Fraulein Regina. You were not alone. Returners were chastised, including Anna and Bethan, Swinger and Knickerbocker, and we all enjoyed sitting in the sun for a wee while. Gilbert spoiled the party a bit, though, by pointing out that it has been illegal to drink on the Meadows since 1245. Since it was now nearly one o’clock, we drank up and left. On on.
Hash Trash Hash Number 678 The Green Hash, Sun 13th September 09 Pickworth Great Wood
Mutant 1 and Reargunner were the hares looking after our interests this morning. Pickworth hadn’t changed much: there were still problems in parking, the prospect of a massive climb up into the woods to start, and a long and chaotic descent out of them again to finish. Our hares were experts, this being the 850th hash they had laid between them (or thereabouts), but despite this both the On Out and the On Inn would no doubt be littered with back arrows. Family Nudge were there en masse, Bugs re-appeared (strangely un-pregnant), Regina popped in again and beyond that it was the usual bunch who have nothing better to do on a Sunday morning. Sebastian was there as a virgin in the company of Auntie Jane. He seemed concerned and withdrawn, perhaps worried about what he had let himself in for. Most of the hashers looked the same, to be fair. Anyway, we were off and, oddly enough we were running up that hill, Kate Bush style, before encountering a check back. Did we laugh?! Frankly, no we didn’t. We went into the woods, and what followed was the slowest few hundred yards progress since the battle of the Somme. In and out, up and down, there and back we went, searching for the trail and being guided inch by inch by the hares (so to speak). The trail went through masses and masses of brambles and our legs suffered. Lumps of flesh littered the trail and blood flowed freely. It was gory but, as the old sayings go (the ones I’ve just made up): no slashing, no hashing or, alternatively, no ifs, no buts, real men love cuts. Things improved dramatically when we reached the safety at the top of the hill. We then enjoyed about an hour of very fine trail and very fine hashing. Everyone laughed and smiled. The sun came out, the grass was green, there was a cool breeze, and I can’t for the life of me remember exactly what happened. Luckily, neither can you. The hares had done exceptionally well, and everything was doody. It was particularly doody when Mutant stopped us and pulled a bag of beer from the undergrowth that he had had his good lady carry into the forest under cover of darkness. Well done, hares! Satisfied with a drink we set off again, this time lugging bags of empties and rubbish and the leftover beer. We looked like a bunch of scousers who had nicked a load of booze from the local off-license. Having had his beer, Bummer set about introducing a new recruit to the dark world of short-cutting by luring Squelchy off the path with a bag of sweets. Don’t give into it, Squelchers! The rest of us, including a very fast and now much happier Sebastian, plodded on to the end. The end, not particularly surprisingly, featured that long downhill bit. A fine trail was somewhat spoiled when we happened across the checkback from the On Out. Confusion resulted, but eventually someone realized that the cars and the beer were in touching distance, so they stopped moaning and went On Inn. A fine circle followed, with a celebration fine for Nudgers and his 100th hash, and birthday beers for Fresh As, Happy Feet and Nudgers (again). There was plenty of cake and we needed it to soak up the gallons of beer that were consumed. I didn’t want to put it back in the car, so thanks for helping getting shot of it. Other fines? Yes, there were a few, but then again to few to mention. All I recall is being somewhat hammered and soaked in beer. It all seemed very successful! On on.
Hash Trash Hash Number 677 The Fruity Hash, Sun 6th September 09 Oundle
What a lovely place Oundle is. Ten hounds, one pup, one hare and a virgin gathered there in the early morning sun, many still nursing the odd ache and pain from Nash Hash 09, or from a long moonlit hash in Lincoln carried out less than two days previously. FNL had kindly agreed to lay the first hash of the new season, and had bravely undertaken the effort solo. Squeezed in, as it was, at the beginning of term, research had probably been carried out during playtimes. Swollen Bits jogged up to the pack as if he’d run all the way from home, but we know he’d parked around the corner than had a fag before joining us. Doug, our virgin, arrived in the company of Steph, who was becoming something of an expert, and who has begun to inflict hashing upon her friends. Doug was briefed well enough, but Madam Hare had to overcome her shyness before telling the rest of us that there would be ‘sheepsies and cowsies’ on trail. Despite this simple attitude, her pupils will probably end up with A stars in Zoology. We forced our creaking limbs into action and crossed the bridge towards Oundle’s fair city, but we were to go no nearer. Off we went to the rugby pitches where, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Swag made use of the facilities. Mudders raced her to a successful conclusion but she won hands down. She may have developed incredible speed as a result of several late-night ‘bucket’ events outside her tent in Perth. Some Oundle schoolchildren spotted ‘Miss’ in an out-of-school moment, and may have wondered why she was hanging around outside the toilets in a bright orange t-shirt. It will give the little darlings something to discuss at break time. The sight of dozens of muscular rugby players made Reargunner decide to call it a day and she went back to have a long sit down (or so she claimed). Onward we went to the woods where the trail met a narrow, meandering, but really quite deep river. Sure enough, there were the blobs, before and beyond the water. Clearly the hare had crossed the river and meant us to do so too. So, on on went the brave hashers (the Oundle Three, in fact) up to their necks in cold water, mud and sludge. Those who took the dry option to the next check were required to hang their heads a little bit, in shame, while the Oundle Three slopped about for the next hour in soggy pants. In the woods, Madam Hare claimed that there was evidence of her presence at every corner. Intrigued, we kept our eyes on the ground and watched where we put our feet. But we were wrong - instead, there were lots of fallen trees and, in a throwback to NH, Madam Hare was suggesting that they had fallen in the same way that a mighty fir had toppled close to her at Perth, when she had allegedly farted* very loudly in the woods. All was now clear. During the next mile, Swollen Bits got his breath back and began to talk, and talk, and talk. Steph, normally such a reserved hasher, lost it a bit. “Don’t you ever bloody shut up?” she screamed at him (probably). Actually Steph, no, he doesn’t. As if to prove it, on and on and on he went. The opportunity for him and Mudders to engage in a bit of double entendre action soon presented itself. Emerging from a field many, many miles from Oundle we spotted some very dark male chicken things in an enclosure. It was inevitable: “Look at those big black cocks!” came the comment. The harriette’s heads whipped round so quickly some subsequently claimed for whiplash. Swag’s went the quickest. On to the beerstop we went. We were so pleased to see Madam Hare’s little blue car with its little blue NH sticker peeking through the window. We all dived into the boot and everyone grabbed a welcome drink. Canary Boy had nearly finished his second beer and was feeling very pleased with his efforts when we noticed a slumped and bedraggled figure walking slowly towards us. It was Squelchy, clearly second to Stella in his dad’s priority list. It’s one thing to drag your children to the hash, but to forget about them once there? You won’t find me doing that, much. A chap drove towards us. “Oh”, most of us thought, “he hasn’t realised that it is a dead end, and he will have to turn around”. Swollen Bits was the exception. “He’s off to park up in a quiet spot with his favourite gentlemen’s top-shelf magazine”, said the Swollen One, tarring the poor chap with completely the wrong brush. What you do on your days off is up to you, Bits, but not everyone does it. To make things worse, at that point Laughing Boy finished his drink and flicked the remnants of the foamy head all over the floor and all over our legs, conjuring up a hideous image of old chaps in secluded spots. There was a long pause whilst everyone tried to cleanse their minds. What happened next smacked of democracy, which we will not tolerate. A Turkey-Eagle splitty thing was coming up. Should we scrap the Eagle idea because we’d been out nearly four-and-a-half hours, asked the hare? Of course, said those who had had enough, or enough Stella, or both. No, countered the sensible ones. If the Hare has laid an Eagle route, it’s rude not to observe it. Besides, none of us had anything better to do. So off we went, and four brave souls set off on the Eagle route (Operation Certain Death). It went for many, many more miles, along roads, across fields, and into ditches. We ran past huge bushes laden with blackberries, but had no time to taste them. It was like the Krypton Factor assault course, but for grown-ups. Nonetheless, we coped and, reunited with the Turkeys, we managed the last mile or so, past millions of tempting, tasty, and free strawberries, to the On Inn. We had been out for over two hours, with only one hare! Canary Boy was sheriff for the day. Fines were given to Madam Hare for her fantastic efforts, to the filthy sinners, and to teachers for not conforming to the new Code of Reasonable Behaviour. Swollen Bits, for a variety of misdemeanours, was never out of the circle. Squeakers was called in because, at Nash Hash, she had been given a pot to pee in and, once again, she had peed in it. Our n ew Bad Parent copped a fine, too. Doug, our virgin, was given the chance to tell us something about himself. Perhaps he summed up how we all felt. “I’m knackered”, was all he said. On on.
*Of course FNL hadn’t really farted. She doesn’t do that because she’s a lady and we all know that ladies never fart. I’m happy to put the record straight.
Hash Trash Hash Number 676 - 30 August 09- King’s Cliffe
Whilst the Hash Nash in Perth caught the attention of the adventurous hasher, 12 of our number assembled in the village of King’s Cliffe in Northamptonshire. Our hares, Swollen Bits and Fresh As, talked at length about the delights to come and relished at the thought of water crossings and stingy things. Notwithstanding the steep incline behind them winking at the pack, the “On” saw us descending into the village following pink, blue and purple chalk marks. Walkie Talkie insisted that she was brought up not to follow red crosses as the pack twisted itself though the alleyways of the Ye Olde stone buildings in the village. Careless boasted of local knowledge only to find himself rebounding from “false trails.” At one stage there was utter confusion and disarray when the pack lost the scent of the trail with Swollen Bits getting himself confused with the hash signs, “oh help us” could be heard emanating from the pack. The hares were soon back in control and dispatched the pack down a very narrow passageway and the hounds responded to a “back arrow” by a bonding session with the hounds hugging each other.. The local undulating countryside then beckoned with Bloodhound reliving his youth, and being refreshed from his trip to Romania, leapt like an antelope into the sunset, closely followed by Careless. Lofty’s Lapdog brought up the rear dreaming of his sky dive the day before whilst a false calls by guilty looking VIP and Stephanie sent the pack on brief detours. Back on the trail, Scotty with her “Flowerpot Man hat” took a tumble claiming that she had fell on her diaphragm but Nudge was not distracted by his duty as scribe and ensured that all was recorded whilst Fresh As tended to Scotty; Nudge was sure that he could hear the words “flibadobs” and “flobadobs”, or was it “Waddle oo tikoo dops” from the direction of Scotty as she rubbed her thighs. Later, Walkie Talkie had clearly not had breakfast as she consumed blackberries by the handful ably assisted by Fresh As. Swollen Bits did not miss an opportunity as he leap frogged over Her Fault who was tying her shoe laces whilst talking to Pammy (WHO!!!) about the finer points of the evening before. Back at base, Fresh As provided the usual fayre of beer, lemonade, crisps and nuts. Bloodhound stepped forward as sheriff and duly fined Swollen Bits for wearing his transvestite shorts but nothing was said about the red little number that Walkie Talkie was wearing!
Hash Trash Hash Number 673 Sun 9th August 09 Long Bennington
Scribe:F N L
Welcome to Long Bennington, a beautiful little village (apparently with TWO pubs!). The first bit of good news was that the sun was shining. The second was that Bummer had nominated this as a free hash. Well, while the cat’s away….
A group of about 20 converged just outside the Royal Oak. Two virgins stood amongst us and started to look a bit worried when Bummer mooched over to a car, leaned in and then proceeded to chuck various articles of clothing out of the door. Thankfully, it was not his clothing, but that of young Jamie – or, more recently, ‘Misdemeanour’. It seemed that he thought he could spend the morning sat in a vehicle. He has been to enough hashes to know that we would never allow that to happen. Think of all the fun he would miss! With Misdemeanour and Tide Mark now part of the pack, Nudge Nudge, as dutiful hare, began to make his opening speech. Suddenly, however, a roar of a motorbike could be heard in the distance. We all waited, eagerly, to see the handsome man emerging from underneath the crash helmet….Oh, it’s only Diarrhoea. Never mind! With virgins present, Nudgers began the chalk-talk and then, somewhat prematurely, announced the on out. What he had failed to do, though, was welcome us all out, tell us a bit of history, allow the newcomers to step forward and introduce themselves. You think he would know the routine by now!
Once this error had been rectified, we were finally off. We went through little alleyways, up and down, in and out, huff puff, huff puff, check….Hang on – we had ended up just a few yards from the RV. At this point, Swag Bag remembered one of those rules about being able to go back if the cars were in view. Nudgers was having none of it, though, and sent us off checking again. So off we went a second time, through little alleyways, up and down, in and out, huff puff, huff puff, check.....Wait a minute! Here we were again only a couple more yards down the road. I think Nudge Nudge just wanted us to see the type of houses that one can purchase when one becomes a lawyer.
Once we had safely crossed the road (two-by-two, hand in hand) we eventually moved out of the residential part and came into the more familiar hash territory – the field. Then, on joining the road, we saw the most-welcome site of a little silver car parked neatly in the corner. Cautiously we edged towards it….yes, it was on on, a couple more steps and, yay, the beer stop! By now the sun was beating down and we were tired of swimming in Swollen’s sweat. Unfortunately, however, Laughing Boy thought that he had done his hour, and treated this stop like the circle. Eventually, FNL, growing ever more impatient, grabbed the drinking vessel from his hands and told him, in no uncertain terms, to stop talking about the war.
So off we went again, into another field, then another, then another. We had, by this time, become well acquainted with the cows, and they even began doing back arrows with us. It was only when they started to spread out and head in a different direction (namely towards us) that our gracious hare stepped in and calmly did a Dr Dolittle trick, leaving them sitting, waving, and even doing cartwheels at his command. “He does it all the time” announced Dolly proudly, clearly seeing her father as a knight in shining armour for keeping those heifers away from her.
The rest of the hash took us over little bridges, across more fields, and back again into the housing area. The residents there really were most kind. A petite blonde informed the front of the pack that there was a little alleyway just at the corner. Excellent! So, while all the DFLs went checking along the road, FNL and Mutant 1 went round the back of the cars to what looked like a dead-end. Squeals of delight could be heard as they saw the white stuff in front of them, taking them down an almost hidden path. Swollen Bits had also taken note of the blonde’s words (amongst other things, no doubt!) and he, too, went skipping off with Mutant towards the On Inn.
The circle was conducted by Laughing Boy, and everyone was given the chance to comment upon the hash. Surprisingly, only good things were said. Even Dogplop, who had shown real attitude throughout the trail, could not fault it. It really had been good, with perfect laying. As well as the hash being very good, the hares themselves had apparently also been on their best behaviour. Swag Bag, as sheriff, could do little more than fine Doggers and Bummer for teasing her about wearing sunglasses (or were they goggles, ready for her next swim?). Bummer hadn’t been out of the circle long before being called back in again. For what reason, you may ask? Well, today was the Big Man’s birthday. Not just any birthday. Today was Bummer’s 50th birthday. Yes, that’s right, 50th!! Laughing Boy, however, was the one showing signs of senility. There was Bummer, in the middle because it was his birthday, and the Laughing One wants to know what song we should sing to him. Erm…? Bless! Anyway, the birthday boy’s cup was filled (with, of course, the obligatory slice of cake) and, while he poured what looked like the remnants of a Greek toilet down his neck, SB and LRO sprayed him with the good stuff (well, actually it wasn’t champagne, just cheap lager, but it’s the thought that counts!). Happy Birthday Big Man! On on.
Hash Trash Hash Number 672 Sun 2nd August 09 Thornhaugh
A warm August am and the good of Rutland Hash gathered in Thornhaugh, the rest were well not worthy of print, Even Pammy was on her feet, hell of a honeymoon eleven months! We filled the best kept village, a shame theirs no room for anyone to visit, no wonder its well kept. We set off through the farm and out into the fields past a local dog walker" Christ outsiders”. check one was soon happening, did I mention I had walked this trail, one in the bank for emergencies. Despite parental briefing Happy wasn’t going any further than required and strided off the checks with confidence and most of us wise hounds. A few back arrows up the side of the wood round the top a few more back arrows we emerged pasted the old motor museum older members smiled as they thought of all the mischief they had been up too many years before in those old wrecks, some had messed about in old cars as well!
Now past the chicken sheds and on on to the beer stop, those of us that knew where we were hoped in was on inn down the road, wrong that was only for the short cutters, we should of known better it was a Mr and Mrs On Pres lay and despite his dodgy knees he still likes to take in the entire district. Across the A47 and on to Cooks hole which back in the winter was full of s, h, one, t about knee deep with a squealing Bugs and lots of Heffers in the mix. How disappointing today a gentle stream a little cowclap and no effers,just a little effing as Mudders through a couple of well aimed stones into the mire creating a splash or two. Back across the A47 a couple of fields and it was all over we thought? Farmer Giles was on the warpath as his combine harvesters were on the move which caused havoc in the narrow street much re-ajustment and shuffling of hashers cars. Peace at last circle oh no not a chance Mr Giles gets another toy out big sprayer and some hashers did another length of Thornhaugh to move the car again, get off my trail farmer Giles and stick to your land, he wanted it all. Circle Beer Crisps Nuts jolly good job all round not a bloody combine harvester in sight, went home, depressed next Hash I would be fifty!!!! Can’t be right they must have missed some years. on on Bummer
Hash Trash Hash Number 671 Sun 26th July 09 Thorpe Meadow
Welcome back Mutant and Reargunner! A small but perfectly formed group gathered for Hash 671, our first time at Thorpe Meadows. Bloodhound was in charge and it was appropriate that on this, his 107th outing as hare, that we were in one of his favourite locations. But where was his orange t-shirt, we all wondered? Also in attendance was Gilbert, who we hadn’t seen for many weeks. Not only was he on time, he was in fact early. This was most odd. Along with the returners we had a virgin, Stephanie, who has elected to try hashing as part of her new lifestyle. Be warned: the other stuff may seem dull in comparison and, before you know it, you’ll be bitten by the hash bug. It has bitten all of us, and some of us are still scratching. Off we went. We had been warned that there would be long legs, but the long legs were medium sized and the normal legs were short. Not as short as Mutant’s, you understand, but short all the same. We trotted along about half of the length of the rowing course before turning left to the river. On its banks was laying a strange thing. It was a concrete boat and Mutant and Laughing Boy reminisced about the wisdom of them. Both had sailed upon concrete boats as lads. Steam-driven concrete boats, apparently, and boats made of papyrus, and marble, and bronze, probably. We followed the river to a bridge and, in the traditional manner, crossed it when we came to it. There were paths, there were forested tracks, and there were splendid avenues through grassy fields. There was a check at the edge of an enormous sports field. I got quite excited because the first blob was on and we had to spread out to find it like explorers, or great white hunters. It was quite thrilling, but only for a second or so because it was quickly spotted. Darn it. On we went, past the second star to the right and straight on till morning. Only fifty minutes after we had set off we found ourselves crossing a second bridge and there, like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow (only not buried) was the Boathouse pub and, just beyond it, the On Inn. At the circle, it all went a bit weird. Family Nudge, who had been to Blackpool even though they have money, may have bought some drugs whilst there. Scotty criticized the hash for its obstacles, even though there were none. Dolly complemented the hash for its artefacts, whatever they were. A typical batch of fines followed, awarded by Bummer the sheriff. These included such stalwarts as Mutant, Swinger and Fresh As, accused of shortcutting. As if. Finally, Scotty had some birthday cake (for her birthday) drizzled into her lager. She didn’t really want to drink it that way, though, and so Swinger who, foolishly stood behind her, got showered with it instead. His eyes went wide as he was splattered in beer, chocolate and cake. Then he stood there for a moment, all open-mouthed as bits of food slowly dripped off him. “You’ve never done that before”, he mumbled, with a bit of a wobbly lip. A lesson for us all there then. On on.
Hash Trash Hash Number 670 Sun 19th July 09 Fotheringhay
We arrived in the beautiful village of Fotheringhay – the first time that any of us had visited. Or so we thought. We were informed by our glamorous hare that Fotheringhay was where Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded. It turns out that Laughing Boy was there, in short trousers, to witness the event. Swollen Bob arrived in a funny little vehicle again. He seems to be at the back of the queue every Friday when the salesmen choose their free cars for the weekend. Nonetheless, FNL happily jumped in it later, since she’s always up for a ride with Bob. What a lovely place Fotheringhay looked, but we weren’t going to see much of it. We would spend the next three hours out in them there fields. Sure enough, we were off. Soon, the naughty schoolboys came out to play. Doggers and the Swollen One had brought their own chalk! Snigger! And so extra back arrows cropped up all over the place, for Bloodhound, for everyone, and even for FNL, our solo and somewhat surprised hare. “Oi diven’t remember laying thaaat” she was heard to say. Because we had a teacher in charge, precise, perfectly circular checks followed. The hash was also made to line up and hold hands and then marshalled carefully across roads. It felt like we were out on a school trip – a long, hot, dry, exhausting school trip of the sort that Bloodhound used to go on between the wars. We found and enjoyed a short bit of nikky-nakky-noo into another field and ended up at a checkback which disappointed Squeakers so much that she swore loudly, spoiling her whiter-than-white image. The route went across a river, and it was as if she wanted to plunge headlong into it. Little did she know that her chance would come. We emerged from the obligatory sewage farm and found ourselves in Woodnewton. Some burly chaps were busy mending a fence (which is what country folk do) and they tugged their forelocks at us as we ran past and into the beerstop. We all had a nice drink from the back of FNL’s car – all except Fresh As, that is. Where was Fresh As, we wondered? “Oh look”, someone said, “she’s spotted the burly menfolk with their broad shoulders and with their big tools out”. It sounded like Fresh As was discussing how to get her bush fixed. Meanwhile, the kids came out to play again. Doggers and Bloodhound were off into the playground and fighting like teenagers on the swings. Canary had had enough of these shenanigans: “Where’s that Fotheringhay church?” he said. “I want to be back at the church”. Perhaps he’d come over all religious? “That’s where the beer is”, he added, so perhaps not. Sometime later, we approached a stile and we were warned that the route beyond was covered in brambles. The hare (because she is a caring sort of hare) apologized for not cutting the worst of it back. We all thought it, but only Swollen Bob found it necessary to say it: “Haven’t you trimmed your bush?” he asked, predictably. Chortle. “Where’s that church?” asked Canary Boy. “I need to see the church”. I’m sure his bottom lip quivered a bit as he said this. One of many short cuts was announced, and Happy Feet and Laughing Boy skipped off along it whilst the rest of us mooched off around another dozen acres of field. Between the two groups a combine harvester chuntered along doing threshing or somesuch thing. When we met again, Happy Feet was a bit down, and said that the Laughing One had entertained her with tales of crop rotation techniques from the 19th Century. “I don’t want to do any more short cuts”, she said. “Where’s that church?” asked Canary Boy, again. Instead of a church, we found a check. The first blob was on and was spotted on the riverbank. The second blob was plainly in view on the far side. Between the two was a deep, wide, raging torrent of water (well, sort of). Some brave souls linked arms, took off all their clothes, inflated them like lifejackets and set off into the fierce wall of water. Others - and they know who they are - trip-trapped over the bridge like big girls. The troll wasn’t even at home, probably having been swept away in the flood. Step forward Swag Bag. Never one to do things by halves, she attempted to tread carefully into the choppy waters. Instead, she tripped on a blade of grass and showed us a near-perfect swallow dive, in that she dived into the swollen river and then tried to swallow it. Having sat in the water for a while looking sorry for herself, she trudged back to the On Inn with very wet pants. Normally it’s only me that does that. “Where’s that church?” I heard Canary Boy ask, yet again. The circle was held in a cabbage patch. Blakey was sheriff, and she handed out fines to Bummer for his traditional short-cutting, to the pseudo-hares, to Bloodhound and Doggers for playing in the play area, to Fresh As for talking (a little harsh, perhaps) and to Swag for trying to swim the hash. Her Fault, meanwhile, had remained quiet throughout. She may have had a late night. Having had a sniff of Stella, a big smile appeared, she peeled her eyes open, and she was back amongst friends. It had been Swollen Bob’s birthday, so he drank beer, cake and nuts from the peanut pot. As a late birthday present, I let him do this with his hand up my pipe. This made us all smile. “Where on earth is that church?” I heard Canary Boy mutter as he wandered off. On on.
Hash Trash Hash Number 669 Sun 12th July 09 South Witham
First to arrive was Dave the virgin. What was going through his mind as he sat alone, amongst the aftermath of yesterday’s wedding at the Village Hall? Was this some elaborate con-trick? Were we all round his house rifling through his jewellery or, worse still, were we watching him from behind a fence, giggling? Fear not. As 10am approached, the motley crew that is the Rutland Hash began to arrive, as did our wonderful hares – all five of them. This promised to be some hash. Oldest Swinger was last hare to arrive, which would be a recurring theme throughout. Also making an appearance were Hash Harlot, Giggles and her totty, Ben, Knickerdorfe, Manuel, and the small clangers. None of these had been seen for some time and so were in line for a free drink. Twenty-four of us were there at this point, and Soup Dragon stepped up to brief us. Swinger was having to be quite careful. With the virgin briefed and introduced, we set off around the sports field that always features in a South Witham hash. We always expect to leave it at the opposite corner but somehow we always do a complete circuit before escaping over the river. Around another huge field we went and then found ourselves cleverly back at one corner of the sports field. It was here that we met our twenty-fifth hasher and latecomer in the shape of Walkie Talkie, who hadn’t been seen for a year or so. Squeakers ruined her spotless reputation by ignoring a walking check and then pretending to be deaf and blind. We stopped at a check outside Dragon’s house – being the home of three of the hares - but there was no drink stop. Apparently every beer seller in the land was shut by the time the idea of a beerstop emerged. Hmmm. We went past Bummer’s house too - still no beer - and into a field of cows and bulls. One animal managed to sneak up on Bugs, who let out the most girly scream ever heard. We were being surrounded by frisky, very inquisitive bulls. We had just about got to safety when Squeakers continued to blot her record by misidentifying three blobs of cow dung as a false trail, and in so doing she made us run back into the fat, mad animals. The cows and bulls were there, too. Once we’d escaped the mad beef, we set off around the biggest field in Eastern England. I’m not saying that it was a flog, but we were tempted to throw ourselves under vehicles when we reached the A1. We did three sides of what Laughing Boy (an ex-farmer, possibly) estimated to be twenty acres, but what I reckon was nearer a billion. It was at this point that Swinger began to go quiet and then mooched off on his own, down the trail. Was he okay, FNL wondered? Was he gay, we all thought? It turns out he was suffering from the run or, rather, the runs. How we chuckled at the thought of him being many yards (in fact a billion acres) from home, with unexpected issues to take care of. Anyhow, the end of the field extravaganza was the route home, and we happily pottered back through town to the On Inn and the circle. The circle was held in Swinger’s garden, close to his toilet. Last time we were there the police turned up accusing us of breach of the peace. That was when we used to sing. There would be no such drama today. The darker comments about the hash included “too dry”, “unimaginative”, a drag”, and, tellingly, “sedate”. Happy Feet criticized it for not having a beer stop which, for a seven-year old, is quite perceptive. Dave liked it though, declaring it “jolly good fun”. I liked it too, but then I am a simpleton. Laughing Boy was sheriff, but I’ll spare you the details. Suffice to say that by the time we got round to fining anyone, I’d lost the will to breath and most others were asleep. Beer was drunk by Manuel who is now a professor or somesuch thing, by VIP and the Harlot who had birthdays, by Giggles and Ben for heavy petting in the circle, by me, Diarrhoea and some other people for trumped-up charges and, finally, by Walkie Talkie for missing 52 hashes. Amongst those had been one or two good ones. Well, one at least. Actually, on second thoughts, maybe not. On on.