Hash 1224

[Continued from Run No 1212, The Wheel @ Naphill….] So I was ambling along, minding my own business, when Gerry ambushed me in the car park. He hurriedly informed me that since I had left my last hash write-up resting upon a cliffhanger of 'To Be Continued', I should finish off the story, and put the rest of the hash out of its misery (easier done than said for some members). Oh, and since Mike & Kerry weren't here, somebody else had to the write-up anyway.

OK, ok, ok….so Sarah was the snitch and Mike was the chip thief. Does that get me off the cliff-hanger.... no. really…. you cannot be serious?! Sheesh, oh well, here goes, but remember you asked for it.

The irony of Sooper's dry January had long since been lost upon the waterlogged inhabitants of Marlow, and the pre-moistened runners of the hash – it was anything but dry that night as we reluctantly left the warm-ass (aka donkey) – cheap gag…as the sex pest on benefits said to the [Ed – stop it!]) glow behind us and trudged off into the inky blackness.

In these write-ups, I prefer to concentrate upon the points of human interest that occured during the course of the hash, rather than regurgitating details of where we ran, how we ran, why we ran…etc – it was muddy, hilly, and around 6 miles long, OK – clear enough? I am reliably informed by Sandra that Alan moosed spectacularly in the physical sense early on, having already tripped up verbally earlier that evening, with the legendary faux pas, "So what's Sooper's surname then?". Ah, it's good to know that there are no secrets amongst married couples these days.

Gerry – having initially shown a remarkable turn of pace when collaring me in the carpark, was now shuffling along towards the back, complaining about some injury or other he'd picked up whilst excavating an old Indian ruin.

Given that he was also complaining about the 30 degree heat he'd suffered at the time, my nd sympathy was somewhat diminished - no on 2 thoughts, there was no sympathy at all. So, reciting one of Oscar Wilde's bon mots over my shoulder, I left him slumped by the side of the road; "If there was less sympathy in the world, there would be less trouble in the world".

Right, where were we…oh yes, somewhere 3 miles outside Marlow, on the side of a hill, knee-deep in mud. At this point, if not actually disgruntled, I was far from being gruntled (apologies to PG Woodhouse), and decided to follow the ancient art of Kendo. This essentially consists of Ken saying "Don't go that way– it's bound to be wrong, the pub must be back over that way", so you ignore the flour circles, and do as Ken does; i.e. Ken-do.

At this point, a holly bush, which had hitherto not spoken, whispered "Pssst – that way!", and like a nervous prison warder in the face of an impending riot, Sooper suddenly appeared, drew an arrow on the ground before us, and darted back into the undergrowth, leaving only whispered curses behind him.

Heading back towards Marlow, I then came upon an old tramp huddled by a wooden stile, and taking pity upon the poor wretch out in the rain on a night like this, tossed a few coins in his general direction, ready to decline the no-doubt-soon-to-beproferred Big Issue coming back my way. "Ow - wot d'you mean !

I already checked it 'owt back there", came the rather abrupt reply, as Aaron got down from his high gate and trundled off down the road, muttering to himself, as though having enjoyed one pint of Buckfast too many.

Giving him a wide berth, I ran on, and soon happened upon the dull yellow glow of the town centre, whereupon all further chalk marks were duly ignored as the hash scented victory, and the hounds headed joyously for home.

Back in the warmth of the pub, mollified by bowls of King Edward's finest, along with an impressive selection of sauces, we thanked Sooper for what was now deemed to be a rather enjoyable outing, and listened patiently whilst Roger went through his repertoire, and then Helen went through hers, which included inviting people to come along twice to the impending Hash Xmas Party, on the grounds there were still spare tickets. What a saleswoman that girl is!