If Tony Blair had had a Google Earth map of to-day's Hash course instead of that dodgy dossier, he could have earned himself a statue in Trafalgar Square as the PM who didn't reduce Baghdad to brick dust. For there, clearly picked out with a blue tag, numbered "1", is the WMD site, Widmer End Village Hall: no point going there now to poke around for stockpiles of 45 gallon drums – all you'll find are a few council compost bins containing nothing more venomous than grass cuttings from the adjoining recreation ground.
Blue tag "2" sits close to another site recalling an older, no less painful event. A member of the nearby Hellfire club, returning home early from a wild boar hunt around what was, two hundred years later, to become Hazlemere Recreation Ground, found his wife tumbling around the bedroom with the estate's gamekeeper. Dismissing her distraught pleas that they were searching for one of her contact lenses and that this involved close examination of her bustle and baubles, the enraged husband frogmarched the hapless gamekeeper to the nearby woods. There he removed the victim's wedding tackle with a generous peppering of buckshot to the groin. In memory of the gamekeeper's sad loss, the villagers asked the local parish council to approve the naming of the woods to Shotcock Wood: at this, the lady councillors fell into a swoon, the vicar could not be restrained from sniggering and the chairman, a retired army colonel was distinctly heard to mutter, "Serves the bugger right: doing the same to Mellors would have saved all that smutty nonsense in "Lady Chatterly's Boudoir." 'The recovery of the lady councillors enabled a near unanimous approval of the present day title - Cockshot Woods: the vicar, unable to control his sniggering, abstained.
Happily, we now live in more enlightened times when, for example, your scribe was able to quaff with Maggie's Dave an agreeable pint or two of The Crown's best Cornish ale as both long and short packs slithered about outside in field and forest. By contrast, Andy and an unnamed Harriet chose to quaff a gobful of mud each as they hit the deck in an attempt to give their tired feet a short break. No such unseemly behaviour from one of Adam's two dishy lady friends. At 6 foot 39½ inches, Adam much prefers standing still, using his height to spot woodland fires in (to him) nearby Warwickshire.
Standing still was not for one of his dishy lady friends, all new to Hashing as her carpet slippers testified. "Never done this before: I'm no runner" said she, batting her false eyelashes coyly. Everyone in the slow pack swore blind she joined them at the short/long split only to disappear within seconds. Heads bowed in shame, the slowies searched the route they had so far covered, desperately trying to make amends for losing one of their number near the Beaconsfield service area so long ago. Had the searchers looked ahead rather than behind, they would be looking for "I'm no runner" still. She had fairly zoomed round the course, lapping the longs (twice). Who was this mystery lady, nonchalantly sheltering below Adam's sternum? – oh no! It was (and still is) his dashing mum!