| Run
No. 811 To everyone’s
surprise Moose arrived EARLY, yes EARLY in the car park with locks
flowing, teeth gleaming and with his newly acquired carburettor manual
in hand, - and that was after he’d gone to the wrong pub beforehand.
What were we in for tonight? we thought. Bet it’s a cracker.
The omens were good. The BBQ was already prepared, the bread had been
in a Brittany Boulangerie only a few hours earlier and Mr and Mrs
Matt were already on parade with skewers and BBQ prongs at the high
port. However, even more trouble was brewing not far away, - at the very first check, in fact. What our virgin Hashers namely Carol, and Ken must have thought at our antics remains to be seen, if indeed they ever turn up again. Now Dear Reader,
I consider myself to be fairly astute and to possess a reasonable
command of the English language. Furthermore, perhaps it had escaped my notice during my absence last week that the Hash rules had changed, or perhaps, some secret code had emerged and utilised recently. So, - you can probably imagine my surprise to hear Whipping Boy cry “On On” to the chasing pack followed by his even more urgent cries of “ DEXTER”, ” DEXTER”, “ DEXTER” as he raced onwards pell-mell across several more fields taking the appreciative pack with him in his wake. It seemed reasonable for the assembled mass to assume that he had spied some flour, it was also reasonable to assume that he knew the rules. It was reasonable to assume that even he would not run like a maniac across the beautiful Buckinghamshire countryside screaming “DEXTER”, - unless he was following something similar to a white substance, - either up his left nostril, or perhaps more appropriately, on the ground. Where we all went wrong however, was that it was patently NOT reasonable to assume that whilst standing on an clearly marked “F” the size of a helipad and exercising his lungs whilst screaming “DEXTER” he had obviously been suddenly stricken with blindness - and that consequently the whole Hash was being taken on the biggest false trail they had experienced for several years. ‘Well done Whipping Boy’ - we all muttered under our breath. (Ed’s note Actually, under pressure the our hare admitted to “touching up” the F after we had gone through but before we were called back, this was liberally interpreted as meaning he wrote it then) So, your scribe who, en route to The Gate in the car, had been determined to give some of the Shorts some well deserved encouragement at the hash split, found that after some wonderful running though well defined paths though cornfields, across rape fields and newly mown hay, (the farmer was actually mowing and raking one field), - the run was so enjoyable, that he decided to continue to ruin the evening for the Longs, and reluctantly subject his own ear drums to stories about Yob’s groin muscle, Yob’s calf muscle and to Moose’s ailing carburettor saga, - for the remaining 3miles, - whilst attempting to enjoy our splendid and unique form of Tuesday evening recreation by jogging through some of the more beautiful parts of England’s green and pleasant land. The chocolate box thatch cottage received lots of “Oo’s and Aa’hs” from everyone as did the wee house nestling in the valley at Lee Clump. Aud and Kerry, however got minus points for admitting that they had failed to notice the spot marking their previous attempt to bury the Walkie Talkie in the mud bath on the Battle of the Somme Hash that Gerry devised some 2 years earlier, - and Mike Swan should by now realise that it’s usually easier to climb, sedately, a nearby stile rather than listen to Ade and attempt to vault a 5 bar gate. Alas, (‘cos I was still enjoying the well marked, reasonably flat run), it was back to the Pub to find that the Publican was burning a mixture of soiled underpants and Rubber Johnnies on a bonfire next to the Car Park. Still and notwithstanding, apart from Ade making a speech about the Cardiff Marathon for at least 2 hours longer than the monthly Tosca Ceremony, we had a damned good night, - what with the pub to ourselves, cold beer, authentic French bread, Lesley and Jo doing their BBQ chef and veggie burger hunting respectively, and another superbly laid trail by our resident gynaecologist, - what more could we have wanted? - apart from Spain sticking it up France on the tele. Thank you Matt and Jo, - it WAS another cracker!
Run
No. 810 25 runners, 4 walkers and 3 dogs gathered expectantly on the longest night of the year for our weekly hash. It was fortunate that it was the longest night as we seemed to need a lot of it to get around – even at the blistering pace set the numerous FRBs. We were greeted with the sunny smiles and evil lies of twin hares, who, for the sake of brevity we will “You Rotten Swine”and “Dirty Rat-Fink” “You Rotten Swine” AKA Phil launched into the preamble amid the usual heckling and badinage by telling us that he would be taking the long route and Dirty Rat-Fink” would be responsible for the shorties. “Dirty Rat-Fink” joined in, in his oiliest and suavest manner, to assure the ladies he would be particularly careful to look after them, however he was later over heard telling Helen that he was only dangerous when he had his teeth in, so I think we can take the things he said with a pinch of salt. Talking of which, a whole bucketful of salt was needed when “You Rotten Swine” said the short route was 3 and a bit miles and the long route around 5 (I found his map, the route he had planned might have been about 5, but the route we actually took was 7.2 very, very quick miles! according to the accurate magic.gov.uk website Comments were overheard about the GM and Lesley who had both absented themselves - the GM (who claimed he wasn’t watching the football) and Lesley (who claimed she was, but in truth - our spies reliably inform us - actually spent the evening in the company a man). We set off with “Dirty Rat-Fink” pointing on-on along the side of the pub and we were off down to Herts Wood and across and around the big field to Bowers Farm. Even from the very first we were quite strung up (Sorry, I am thinking of the hares, I should have said strung out). Over the road to Ongar Hill Farm and the first long short split. Helen regaled the company with tales of her husband. First she said that she kept on giving him opportunities to be alone with Jo – indeed that very evening she had engineered it so that the two of them would be alone on the sofa with the “excuse” of watching the TV cosily together. She also said she had only seen “Hubby” twice that day, once when she was in the shower that morning, and the other time when she was walking along the hall taking all her clothes off. Why she told us this was unclear, but she had a definite twinkle in her eye at the time so you can draw your own conclusions. And perhaps you can even work out why she wasn’t worried about leaving him alone with Jo? The short run gave Dirty Rat-Fink” the chance to take half the pack along to Hertfordshire House, which used to have the unique distinction of being in its own little enclave of Hertfordshire which was entirely surrounded by Buckinghamshire. “You Rotten Swine” took the longs further south before heading towards and along a road called “Marrod’s Bottom” (I looked up Marrod’s Bottom on Google and it is a GoogleBlat – there is one, and only one result that comes up. Eagerly I opened it only to discover that it was me that wrote it when I was covering Roger’s run from the Hit and Miss last year! Just before we got there we stopped at a check in the wood only to find Bernie (it was nice to see Bernie and Yob back again after a long absence in the wilds of Cheltenham) bending over and sticking her derrière attractively in the air. She shouldn’t have done it, it was clearly too much of a sight for “You Rotten Swine” who promptly squirted flour all over it. From then on, whenever she ran, the person behind her called on-on. I hear a few of the more intrepid hashers even tried to kick it out at a check – but that is only a rumour. On around Branches Wood and we doubled back towards Winchmore Hill. Turning a corner too sharply Moose very nearly lived up to his name - but instead of the usual expletive he gave vent to the cry “Where’s Gerry, if he is near this is going down in the Hash Trash next week”. Happily I was right behind him! Around here Yob and Bernie headed off back to the pub, ostensibly as Yob had an injury – they assured us that the fact the footie was on the TV in the pub was a pure co-incidence !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Soon we reached Winchmore Hill and a few of the seasoned hashers knew the quick way back and set off. Sadly, halfway back there was another Long / Short split and the longs didn’t go the short way back. Even worse, about ¼ mile from the split “You Rotten Swine” announced, and I quote “I’m having a blond moment, I don’t know where I am”. Having seen the route we were meant to take on the map, and knowing where we actually went I understand with hindsight exactly what he meant. Not only didn’t we go where he had marked on the map – but the route we took wasn’t either where he meant to go OR the route he marked. A long while later we got to a very big field, from where several of us knew the way back. But it gradually dawned on us that “You Rotten Swine” was not with us but was heading up the hill in the wrong direction! One-by-one reluctant hashers returned to a hare now standing patiently and grinning from ear to ear at the top of the hill – yet another detour! Now you know where his nickname comes from. This is the point
in the Hash Trash where the scribe usually says they really enjoyed
the Hash – but sadly I am breaking with tradition and won’t
lie – Instead I am going to have to tell the truth about it
– the run was wickedly quick on the long route, ever-so-long
and I honestly really, really enjoyed it!
Run
No. 809 What
a night. Would it rain, would it stay dry? “Ooh I don’t
know what to wear! “. (Girls – you can’t hash with
them, you can’t hash without them.) And what about Neil –
does my bum look big in this? Well we all knew the answer but didn’t
have the heart. And Pete Ks contagious groin – it’s very
stiff but frantic jumping on the spot might do the trick. West Wycombe Park is a well-preserved rococo landscape garden of 46 acres created in the 18th century by Sir Francis Dashwood, the founder of the notorious Hellfire Club. Numerous temples, a cascade, a lake with several islands numerous fine trees and sweeping lawns provided a continuous series of interesting views as the hashers plodded along. First stop the Temple of Venus. Matt just couldn’t contain his enthusiasm, as he impressed us all with his obvious in-depth knowledge of this curious feature tucked away in the trees – apparently a celebration of the fairer sexes unique asset but now sadly missing her thighs. That beaming smile graced his boat until it was his round back at the George and Dragon. Allegedly, one lap around for the lovers amongst us was sure to guarantee fertility. So who was it trying to check it out when the lady at the back just had to mutter “typical man, lost already”? Did any one venture through that heavenly doorway? And who mentioned the tradesman's entrance? Giggles from the girls. Oh you are awful! On we went and soon faced the first long short split. Us longs were treated to a lap around the polo pitch. The path lead eventually to a small bridge deep in the valley floor at which point a right turn aimed our sights at the short cutters who by now were almost at the top of what was going to be a long long steep climb. Hellbottom wood beckoned. Its hidden trails twisted and turned. Numerous check backs had their intended effect on this scribes moral, which sank progressively lower as the GM seemed to disappear, then reappear without so much as a bead on his brow. Steep climbs tricky descents, at one stage we had the dog but where was the man? We seek him here; we seek him there, that nasty, evil, sadistic hare. Ed's note, somewhere around here I got caught (again) by one of the sadistic number of back checks and I, and my 6 fellow backcheckers, were all enlivened by Aud who was lifting the front of her T shirt high to give Tracey a flash of her bountiful assets. She didn't say why. Then, having got to the back of the pack I was moving up to overtake them, only to hear Tracy saying very loudly to Audrey, and I quote, "It's just that you are bouncing such a lot tonight", obviously referring to Aud's aforementioned bouncy bits. Aud, in scandalised tones replied - "You can't say that, Gerry's right next to us. If you say that it will end up in next week's Hash Trash". I didn't feel I could let her down. And so it was that we gathered by the monument at the top of that broad swathe of a clearing through the woodland admiring the magnificent sweeping view down to West Wycombe House. The GM mounted the plinth to explain how £250 pounds had secured this bronze effect glass fibre ex film set model for the personal pleasure of Sir Edward … (no, not the GM but the horse and rider behind him)… (although we only have the GMs word for that!) So on in back down to the pub. The newcomers had been out again (gluttens for punishment) and even Gerry managed to stay upright but couldn’t resist showing off his war wounds from last weeks hashing escapade. A fine evening with fine people. Thank you Sir
Edward Dashwood Bt. 12th Premier Baronet of Great Britain.
Run
No. 808 It
was a John Majorish kind of day. The young people of the parish were
playing cricket on the green, the sun was shining down on the nuns
cycling to work. The cross of St George was fluttering in the breeze
as I rolled up and parked right outside the pub. Anyway. Not a bad turnout, not sure how many people were there, ask the hash tick. The GM couldn't make it because he was playing golf in the majors, or with some majors or something. Gerry was back from the great wail of China. We even had a couple of new hashers, Lucy and Euan, who'd spotted the website on the internet and thought that it looked like fun - can't tell you how often that happens to me. (Ed’s note, - I can but don’t like being rude.) There were some parking shenanigans - the landlord told us to put the cars in the carpark of the pub down the road - he said he owned that one too, but I suspect he was just trying to piss off the competition. Then it was time for the off. We set off at a blistering pace, at times getting close to breaking into a jog, left out of the pub and across into a field which was doing it's best to be muddy but failing miserably. Into some woods with a display of blue bells that looked as if they'd been wrung and down towards the back of Penn House. We turned right at the bottom and down through more woods to the road. I got some strange looks from some people people in a SUV, maybe they were admiring my shorts, maybe just giggling, hard to say. We spotted a loan runner (Ed's Question, is that related to a loan Shark?) and tried to get him to join us... he just laughed too now I come to think of it. (Ed’s note, seems to be a pattern setting in associated with those shorts Steve) Over the road and up a nasty, brutish and short hill to a regroup where we had the first long short split. The longs went left down over the road and up into Penn's Bottom. Then we took a right up into some fields of rape. It was about this point that Gerry reminded me I had to do the write up, so from here on in I may or may not be making it all up - see if you can spot the difference. We turned right back across the road and up again into Common wood where we waded past some very impressive rohdo.. rhode.. big pink flowers. They were all the more impressive for not having had the GM big them up for the entire run. We squelched another right down past a tree Neil informed me was planted by HRH The Price of Wales (so I don't want to hear any carping about how they're just a bunch of parasites who don't earn their keep thank you very much -). About this point Roger persuaded a group of hashers to make a detour to see his 'Crimson rhododendron', but I've been caught before that way so I didn't go with them.
Back now to the last long-short split, cruelly almost in sight of the pub, before another loop through the wood. We took in the delights of some sculptures made out of twigs, and the handsomest member of the hash took a spectacular moose but recovered gracefully and with poise and didn't even bruise his typing fingers. (Ed’s note, I am sure this must be me as I moosed around here – however the knee bled like a stuck pig and I pulled two muscles – so it was my lucky day as I haven’t pulled anything else for ages.) We circled back
by the church and across the green, skirting silly mid wicket before
arriving back at the pub where we were plied with chips and beer and
entertained by a local buffoon in a sports car. An almost idyllic
run - only let down by all that exercise in the middle.
Run
No. 807 It all started at Uncle Tom's Cabin, a pleasant little hostelry high in the Chiltern Hills above a loop of the River Thames. Numbers were down for various reasons; the two Holmer Green Peters were on holiday for half term together with Lesley and Kerry, Coincidence? Others said they had ironing to do. What did they know beforehand that we sweet innocents didn't? One yellowing and wizened old sage said that he had popped over to walk the Great Wall of China, to visit The Forbidden City and to see an opera for the weekend! Incredible, how gullible do they think we are? (ed's note, pretty gullible, did you know, for instance, that around 1.2 billion Chinese people have jaundice? And that the word gullible was left out of the 1947 American version of the OED) The Hairy Hare, that superhuman Sooper Cooper, sent us off downhill along Warner's Hill lane. This was looking good; the sun was shinning, the birds were in the trees singing; all was well with the world. However, a sharp and cold wind was blowing and the name of the road should have warned us what was to come. We stopped at a check at the junction of this lane with Dean Lane. Helen told us that Jo was not there because she was ironing! A likely tale, she could have come up with something a bit more believable! She saw the shock on our faces and embellished this sorry tale – 'she has to get ready for her brother's wedding at the weekend'. Oh, OK, fair dos, that would take the best part of a week admittedly. We had been told the run would be approximately 4.8282 miles. The rest of it after this pleasant start was to be uphill. Along Alleyns Lane we went, past the pretty thatched Cromwell's Cottage on the edge of Halloween, really, that's what the area is called, and remorselessly on up Winters Hill. We reached the steep southern slopes overlooking the Thames at a tangled junction of minor roads where ‘yoofs’ in cars tried, pathetically, to show off. Dexter Dawg had disappeared, ostensibly because the roughty-toughty ikkle doggy didn't like the big nasty nekkles that the hare took every opportunity to send us through, so we waited. Then Roz suddenly appeared; clever! How did Souper Cooper do that? I never did see Dexter and Roz together, did you? We followed the hillside, through pretty woods and past expensive houses with swimming pools, sometimes down near the river, sometimes high up, anywhere where it was shiggy. We ran along Quarry Wood, Bisham Wood and Fullness Wood and Fullness Wood seems like a good point to mention Helen again though I can't think of a good reason to this time. The short-cutters left part way though this long stretch and were sent vertically up “a right bugger of a steep hill” according to the hare, poor things, to join our route further on. The GM took the opportunity at various points to encourage the virgin hasher, Pauline, who found the hills very different to the flat lands of her native Poland. Her very good friend Toby was a fit chap and stretched his legs at the front and was first to reach a particularly steep uphill section only to find himself caught by a vicious on-back set by his mate, the hare. I bet he was pleased. Coming out of the woods we went past the farm where Copas Organic Turkeys run around for months before they are prepared for the table (slaughtered in their hundreds) – three time the price of your more ordinary Christmas bird of the same size. Still, you get what you pay for and it's worth paying a little more for a classy bird with big breasts and a bit more experience in life the GM advised me. We re-grouped on the green at Cookham Dene and the hare gave us the opportunity to short cut the last loop which several of us were glad to make use of. The Inn on The Green has apparently been named as ‘the best restaurant outside London’, Which? ’Idyllic hotel’ and has prices to match the Copas Turkeys by all accounts. Back at Uncle Tom's Cabin, complete with gold records by Artie Shaw and his ilk, but not Aker Bilk, there was good beer to be had. I had left my wallet behind and was forced to ask Andy to kindly get me a pint. Of course I could have gone home..… nahhh. The Toscar was deservedly awarded to Lenore for her lifetime services to poetry and Lesley appeared with friends from the very centre of Wycombe for a pint. I suspect this was an attempt to quell the rumours that she was on holiday with the 2 Peters. I think there was something in that free pint of Deuchars Old Blabbermouth, or it was the company, the Toscar award? Something. I let slip my great stupidity of last week – perhaps this lifetime so far. I had asked for chips to be provided or, if the cook was off as had been suggested, sandwiches. To cut a long story short, it cost me £84 – come on, they were nice sarnies. I had been rather shocked and vowed to ask the price beforehand or to at least look at the menu next time. Matt mentioned he had recently paid an impressive £4 for impressive tucker on his last run. BUGGER! There was some slight discrepancy here. The GM raided the hash cash and gave me £40 for which I am very grateful, and no well deserved lecture on stupidity or looking after the pennies, for which I am also grateful. My wife will do that when she learns of it – I haven’t had the courage to tell her yet. If I make it to the next run I will be wearing a
hair shirt or singing castrati for the opera buffs in the group.
Run
No. 806 Plus point for GM – announcing that this was a trail set by virgin Hasher, Neil. Minus points for GM – is it Neil? Neal? Or Kneel? (Answers on a post card please. Competition for £100 voucher for beer closes 7:30pm, Wed 24 May.) Also, what was the run number and how many on it? This lack of attention to detail, no doubt prompted by a love of his own voice just will not do, GM: the chips are on you at the next run (number??). By contrast, Neil’s (Neal’s? Kneel’s?) presentation was exemplary. Two run maps – main trail and walkers’ trail - both in colour, on card, complete with pink highlighter and reference to points of arboreal interest such as Hedgemoor and Mantles Woods through which long runners squelched and the walkers avoided. All topped off at the end with lashings of sarnies in the Red Lion – just the ticket for one poor bastard struggling to digest his pizza. Weighed down by this over-generous portion of pizza, your scribe had the pleasure of regularly welcoming those runners obliged to return to the rear of the pack. Such reunions brought snippets of great enlightenment. I learned how Cassie had taken to trampolining. Who Cassie? One of the four dogs that accompanied the 23 Hashers for Neil’s (Neal’s? Kneels?) trail. I learned that Gerry was planning to fly to China for the weekend – didn’t have the heart to tell him that all he’ll see through the ‘plane window when arriving in Beijing is his return flight passing by. I also learned that the builders had finally moved out of Leslie’s kitchen and are even now providing her with the same pleasurable services in her bedroom as per the terms and conditions of their kitchen contract with her. No more cracks to worry about in your ceiling then, eh Leslie? I also learned something that men only ever dare whisper even when convinced they are out of female earshot. As I struggled cold and lonely up one of the last hills of the day near, appropriately, Little Boys Heath, one of the returning front runners – Helen, no less – took on the daunting task of pushing me and my firmly undigested pizza up the offending slope. Within sight of the summit, she deserted me. I cried out in anguish “Come on! Finish the job!” Her riposte? “Women can only do half a job.” My oppressed fellow men – there you have it: black and white, from the horse’s (mare’s?) mouth. Talking of horses, the undigested pizza had so slowed me down, the pack so long disappeared, the misery of loneliness so overwhelmed that I sought the company of the horses grazing in the last field of the day: amazing how a long slow nuzzle and their attempt at a mouthful of rain hood can restore the spirits so quickly. Off I cantered, only to find Neil (Neal? Kneel?) waiting patiently on the final stile to make sure that the undigested pizza made it safely back. Thanks, Neil (Neal? Kneel?), patron saint of indigestion sufferers. Oh, and thanks too to, Ades (Aids? Adze?) for doing the run without either pizza or the rest of us. (Was it something we said or have you only just put your clock on to summertime?)
Run
No. 805
With no-one in sight, Billy Whizz thought the race was in the bag until a distant glimpse revealed the shattering truth – the coup de gras had been delivered. The Shorties triumph was made sweeter in the knowledge that they could gloat on the run-on-in. ‘Tee-hee! No detentions for a week. We can be as naughty as we like!’ Back in school, the kids remarked what a lovely wood
they had traversed, worth the effort and a big cheer for the G.M.
Run
No. 804 The Crooked Billet was a good test of hashers sense of direction with many a story of people getting lost on the way there, particularly when they got to the roundabout it was on; which road to choose to get to the car park? It was on a busy dual carriageway which The Blonde apologised for but it was hardly her fault. It is next to the Black Park, a lovely and large patch of Buckinghamshire woodland. With warnings to take care from The Blonde we all set off across the dual carriageway only for Roz to moose after negotiating this hurdle but before reaching the start. Had she been to the pub beforehand? What a girl! The ‘real’ start was from within the edges of the Black Park where the GM and Lesley told us to check it out. Annie/Sticky Fingers and I checked to the right and found a blob 5 yards from the check on the left; surely not meant to be there? “Is that on the right”? asked the GM. “No” I said. Enough said, he said. So off into the depths we set, soon to discover an odd wooden building at a crossroads. Roger, sitting cross-legged and confusion asked us what we thought it was but Audrey took a few pictures of him. Were his shorts gaping? This was the first Long Short split. There was some indecision amongst the hashers and some Shorties objected to people that were normally Longies going on their short! I have over indulged regularly since Easter so have put on a stone and needed an easier run and wanted to keep Sticky company. So she ran off leaving me behind. Jo was another surprising shorty. We Shorties went straight to a large lake and ran around that some distance with The Blonde exhorting us to keep ahead of the Longies. They were soon heard across the other side and quickly caught up on us, but not before we reached a re-group anyway. That was another Long Short split and Jo joined the Longies – we were too slow and ponderous for her? Another short leg for the
Shorties and an interminable wait for the lardy Longies at a re-group
was enlivened by watching Cassie shoot off into woodland after a fox
that cheekily crossed the path a few yards away. Cassie returned licking
her lips and the longs were off again – we had to give them
a chance. The Shorties went off in the opposite direction at a sensible
pace on such a warm night, Jo rejoining us having found the Longies
were rather quick. Audrey did a long check in the wrong direction,
keen to show us her fine style after completing the Marlow 5 at the
weekend with several others from HWH3. Perhaps that what caused the
GM to encourage us to open our legs and some rather odd running from
some female hashers. Audrey steamed past us only to be caught by an
on-back. The poor Longies! They
nearly got to us before having to do an on-back. I’m sure they
felt better for it and were glad of the opportunity. What a lovely
evening and great run.
Run
No. 803
Anyway – we managed to turn up at the pub with five minutes to spare, and Janet was relieved to see Lenore going over the route with Barney – looked like there was going to be a short course – relief!. Clearly the GM had been hanging around for ages – either that or he had had a very bad day, as he seemed to be in a hurry to get on, but Lenore had put real artistic effort into creating a hash poem, so after several “hash hush’s” she delivered it with some aplomb, and we got started. It would be remiss of us to miss the opportunity to remind you of some of the lines from said poem…. The choice of this pub is thanks to Gerry. John Betjeman is turning in his grave………….don’t give up your’e day job Lenore!! * (full text at end) Anyway – back to the hash, and with the GM shouting wildly at Lenore to mark it out, (it really must have been a bad day!), we set off at a jolly trot disturbing the rural peace and quiet of The City (its called on the map). There were several checks but before long I (Janet) was already at the back, to the point that Peter Mitchell asked me if I had been late arriving – cheeky! We went down to Beacons Bottom and then arrived at the first regroup, and the long/short split. Its amazing what conversations you can join in on the hash – I (Phil) gained new insights into the female mind (strange thing that it is) from Helen and Jo debating the finer points of David Beckhams physique and intellectual capacities with Neil. With youthful exuberance I (Phil) set off checking up the hill and was delighted to spot flour about 50m from the check, only to be called back by the long cutter pack disappearing off across the other field. Going up the hill out of Beacons Bottom woods we all knew there would be a check back at the top, but Matthew ignored the obvious and was rewarded with the opportunity to climb the hill twice. I had to check back too and was amazed to find the speedy Mr Mitchell at the back of the pack only half way up the hill and accused him of deliberately trying to make me fit! After we crossed the A40 we went through Horsleys Green and into East Wood. Here we were treated to a new approach to false trails - American style. Ken and Peter galloped off up a small path on the right bellowing on on loudly at each blob of flour only for Lenore to shoot off in the opposite direction ) also calling on on. Most of us poor confused hashers took the easy option of following Lenore, moaning and grumbling loudly in true style. We could hear Ken and Peter calling and calling in the distance but blindly followed Lenore despite the complete lack of flour on the trail. Eventually we regrouped and found the real trail back to the A40 near Stokenchurch. Meanwhile, at the long/short split Barney had insisted (under instructions from Lenore) that we shortcutters hang back until the “longs” had disappeared. Apparently this was because they might be coming back to the same spot later – but to be honest I am not convinced they did. Off we set up the hill and over fields until the road, and the “shoe tree” came into view. Some discussion ensued about the shoe tree, and the stories surrounding it – and the fact the BBC had spent some of the licence payers money on investigating it – several grumbles later we had moved on into the woods, joining up with the main trail. We then had to do some proper hashing of our own as we meandered around the woods, from check to check. Aud kept saying “its that way to the A40” but we kept going the other way – always a bad sign. Eventually we could hear the distant “on on” calls of the longcutters and began quickening our pace to keep ahead – until with immaculate timing we ended up at the regroup on the A40 just 30 seconds ahead of them – amazing. We crossed the A40 en masse and jogged along the layby where the truckers were pulled up – if they thought they were going to get a peaceful sleep they were sadly mistaken! At the next gate Lenore pointed out that there was a L for Long and a S for Short – confusingly there seemed to be a T for Training loop in both directions! By this time my brain had ceased to function so I just followed the S and didn’t ask questions. But oh dear….the GM decided to come on the short route this time, however after a few encouraging, cajoling comments he could see my heart wasn’t in it and left me in peace. On the training loop the darkness started to descend and the cool wind picked up. The FRBs missed one check back, justifying their mistake with claims that since Lenore didn’t do checkbacks on anyone elses hash we were entitled to miss one on her hash in return! Peter Mitchell clearly decided it was time to head back to the pub and did a Howard by ignoring at least three other checkbacks across the final fields back to Bennett End. Back at the pub, after a lovely evening, there was fighting talk about not needing torches for the next week and then inside for a decent pint, and some excellent chocolate brownie from Lenore – is there no end to her talents? The fact that Phil and I were actually sitting talking to each other (a bit of a novelty) meant we were able to respond to the question – “when is the Ridgeway run then?” and settled on July 16th – hope that’s ok with everyone – will need to be a special “do” as apparently it’s Audrey’s birthday….. Lenors Hash Poem - - giving you a second chance to "admire" her poetic abilities This trail was perfect
and freshly lain, The choice of this pub
is thanks to Gerry. There are no rules in hashing
they say. S is for Short and L is
for Long, Who would have thought
that so close to Wycombe So after such literary,
poetic preambles,
Run
No. 802 We gathered at the Blackwood Arms feeling either excited or terrified at the prospect of another hash but also tinged with sadness as the run was the annual Mike Gilby memorial one, now two years after our former GM went off to check out the great flour trail in the sky. The first point of note was that there was no sign of Phil Crookes who was supposed to be our hare. Up steps current GM to announce that Phil was somewhere north of Watford and that he, ably assisted by Lesley (The Blonde) had stepped into the breach and done the bizzo with the white stuff. David further went on to say that he hadn’t slept for a zillion hours and was totally shagged out. After a few well chosen words to remember Mike, GM went on to lay out the evenings peculiarities which were that there were two parties, one going long led by Sgt.Major Moose and one going short----er led by yours truly. The nasty bit concerned the fact that us shorts had to beat the longs to avoid a shocking penalty – paying for the chips. We duly set off from the back of the car park skirting round the edge of Littleworth Common to emerge at the end of the road in which the boozer lies and crossed the road to take the well known path through some rich geezers garden, which is the size of Rutland, to emerge through the gate, which was open for the first time ever, on Horseshoe Hill. Here everyone except those of us who were naturally gravitating towards the rear of the pack went left down the hill. Wrong, the trail went right and up Horseshoe Hill then, after a falsie, through some woody bits to cross the road, then go through another woody bit to emerge at The Jolly Woodman. There were several suggestions as to what to use to procure beer as our cash was back at the Blackwood car park but all to no avail as the on on was soon called right to Boveney Wood Lane. I was reliably informed that Sooooper Cooper contrived to moose spectacularly en route to the J.W. but I failed to observe this prodigious attempt to win the moose award. Sooper, you must scream louder next time ! On to the junction with Abbey Park Lane where yet another falsie sent us scuttling past the farm of the same name. It was here that Sex Goddess, who had returned after several weeks off for good behaviour, noticed the very large bull and passed comment on it having more tackle than the north sea herring fleet. Typical but ooooh he was a big boy. The trail led straight on into Staplefurze Wood. It was here that the short/long split took place with David reminding us shorts that we would need to “really get your arses in gear” to avoid the dreaded chip penalty. We bust a gut running on into Whitespark Wood to arrive back on Boveney Wood Lane in deepest Burnham Beeches. Hanging a left we ran passing the car park with one eye on the nice trail off right which most of us knew leads nicely back to the pub. “It ain’t down there growled the GM who, presumably being well knackered by holiday and earlier flour spreading, had come with us shorties. The trail went left instead, picking up a bit of Woods Drive before meandering gently downhill through the woods. All the time David managed to keep up a litany of warnings and threats concerning the likely proximity of the chasing longs. With throbbing ears and busting lungs we went back across Boveney Wood Lane yet again with Oberbansturmfuhrer Griffiths still chasing our tails although he did wack in a couple of on backs to slow down the quick lot. We now proceeded up the hill, along parallel with the road and back to ------ yes you’ve guessed it the path next to the car park where we had been 15 minutes and several gallons of sweat earlier. By now the chip crazed longs were very close. A blast through the wood led on to the well tried and tested couple of fields back to the pub. Despite sterling efforts it must be reported that the Moose led longs finally overhauled most of us shorts at the penultimate stile although Barney and Aud got back before them to raise the S.C.S. standard. Back in the boozer. New landlord eager to impress. First we get chips, then he comes round with garlic roast potatoes – very hot and a bit incinerated but A for effort. Lastly, he brings round something I thought looked like insipid bread pudding but which turned out to be stuffing. Oh well, another almost calorie free hash. Many thanks to DG and The
Blonde for saving the day even if us shorts all had ear ache afterwards.
Run
No 801 Run 801 saw a welcome return to the Pink and Lily at Parslows Hillock, great hashing territory and with Mad Mick the Gypsy King and his glamorous assistant Audrey as joint hares, there was bound to be a cunning plan or two involved somewhere to liven things up!!!! The rules were explained, plus a couple of variations, flour in glorious technicolor or as Ade put it, “hashing meets Sesame Street and some new signs – BS, BSS and BSSS.” (I felt a cunning plan coming on.) The check from the car park, set a precedent, for my night, the first of 6 checks I did, all in completely the wrong direction. With the on-on called the hash set off down Lily Bottom Lane, all in high spirit and chatting away, so nobody noticed the hares weren’t following. At the next check, 2 ways, 2 checkers, go left and 1 straight on, then 2 checkers came back from the left – false trail and 1 from straight on – false trail?!!! After some debate and head scratching, Gerry suggested it must have been a false, from the start, thank goodness, for Gerry’s years of experience and powers of deduction. We would probably been milling around that check all night. Back at the start, the real on-on was through Hillock Wood, for the three unfortunate checkers, the completely false trail must have been about ½ a mile. At the junction of the bridleway at Whiteleaf Cross Road, Twist kept the FRB’s entertained, with some deer coursing, which without the intervention of a hedge, could have come to a conflict, with Whipping Boys vegetarian principles. As Twists, extremely impressive turn of speed, brought him within a hairs breath, of the deer’s arse end. The route now followed the road to where it crosses Grims Ditch, where we turned left into Barnes Grove and the first new sign, BSS, which Mick, explained meant “Barney’s, sip, stop”. This was to celebrate Barney’s birthday and involved him having to down-down, a bottle of chocolate beer! With Barney now, suitable refreshed and bloated, the hash carried on through the grounds of Hampden House, before turning right towards Great Hampden and the nest sign BSSS. This was beside a huge tree, with a rope swing, so therefore, BSSS meant “Barneys Swing, Sip, Stop.” This time the chocolate beer, down-down had to be completed, whist performing, aerial stunts on the rope swing. The hash had to keep a safe distance, in case it became the “Barneys, Swing, Sip and Projectile Vomiting Stop.” From Great Hampden, the psychedelic, flour trail, led through Keepershill Wood and Monkton Wood, eventually arriving back at Lily Bottom Lane. A little away along the lane, was a BS sign, which by sheer coincidence was next to an abandoned Jag, not unsurprisingly, there was a short wait for Barney to catch up. The FRB’s, with some time on their hands, did ponder removing the Jags wheels. But, honestly would they really do anything as silly as that? Of course, not, for one thing there weren’t any bricks lying around. With Mick's, arrival we learnt that that BS was for “Beer Stop.” As the Jag's boot was loaded with cases of Tangle Foot. (So it was a good job no passing yobs had torched it.) After a very pleasant stop, chatting and drinking, it was a shock to the system, to start running again. But we weren’t quite back yet, so run we had too. Finally, back in the pub, it was more beer and more chips, than you could shake a fork at and more chocolate, but this time in the form of a birthday cake. Barney must have gone home a stone heavier than before he arrived. Many thanks to Mick and Audrey, and a Happy Birthday Barney.
Run
No 800 It all started with our journey to the Bernard Arms. A little unsure of the direction to the pub, Helen and I sped through the country lanes when I spotted a familiar green car with balloons painted on the side, pulled up in a lay-by. Realising who it was, we promptly U-turned to go and assist poor Ade with his break down (car, not mental) Had we known the real reason for his unscheduled stop we would not have been so obliging, as he emerged from the bushes muttering something about gallons of PG Tips. Ade, now fully relieved, led the way to the pub, so a lucky find for us after all! We reached a very deserted Bernard Arms only to find it closed due to a flood that had caused the electricity to blow. The hare had only realised that this was the case when he arrived at the pub for the hash, so a quick mental re-route and instructions to the new pub written on the ground of the car park, and it was on-on to the 3 Crowns down the road. Now safely at an open and well lit pub, we found the other eager hashers and arrived just in time for the instructions from Matthew, who was carrying a rather large rucksack. Now, we were all a bit confused at this stage (and suspicious as the rucksack was definitely carrying more than a car key and torch), there was talk of several 'Hare-backs', denoted with... you guessed it, a 'H', and celebrities joining the hash along the way. Perhaps he had the Queen in his bag, was one guess, it was her 80th coming up afterall (a birthday treat for her Highness?) As luck would have it (but not for long) it wasn't raining when we set off, through some fields, past some horses, over several styles, avoiding rabbit holes along the way. Neil was leading the way, with an on-on here and an on-on there, everywhere an on-on, but not in the right direction!! After what felt like a good half a mile across a sticky field, now wearing most of it on our trainers, we realised that there was no longer any flour, and looking back across the field from where we came you could just about make out the tiny figure of Matthew waving his torch to beckon us back. We were that far off the mark that we couldn't even here the cries of 'on-back'!! So back we trudged across this field with our concrete shoes weighing us down. Shortly after this detour we found the first 'H-back'… most of us got the nod to subtly leg it back to Matthew, except the unsuspecting Ken, we had our first celebrity… 'Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be…… Meat loaf!' Ken's woolly hat was confiscated and replaced with a long black wig, and along with a white, frilly shirt - he looked just the part!' The next 'H-back'
caught Andy out…. 'Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be….
Elton John!' So, not THE Queen, but a queen, nearly right. Andy was
quickly transformed into Elton John in a fetching checked jacket and
glittering glasses, which we didn't recommend he wear in the dark
whilst running through a field full of rabbit holes! He was soon to
be thankful of that extra layer, as the heavens opened and torrential
rain soaked us all. I had to feel sorry for Lenore, this was the one
week that she left her waterproof at home! At this stage I had completely lost my bearings (nothing new there then), I had no idea where we were, could barely see the ground through the rain and mascara-filled eyes, and even now looking at the map of the hash can not figure out where we were at this point. I will therefore just say this, it was very muddy, very wet, very slippery (as Moose found out later on), but very amusing!!! As midnight approached, we had another 'H-back' that thankfully had not been washed away. This time, Pete had the pleasure of announcing 'Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be Bryan Ferry' and quickly put on a white jacket and bow tie, while Matthew plastered his hair with gel. Not sure about Bryan Ferry, he looked more like a schoolboy with no trousers on who hadn't quite decided on his sexuality yet!! So, on we slid down a track to a road (God knows what road, the road signs has been washed away!), then we skated along another track. Ade decided to take the high road and upon realising we were all on a lower track, he not so daintily hurled himself down a long steep bank in a manner that the Olympic luge team would have been proud of! Shortly after this display he got caught out by the last 'H-back'. 'Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be… JK from Jamiroquai'. So on we ran, with Ade wearing a long, purple coat with zebra print trim and matching hat, down towards the road. This is where we found Mark, waiting patiently for us in the rain. Mark had been on the short run, and along with the others had followed the correct trail through some fields, when they were accosted by a looney!!! A rather irate man had been lying in wait, then pounced ranting and raving about people running through his fields. After an initial outburst he grabbed Mark by his fleece, spouting a mouthful of abuse. Lucky Mark was able to successfully detach the looney from his fleece and step away. Looney's wife soon came along and joined in the rant as well. So, fearing Mr & Mrs Looney's behaviour, the short cutters thought it best to leave well alone and so made their way back to the pub by road. Mark stayed back and waited for the 'longs' to warn us of Looney and avoid the fields, sparing us of such an onslaught ourselves. Little did Mark know however, that we were well off schedule what with all the celebrity introductions along the way, and he waited an hour for us! Thanks Mark!! The slight shame of that fiasco meant that we didn't run through the field with horse jumps in and didn't get to see Helen dress up as Princess Anne and choose a 'steed' to ride around on… maybe next time! Are you all still with me? Bit of a long one, but there is so much to waffle on about! Anyway, we're back at the pub now, cold and wet but in good spirits, and in even better spirits when chips and smiley-face-potato-things were brought out. We regaled tales of mud slides, rain, costumes and of course loonies as we drank and ate chips. Thanks to Matthew for a great celebrity hash! Next time, please can you bring Brad Pitt?
Run
799 The car park of the Royal Standard was filling rapidly as I arrived just 5 minutes before the off. Neil pretended to jump out of the way in terror as I headed for the space next to him. Now, I was busy looking where I was going but out of the corner of my eye it looked very like his pretend leap of terror ended on the real toe of a fellow hasher. Soon we were called to order by the stentorian tones of the GM, followed by the even more stentorian tones of Roger who was to be our hare for the evening. Sadly neither of these bellows had much effect, but Roger carried on to tell us the rules for the night anyway. The long run, we were told was to be short. The short run was to be shorter, and Audrey, who was walking with her kids, was the shortest of all. We were also told of an inviting sounding “refreshment stop”. We set off as Jo and Helen screeched into the carpark. For some reason Helen seemed to be changing, but the hash ran on before it became too exciting to bare.
Soon we were at the long-short split, with the long-cutters adding an extra loop down towards Terriers and me accompanying veteran Hasher Robert on one of his sadly rare return visits. It was good catching up with him without having to worry about the paths as his unerring instincts and local knowledge took us die-straight in the direction of a pub. Admittedly it was the wrong pub, but you can’t have everything. At the GM’s request I have been asked to add that Ken managed to run over all of the sleeping policemen on his route without falling over even once. Perhaps the GM thought he should be praised for this noble act? Or possibly it was an oblique reference to the fact that Ken, or more precisely a part of Ken’s tooth, came a cropper not too long ago when he chose to dig up the road surface by diving at it and gnawing furiously. It is statistically
proven (with due apologies to Pam Ayers and her hedgehogs) But returning to the plot, or at least the run, Robert and I lost all sight of the trail as we approached Widmer End where our combined 35 years of hashing experience and knowledge again took us in the wrong direction. It has to be said that we did find some flour but Robert decided that he knew a short cut and we got lost again. So, much later than it should have been, we retraced our steps, re-found the flour and followed the trail safely back to the pub. An extra treat
was in store for the long-cutters in terms of the promised refreshment
- the choc ices and assorted ice-lollies which were, I believe, delicious
and made the entry into the warm pub an extra bonus on such an unseasonably
chill night.
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