Hared by Butt Plug

Write up By Pickled Fart

Hampton Wick is one of the best kept secrets of the Western London suburbs, buffered by parkland this charming village of congenial pubs and cosy restaurants lies less than a mile from Kingston Town centre but, separated from it, and, thankfully, the chavaratti it attracts, by the Thames.

In common with much of the local architecture, although probably Victorian built, the Swan is a mock-Tudor timber framed building in sympathy with the nearby Hampton Court Palace, complete with jettied upper floor and herringbone brickwork in the style of the period it emulates.

Our Hare, Butt Plug, is famous, not only for his prowess in laying interesting off-road trails, but also for his legendary drink stops. As the heat of this warm July day subsided to a comfortable running temperature a sizeable pack assembled, including our lovely GM, back from a month in her native Australia, where she displayed an exceptional prowess in the Iron Man competition that is belied by her vivacious charm and elfin good looks.

So we have our GM back, a great Hare, a fine evening, a great location and a large pack, so what could possibly go wrong?

I shall give you a clue;

It’s lonesome away from your kindred and all,
By the campfire at night where the wild dingos call,
But there’s nothing so lonesome, so dull or so drear…

Yes, I think you have got it, the pub had no beer. Well nothing any self-respecting Hasher would call a beer, their three real ale taps were as dry as the proverbial witch’s tit, leaving just a selection of bottles and lager. The landlord, new to this establishment, pleaded that he had underestimated the additional demand generated by the Hampton Court flower show which was taking place at the time.

As an aside, on Googling the above song to get the words, I stumbled upon the information that it had been rated, by the Australasian performing rights society, as that countries fifth most popular and successful song (it did not say where that Rolf Harris classic, “Two Little Boys”, came in the ratings). It was even translated into other languages, there was a Dutch version released called “Café zonder bier”. And a German version called “Ich steh an der Bar und ich habe kein Geld”. It requires only a smattering of that language to realize that the title, and chorus, line has been changed to “I am standing at the bar and I have no money” in the German version, presumably because the sheer incompetence entailed in a pub running out of beer is something that would be unimaginably to the Teutonic mind and certainly not be considered an appropriate subject for humour.

Anyway, I digress from the task in hand, writing up this run. The trail took us to the river and in a loop around the Home Park and, with the use of some cunning live haring, exiting it again by means of the same gate before crossing the road to Bushy Park where skittish young deer started from our feet as we weaved our way through the bracken.

At a certain point, a table appeared, in the middle of Bush Park, groaning under the weight of cheeses, pitta bread, charcuterie, quails eggs and a selection of red and white wines with which to wash it all down. The humble drink stop of the past is consigned to history, this was a full blown buffet that would do credit to a top hotel. By what black art the hare conjured this all up in the middle of a deer park no one could guess but that did not them descending on it with the customary lack of restraint displayed by hasher when they encounter food and alcohol.

Back at the Swan Whacker presided over a lively circle where a handful of visitors were welcomed, including an attractive young Jordanian Harriette and her partner, I did try to make a mental note of the visitors’ Hash names for this account, and even enquired as to her name, in response to which she thrust her shapely bosom into my face to reveal it stitched across the chest of her T shirt, but for some reason I not take it in. The circle concluded with the Hare getting a well-deserved pint of lager and then we all decamped to the Foresters across the road which had more real ale taps than you could shake a stick at and without the badge reversed on a single one.

On On

P.F.

Hare Lick O’Pile

Write up by Pickled Fart

Mention Kingston upon Thames as a run location and it immediately conjures up images of the Wych Elm, a cosy little local pub nestling in its leafy Northern suburbs, where the beer is expensive enough to discourage the lower echelons of society from crossing its portals and Richmond Park, in all its verdant glory and with endless possibilities for pretty off road trails, is only a short jog away. This Hare however was determined to show us an altogether grimier side to the Royal Borough. The P trail led us in the opposite direction from the park, to a vast Weatherspoon’s beer supermarket, located in one of the less salubrious parts of Kingston town centre and about a mile from the nearest blade of grass. Officially this establishment is called the King’s Tun, but it is more commonly referred to amongst the local drinking classes as simply “The Day Centre “.

The pack set off in twilight through the Eden Vale and Bentall’s shopping centres, crossing Kingston Bridge, only to cross back again on the other side of the road.  The trail led us past the town hall and the eponymous King’s Stone on which the Saxon Kings of Mercia were crowned and Kingston’s famous “Fatberg”, now proudly  displayed on its own plinth in the market square. As the evening grew darker so did the trail,  Waitrose, John Lewis and Bentall’s gave way to Cost Cutters, Iceland and Sports Direct, as the trail weaved around the low rent side of town, through shabby, dimly lit shopping arcades which had seen better days, where Pit Bull terriers strained at leashes attached to faceless hoodies and wretched figures ravaged by self-neglect and alcohol abuse (no, not Rambo this time) shuffled past skulking mange ridden urban foxes rummaging through abandoned Kentucky Fried Chicken containers in the shadows. Then the trail led us out of the town centre altogether, assiduously giving what little greenery there was a wide berth,  past a few burnt out cars, to the sprawling Cambridge Road Council Estate, now euphemistically known as Social Housing. One of those monstrosities dreamt up by the architects and planners of the nineteen-sixties that won awards from just about everyone except those condemned to live in them. We picked our way through its labyrinths, carefully avoiding the used syringes and discarded cans of super strength lager and other such detritus of the social underclasses.  It was with some relieve that we crossed, literally and metaphorically, to the right side of the tracks and the marginally better neighbourhood on the other side, by means of the underpass beneath Norbiton station, as we did so a certain harriette was heard to opine on how well the Hare had kept the pack together thus far into the trail. Displaying my customary diplomacy I refrained from pointing out that it was not so much the Hare’s skill in trail laying that had kept the pack huddled together, as their fear of the environment through which he had just taken us. The trail taunted us by taking us to within fifty yards of Richmond Park before veering away from it towards the drink stop at that well-known local beauty spot, the Sainsbury’s Car Park, where we were treated to some strange Eastern European spirit with a taste vaguely reminiscent of battery acid.

Back at the pub the staff had thoughtfully reserved a section for the Hash which they had blocked off from the rest of the hoi polio, who frequent such establishments, with a barricade of chairs. Within this alcove an inner barrier of chairs symbolically blocked off the Richmond Clique from the ordinary Hashers who had not been elevated to their rarefied world, or had been defenestrated from it; a clique within a clique as it were.   

A circle was eventually organised, if that is not a misuse of the word, the Hare received his customary down down, as did Knob Job visiting from Madrid and Not Contagious for wearing a rather fetching Ebola T shirt.  I was called to the fore because I had posted a comment on the web site that the pub was frequented by scantily clad girls getting tanked up on cheap alcopops before venturing into the local night clubs and I received a down down of a cheap alcopop, that stuff called Wckd that I have seen advertised, but had never before tried, and never will again, even three pints of Guinness could not wash away the sickly chemical aftertaste of saccharin it left behind.                      

Next week WLH3 are in Wimbledon, and, before that conjures up any images of cosy little local pubs nestling on the fringes of Wimbledon Common, with the promise of pretty off road trails, the pub is the Prince of Wales, a vast beer supermarket in a less salubrious part of Wimbledon town centre and in the opposite direction from the Common, and about a mile from the nearest blade of grass.

On On

P.F.   

You can’t go far wrong in leafy Richmond on one of the warmest days so far. Well, some hares could, but luckily Nutsucker (co-hare FF) realized this natural potential and laid the trail mostly off-road. That said, the hare did manage to trick most of the pack into following a few false trails before we finally made our way down to the river. Then it was on up the hill and into Richmond Park. And what a glorious trail – across the open plains, on into the woods, sun filtering through the trees, deer in the distance, fresh breeze. And just as everyone’s pace seemed to be slowing down to a ramble a perfectly-timed and -placed drink stop. This being the 4th July we were “treated” to Budweiser, wine, something else liquid with little bits in, doughnuts and pretzels. Influenced by the American service culture, all of three hashers served these refreshments across an impromptu bar counter that was a mighty fallen tree.

It was also at this point that we noticed the pack was considerably smaller than it had been at the start. The hare made a late appearance, but visitor Little pair (locally now known as Small tits) and five others apparently independently got lost on entering the park. Luckily (for some) they managed to find their way back to the The Dukes Head, which with its dilapidated exterior did not quite blend in with the genteel surroundings.

Back to the American theme: Most people’s idea of “Wear or bring something typically American” (as encouraged in the weekly email) clearly extended no further than wearing a hash t-shirt from a US kennel. And that was those who bothered. Best effort goes to Dingo for draping the American flag round shoulders in the style of a US sprinter having just won the 100 m in the Olympics. Apparently the flag was stolen, down down for that. Other down downs were many and funny.

On on

More For Less

On arriving at the pub I found a gloomy scene, Pope and Periodical sitting there on bar stools with a disconsolate look. When asking why everyone was so jolly, Eeyore, (or was it Periodical) replied, “the pub has no ale”. “That doesn’t make sense” I said “its a perfectly decent Notting Hill pub”. “No” said Eeyore “its a Sam Smiths pub”. I enquired as to whether the sad donkey could drink a lager or Sam Smiths bitter instead, “No” said Eeyore “I’d rather have nothing, and then head off for a decent pint somewhere else”. So the donkey and the Pope sat gloomily staring into space with the sort of look you might find on a small child who has just been subject to some tragic event. The look reminded me a lot in fact, of the time many years ago when the dog ate my sister’s Easter egg. We didn’t get much chocolate as kids, so this was nothing short of tragedy, but I digress.

Anyway, the pub started to fill with hashers, and on setting the pack off, I reminded the pack that it had been 8 long years since we had run in Notting Hill, and for good reason, as we were all so scarred by the last occasion when Eric truly messed up his trail beyond all recognition of anything resembling a trail. Ended up with him dropping flour as we ran north in a straight line out of town and the pack following immediately behind him at a distance of around 10 yards. The majority of the pack, having left their brains back a the pub, assumed that they were on trail, not realising the flour was so fresh it had barely fallen on the ground. A mutiny then ensued.

Anyway I digress again.

So sad again it was then that, our hare, Love Deuce had employed a co-hare named Eric. It was fair to say that things weren’t looking up at that stage. I didn’t dare look to see the level of dejection that must have descended on Pope and the donkey.

Anyway the trail set off, we had a bizarrely smallish pack, we stopped at Hugh Grant’s house at which point Plug wore some large underpants, while we mocked up a scene from Notting Hill the movie, casting Eric as Hugh and Plug as the Rhys. We ran around a lot of streets. Eric was relieved of the rucksack containing the drink stop, “just in case” said the GM. Some wearisome hashers caught a scent of home so cut the trail short. What a mistake that proved to be!

Out of the gloomy surrounds came a very green Holland Park, a summer evening, a sunken garden, Peacocks, live opera music and vodka jelly shots. Who would have thought it – a late entry for drink stop of the year? The depleted pack set ravenously about the jelly shots, forgetting that this was a form of alcohol rather than food. After consuming at least 9 each, the trail home proved interesting. Scaryoke started to get blurred vision, and we were all a lot more jolly back at the pub than we were when we left it.

Of course, those who had cut the trail or turned up late were greener than the green jelly shots with envy, at having missed such a superb event. Luckily for them there were plenty shots left. Down downs followed and were very funny, but I can’t remember much about them other than Plug complaining that the Hugh Grant pants he’d been given were too cheap for Notting Hill and defining a new hashing sin called “pantage abuse”.

On On

Stay Over

This was no ordinary run. Oh no. This was a midsummer run and tradition dictates that a midsummer run shall have fine weather (thank you to Wacker), fine food (thank you Eagermount and Periodical), and fine hares (well two out of three isn’t bad).

The run departed the Duchess of Cambridge and wound its way through the pristine suburbs of Chiswick visiting patches of greenery along the way, it made its way up to Acton Park – which was a revelation to those whose previous experience of Acton has been the less salubrious Horn Road end of this settlement, where the greenery is restricted to the occasional skunk farm – there were fine old trees, lush green grass, expansive vistas and definite signs of civilization.

Leaving the park the run made its way to the drinks stop at the home of Eagermount. Here hashers were given a glimpse of the international, jet setting, opulent life style of the hares. In a rich garden with roses and other scented flowers providing a stunning back drop, foods from the North lands of the never setting sun had been flown in and laid out beautifully on fine table clothes; what a shame it was to be wasted on hashers, whose normal idea of luxury is to put ketchup on their chips.

From the land of Father Christmas poor Prancer had been slaughtered and pieces of him turned into beautiful canapés. Herrings had been dragged from the sea, Salmon ripped from rivers, and elk cut from the heard and butchered. All this booty was piled high and offered along with other delicacies like skorfore, crème fraiche, smoked cod roe, prawns, sliced egg, and dill; beetroot and gherkins; Jarlsberg and Danish Blue; fine ham and who knows what else. All this was washed down with Aquavit and Lapin Kulta beer.

All the hashers agreed that the beer was fantastic but they were not sure about all that funny foreign food. Back at the pub the day was saved as a fine selection of proper English ale was on hand to restore everyone’s equilibrium. Wacker gave some of this away during the down downs and everyone said everything had been marvellous.

On On

Butt Plug

By some amazing miracle Bonnie, who has now accepted that, whenever he is the Hare, he will do his upmost best to out rank the RA and provide rain for his trail, to such an extent that LH3 now request that everyone brings an umbrella when he is the laying the trail for them….. BUT, this night… shock in the making, even as black clouds hovered around St James Park and we all expected it to start to rain… somehow it stayed away. Perhaps the weather Gods took pity on him, we will never know.

As to the Trail itself? It was a fab trail, taking in some great sites and Bonnie had even managed to rope in some coppers to stop the FRB’s from getting back to the pub to soon, and allow the SCB’s and knitting circle to catch up. Although Dingo, thinking that she had the pack behind her cried “lets charge he can’t stop us all”, hoping everyone would follow suit, but alas would anyone follow an Australian into dangerous territory? Lets face it it was that sort of attitude to the forces of law and order that led to most of their ancestors ending up down under in the first place. Once she had realized that no-one was about to follow, her little croak of “we will wait here officer” was barely heard.

Once back at the pub everyone was happy, having their thirst quenched and talking about how had it not rained when the clouds looked so ominous. In due course the circle was called with Butt Plug and Yam leading as RA’s.

Down Downs;

Bonnie got awarded his down down like a smug little *&%^ as it hadn’t rained on his trial since 1886.
It was nearly a perfect trail, good weather, (shock) good scenery, good length (fnaar fnaar) but Eric the… made it back to the On Inn… so sorry no perfect score. 10% loss is normally regarded as the maximum acceptable, but we can stretch that a bit so long as Eric is amongst the missing.

We had a few returners & visitors.
Nasty Bastard from Australia…. Says it all really doesn’t it… AND if one Aussie drinks…..

Marxist as a returner.

Stay Over was awarded a down down for the delivery of new haberdashery which was well ordered but with one flaw. They were all cut for women only… What no mens shirts???? DOH.

Dingo was reunited with her Mad Hatters Hat & as we were bored with “All Australians..” she was made to drink Oz still…. Upside down, although typical of all Aussie’s, she cheated.

Lastly our Australian friend Bondi who is leaving as they are getting deported and heading back to Oz land –hurrah! just another few thousand more to go- gifts were handed out along with their version of our National Anthem. Wasn’t bad either, they do have brains and imagination… Of course they have imagination that’s all they can rely on in thinking they can beat us Brits for the Ashes…

I’m sure more down downs were awarded but the drinking took precedence and warped the mind.

On On

Sparerib

A slight imbalance in the demographics of Southall was noted on the eve of the 06th June as West London’s intrepid hashers followed “P” after “P” after “P” after “P” (to the power of infinity) to a random point on a Punjabi pavement; where incidentally there was nowhere to pee. Brookside Close was location “A” with a postcode for Hayes (UB4) as opposed to Southall.

The On On led initially to Minet Country Park, a borough Grade 1 Site of Nature Conservation Importance, complete with a pongy klong that constituted the first of the promised river crossings. Or possibly this was the local tributary of the Ganges, silted as one hasher postulated with the ashes of the locally deceased. So ming, rumour has it, that multiple hashers may be sporting new shoes next week!

The On On was rather industrial for a while before meeting and following the more picturesque Grand Union canal, where Thunder Thighs wanted to pee but instead pulled a potential new pet in the form of a handsome canal dwelling creature who gave her the thumbs up, she however became much more interested in watching the rat eating a Tesco’s sandwich. Our observation of the local wildlife continued when we all had a really good look at a bloated dead swan-who needs Spring Watch?

Two hashers were almost wiped out on route to Cranford Park… Freeloader’s ankle disappeared down a hole and Guilty went splat. We passed by a Church and all worshiped the ground that Rambo – before us – had so carefully walked on (NOT!). Some wondered how, that without a dog to walk, one could have come across such interesting locations? River crossing two, complete with rope swing, was delightful, being of pure spring water, but now sadly polluted with the remnants of UB4 that still clung to our trainers.

Still rather confused as to the location of “B” we hurdled a barrier and a few gates, ran over glass and through nettles, and hung out around the perimeter fence of Heathrow; it really did look like there had been a crash landing, and in fact there was; Man Magnet tripped on barbed wire, after which there were two conveniently located mattresses for the injured hasher to rest on; she now sports a hole in her shoe, although that may just be an enlarged version of one that had been there before. At some point, somewhere on this almost 8 mile trail- and that does not include the 1.5 miles P trail from Southall station to point A- a blistered Kenny took off her shoe and ran and hopped the rest of the trail like a kangaroo.

On Inn was a sunset affair to The Green Man in Hatton Cross -Point B – phew; good prices for a beer and curry and a hole in the wall near the gents toilets. Apparently this hole was for hiding priests, but luckily for Pope his beer belly was too large to stick him in there. Down downs were rather late, and, taking place as they did less than half a mile from the threshold off the live runway, we decided that it was etiquette to speak and sing between planes, and then down beer as they passed, only a few hundred feet above our heads. A new hash song was “invented” at this disco pub that had music pumping out in to the beer garden … “Always look on the bright side of life …” down down down down…..

Thanks to Rambo for setting the trail and for chauffeuring bags; you had a pretty good turnout given your reputation and the location … but no virgins or returnees or guests so you were rewarded with three well deserved down downs! “Na kaleni, suka”* says Shakes Beer who was practicing her Russian … but I think that was just for the trek from the station to start which took her over 30 minutes!

On On

Turn-Me-Off

* On your knees bitch in Russian

The night was cold, the night was wet.
The trail was gone, the skies a threat.
But hashers ran as hashers may.
And on their way were heard to say:
“We’ll run in cold! We’ll run in wet!
Though trail is gone and skies a threat!”

“On on! On on!” they ran and ran.
They ran as only hashers can.
They ran through carparks, ran past trees.
They ran in freezing, wheezing breeze.
They ran on paths and on the street.
They ran and ran on squelching feet.

“We’ll run in cold! We’ll run in wet!
Though trail is gone and skies a threat!
We’ll run through carparks, run past trees!
We’ll run in freezing, wheezing breeze!
We’ll run on paths and on the street!
We’ll run and run on squelching feet!”

And then they stopped and drank shot
And all began to lose the plot.
They cursed their lot with groans and wails,
“Oh woe is us, for now it hails!
Oh woe is us, the trail is long!
Our feet are wet! The wind is strong!”

They whined and moaned and carried on.
They cursed the skies. Their faith was gone.
“What’s with this hail? What’s with this rain?
We want the pub! Let’s end this pain!
We want our beer! We want our wine!
It’s Curry Night! We want to dine!”

The pub was warm. The pub had beer.
(Though London Pride had disappeared!)
But warm and dry and beer and wine
Changed all opinions. Life was fine.
“The trail was great! The hares deluxe!”
No more the cries of, “This hash sucks!”

The Circle came, as circles do
And hashers drank a beer (or two).
They drank and sang and sang and drank,
“Give us our beer! We’ve hares to thank!
We’ll sing and drink, and drink and sing.
Let beer be poured! Let voices ring!”

The night was cold, the night was wet.
The trail was gone, the skies a threat.
But hashers ran as hashers must.
And whined and groused and moaned and cussed.
Yes hashers ran, as hashers do.
‘Cause every hasher is true blue!

Shakes Beer

After a weekend of sunning themselves silly on the beaches of Cyprus the intrepid Dingo et al re-joined us for this trail, all returned safe and sound from their sojourn overseas. But no! One errant hasher had failed to make the return leg and, allegedly, chosen to travel the shores of the wee island earning coins as a roving gypsy. Indeed, after being pushed unceremoniously off a cliff, Fickle Fahrt had decided to stay in Cyprus – whether out of a fit of pique at his brusque treatment, or in an attempt to inculcate him into the burgeoning black market as a palm-reader remains to be seen. Suffice to say, he was last seen sporting a gold earring and a bandana and with a queue of young ladies, eagerly waiting with coins in hand, on the beach.

And On-On to the Kingston run. Numbered as run 1442 by the GM and Hared by the redoubtable Man Magnet, the hashers dutifully arrive at the Wych Elm in Kingston in fine form. A regular haunt of the WLH of some 20 odd years, the pub knew us well, and had accommodated for us suitably. We were joined by some virgins, some visitors and some veterans in the form of the venerable Drain Oil from the Kuala Lumpur hash of some 44 years standing.

With beers to go, and dressed accordingly for the time of year – but, alas, not for the weather – we sallied forth into the suburbs of Kingston to enjoy the delights of Richmond park in bloom. The mood was light, but the skies were dark, and an apprehensive Stay Over (in shorts and Tee) led the On.

With a warning from the Hare that the beginning trail may be ‘a little tricky’ we hit the park, and immediately split three ways into a classic ‘Where’s the flour?’ formation. After some morose milling, the trail was eventually located and the pursuit began through the trees and across the heaths. With the addition of a Hash Horn, we cut a noisy swathe through the Richmond landscape, scattering deer as we went and generally making a nuisance of ourselves to all and sundry. Still, the Hare had promised us some ‘beautiful scenery’ in the form of the Isabella Plantation, and we were not to be disappointed.

Horticultural notes: after the May Bank holiday, and well into late Spring, Richmond Park will delight the visitor with beautiful displays of Magnolias, Rhododendrons, Azaleas and Camellias as you bask in the warm evenings with sunset glinting through the trees.

In a freezing gale and drizzle, numbing to those hardy fools in shorts and tees (Kiss my Ass and the Stay Over to name but two) we sought the sanctuary and shelter of the woods, where to our delight we were rewarded by the glorious blooms of the Isabella Plantation in full Technicolor. So blinded by the beauty were our lead hashers however, that they failed to pay any attention whatsoever to the route and took us back on ourselves to complete two if not three laps of the flowerbeds. Pretty though the scenery was, much grumbling could be heard amid the shrubbery. The Hare dutifully put us straight and we took off, once more, into the gloom.

A grateful pack were rewarded for their efforts with a much-needed drinks-stop on the hill, with a wonderful view of the rain-soaked hills of Richmond, indeed, we could almost see the tops of the clouds, so elevated (into the wind) were we. After Pimms and crackers, both of excellent quality, we ran, hell-for-leather through the heather, to the gate and then the pub, for beer and more appropriate clothing.

After some social drinking and free chips from the bar, we proceeded to a the down-down in the garden, once we all suitably attired in scarves, borrowed coats and gloves. A wobbly and very uncircle-like circle was chalked onto the floor of the beer garden and Jakarta hasher Roll Back was nominated to lead the down-downs. She immediately named Lick a Pile as her second (or bitch as Dingo insisted on calling him).

Our virgins were anointed, (one in absence, but stood-in by Dingo), our visitors were welcomed – from Dublin hash, but his name eludes me – and various misdemeanours were punished. The trail was voted as not being Shitty, unlike the weather, though we tried to blame Man Magnet for that, but she was having none of it. Kiss my Ass was charged with ape-like behaviour after being witnessed swinging through the trees at one of the checkpoints and another charge was awarded to a WLHer who had finally managed to convince his better half that a weekend hill-hashing in Norway was a far better way to spend the final May Bank holiday than gardening. Well done sir! Dingo was called into the circle no less than three times for various charges, yet still didn’t manage to drink a whole pint of Fuller’s finest – which should have earned her a charge on its own!

And so it was, after a wet and weary night, the latest chapter in the tale of the WLH came to a cheery, beery and somewhat bleary end.

On On!

Kiss my Ass