“Holden Wrecks and rusting diesels boil in 45 Degrees,” so sung Midnight Oil. We ran, sang and froze in 40 Degrees farenheit.

Despite London Undergrounds best attempts to sabotage MM’s Australia day/ Burns night run by flooding a switch room at Victoria with a sea of flooring screed a respectably sized pack assembled at the Grosvenor in Pimlico. It was a bit of a shock to find ourselves sharing the place with a darts competition and the regular jazz night.

In best hash tradition the trail was a beguiling mix of the familiar and the where the **** are we? Before heading south over Lambeth Bridge where if this  north Londoner was confused on his own side of the river, he was now totally disorientated, it’s different world down south. Exotic and almost mythical places such as Old Paradise St, and Lambeth Walk were passed through until by some mysterious means we arrived at Vauxhall Bridge and once safely back on the north bank treated to a drinks stop on the spot where convicts were embarked for a future in Botany Bay

As promised this was not what might have expected, consisting as it did of haggis and oatcake canapés accompanied by Scotch and shortbread. Full marks to Mike for manning it. The man’s a legend, most of us only meet him once a year in the cold and damp somewhere on the banks of the Thames where he cheerfully dispenses refreshments to the rest of us whatever the weather.

Back at the pub it was apparent that such was the hares skill in shepherding the pack (flock?) it had expanded greatly since the start, indeed one such confided that he had come because it was within cycling distance of home, promised a barbeque and the clincher was he had no food in the house!

The après run barbie was well up to the Grosvenor’s usual standard and with plenty of snags and chook, chips, pasta etc, most of us consumed more calories than we had used!

The Circle was held outside on the pavement thus lowering the tone of the district, down downs were awarded for the usual, often spurious reasons, to whom and for what I have no idea.

THE ENDPS. By way of linking Burns night and Australia day, that emotive and supremely Australian song “And the band played waltzing Matilda” was written /composed by a Scotsman, Eric Bogle. He is now an Australian citizen.

Freeloader

Funny old world innit. My previous scribe duties were in June 2013 on LH3’s trail from the Village Inn, Rayners Lane and the hare was, surprise, surprise ……. Wacker. I kid you not, have a read at http://www.londonhash.org/onpaper/onpaper201311.pdf page 3.

The Village Inn, being a Wetherspoons pub is able to cater for most hasher’s needs given their low, low prices. Casting a glance along the bar, I was looking forward to my post trail stimulation from either a Redhead or some Naked Ladies. The Ladies from the Twickenham brewery were clearly doing good business that night as Pope had already sampled their wares even before we had set off.

I was not overly confident of the weather prediction of no rain between 7 & 9 pm on the Beeb’s website given their recent track record. Even local’ish hhh Kiss My A*s was conspicuous by his absence so perhaps he knew something we didn’t. We were however, promised a drink stop although I doubted that the rucksack carried all the way around the run by Stayover contained 25 bottles of Fullers Past Masters.

All started well, the trail as ever clearly marked by Wacker with a nice variety of loops & false trails, ably assisted by his not so little helper Roadkill. I was pleasantly surprised that the trail made its way up to Harrow on the Hill as I realised that I have never been through the centre of this part of town. From the magnificent splendor of the school’s stained glass windows to the quaintness of the streets, it was a real pleasure. Even those uppy downy bits didn’t bother me either, such was the zen like state I was in.

Of course, all good things must come to an end when the rain arrived. A gentle drizzle at first then steady precipitation to dampen the spirits of all so to speak. Even the usually laid back Nutsucker was moaning ‘I can’t see a bloody thing’ and Stayover wasn’t a happy bunny either given that his already heavy backpack was now saturated.

Fortunately, our most considerate Hare had arranged our drink stop under cover of a Pavilion. (Nutsucker told me it was a public toilet – Dingo) The tetrapacks of Tescos Everyday Spanish Wine and Liquorice Allsorts went down a treat with the pack as the remaining hardy souls toasted their achievements in getting this far. Ta Nutsucker for saving me all the blue knobbly ones, I think the correct term is ‘aniseed jelly’. Strangely no sign of Pope which is unusual when there is free alcohol on offer. It turned out that the trail had ‘allegedly’ been washed out so he decided to return to the pub via public transport. Yeah, yeah, yeah, we believe you…….

Much as it would have been nice to admire the art deco architecture of the Zoroastrian Centre, we were all cold and soaked through so warmth and beer was the only thing on our minds. Thanks to a combination of Ryde’s directions and excellent guesswork, we made it back to the Village Inn in double quick time.

Down Downs:

Pope for spending most of the trail recalling his childhood memories of the area to anyone who would listen. Love Deuce did exclusively so joined him in the circle.

Thunderthighs and Pecker for taking their umbrellas on trail.

More On and Last Tango for keeping absolutely bone dry by not participating in the first place.  (sounds very sensible if you ask me – dingo)

Charlatan

Run Write Up Rated 18+

However, Dingo’s canine scent and the geographical competence of those who were meant to hare meant that we actually met up in King’s Cross. To my knowledge the West London Hash is so named due to running anywhere with a ‘W’ in the postcode, within the Greater London area. Obviously the rules have changed as meeting in King’s Cross (N1) is to appease those with Jonathan Woss – esque lisps as to a ‘W’ in the name of the location.

As Mother Nature then downed a slush puppy and then proceeded to open her 888 crack and endow the Hash with the subsequent climatic occurrence, 9 hashers set of a trail to blaze the streets of north London dry. 9 could have been 13 but for four hashers, namely Bhopal, Unacceptable, Rambo and Thunderthighs commenting at the start of the hash as “It’s too rainy, we’ll stay here” and the motivational“I’ll see you at the finish” .

For those who did run, it seemed after the debacle of initial hare raising and the subsequent sorting out of that problem, Mother Nature’s slush puppy p8ss down took the p8ss itself in washing away the trail. To believe that Dingo took the afternoon off to mark a trail led to 7 others, with retrospective awareness, produce helpful remarks such as‘what was the f point…eh?’ Thankfully, what Australians lack in culture they make up in memory and the trail was re-done as we ran. Practically every mark had to be re-done and even the checks, which we still had to check as icicles were falling upon our continually soaking hash gear, but familiarity helped us get back on trail as we ran back into a postcode with a‘W’.

The hash sells itself as a ‘drinking club with a running problem’ but this would have to be re-written as something not before seen was to be focused upon my retinas. There was the usual athletic techniques as shown by Stayover, Dingo, Kiss My A8se and even my-John Barnes athleticism of the late 1990s-self but to my absolute shock… for all he was fat and round, for all he does bounce on the ground, POPE f RAN THE WHOLE f HASH (F it…I’ll give him the whole distance!)!! However, he constantly moaned like a bi8ch about the weather throughout, along with Pickled F who did have reason to moan at a driver who nearly ran him and yours truly over as they didn’t have their f headlights on (yes…the driver was female!) . But West London turned to City Hash in terms of our unforeseen running at speed abilities. If this was a play by the Bard, I’m sure the narrator would come out with a line such as ‘If it’s cold and rainy, one f runs!’

Like midgets we ran back into the hhh who stayed in the pub as they were happily drinking what they had already bought some time ago. The 9 who ran went to the bar and ordered their drinks feeling morally justified for some reason but not sure if that feeling can be put into words just yet.  As we jollied and had conversation which included a mention of crap jokes being repeated by Stayover as he went to a stand up show the previous night (I bet that long winter’s evening just flew by!) out of the blue a small group of hashers burst through the door having, would you believe it…RUN. Namely S Fart, Mic-Mac, Charlatan, Spare-Rib and the imaginatively named Lionel had followed the trail re-drawn by Dingo and had made it back. They may have attended late but an enthusiasm of Henry V proportions was shown by the following dialogue between S Fart and Spare Rib.

Spare Rib: “It’s f raining, let’s stay in the pub and drink beer.”

Sperm Fart: No, let’s run, we should earn our beer on the hash!”

Spare Rib: ‘OK’

And On-On to the circle where I would have attended earlier but for Mad Cow’s King John hash cash style of collecting money. Even more possessive was Rambo who had lost his pint, distracted the circle and crieduntil a fellow hasher found a whole pint that was sitting at the bar for the duration of his rant. Dingo was made to drink as she obviously had to celebrate Australia’s ashes but by the time she finished downing her half pint Australia did something more shocking to English eyes and had enough time to develop a culture!

So after more jollying in a north London, dog vomit ridden, bullet holed pub in the back streets of somewhere without a ‘W’in the post code, we hashers pushed towards merriment with the festive season approaching.

Of this Hash, the audience may cry hurrah to those nine, those happy nine who ran in the rain. Hurrah also to those few, those happy few who ran even when late for we are a band of brothers (and sisters…let’s not be sexist!). But to quote Charlatan, to those who know not how to use the calendar sections of their smartphones and to the soft hhh who never earned their beers…

‘To Hash or not to Hash?’ is certainly a question that must be answered!

It was a dark, chilly night in South West London…………………………………………No it wasn’t it was South East London!!!  What was the hare thinking!  We were reminded by the hare that Waterloo had a W in it!
It was the first time I have had to use my tube pass on a hash!   I would normally welcome it but it was on said tube that I got collared with these duties!
What looked like a relatively poor turn out rectified itself as several hashers turned up for the après hash jollies.  Plug (who had just returned from a hash girls away weekend), 2AM and what seemed like 10 other hashers turned up.  The journey to the East must have proved too much for these hashers.
There were not one but two drink stops en route as well as other non conventional stops to look at a big tank with a big barrell.  I had to listen to Mad Cow and Kiss My Ar8e having a “who’s got the biggest d1ck” conversation whilst salivating over said tank!  A concoction of Malibu and advocat was given at the first stop and the second stop was at a fancy wine bar.  I think the hare is a bit of a Del Boy on the sly.  I think he would prefer a poncy cocktail with an umbrella to the pints he normally drinks on the hash.
Anyway, the advocat must have gone to Mad Cow’s head as he tripped over a paving stone on the way to the tube station and grazed his elbow.  Dingo, Love Deuce and I saw him crumpled on the floor as we came round the corner, good job we weren’t quicker or Dingo would have dry humped him!  He insisted the paving stone was 3 inches high but I saw it and reckon it can’t have been more than 1cm.  I suspect he has already written a letter of complaint to the council.    Nevertheless, Dingo, Love Deuce and I carried him to the station and told him what a brave boy he was.
We seemed to lose half the hashers en route as Run to Eat (RTE) decided to pop in her local for a pint and take about 8 other hashers with her! The beautiful and elegant Nut Cracker (k)Nee Sucker (NCkNS) to name but one (she begged me to give her a big write up 🙂 ).  We tried to save some wine for them at drink stop no. 2 but everybody really appreciated the nice chardonnay hence all bottles were squeezed dry.
There were several down downs, The Americans (Cyclopath and RTE) for something American related, Nashie for something Nashie related, NCkNS for something trivial, Butt Plug for his new found role of jiggalo.  I can’t remember any stories but I remember it was a T34 Russian tank with an 85mm barrell.
Oh speaking of which, I heard a story about Pope straddling the barrell.  Glad I didn’t see that as I would of gouged my eyes out!!!

The hash preamble started with a frank exchange of views between Pickled Fart and Dingo.  The email exchange was conducted in the public domain, so was available to those who use and look at the comment section of the website.  I am not sure if that many use this function.  No doubt the people who engaged in this spat felt better for it. However the use of the comments function may be beyond the capacity of many hashers.  Nevertheless it is good to see the innovative use the site.

It was the Dr Who run <<cue the Dr Who music>>, the world’s longest running science fiction TV programme.  Well it is good to know that it has now been adopted by the world’s most populous running/drinking club.  We are assured that the Doctor appears internationally, on BBC entertainment (the money making part of the BBC).  The hash, being an international organisations had 2 participants had flown in from the USA, that afternoon, to attend the Dr Who conference.  Conference attendance, I understand, was a sell-out, but not in the 43 seconds (as was reported for the return Python gig). 

Maintaining the Dr Who theme, Stayover arrived with his roll of aluminium foil, a strange cultural habit of people coming from north of Hadrian’s wall?  Well why not?  He is probably an avid Great British Bake off fan.  Stayover and another hasher created a mask.  The mask was supposed to make them look like cybermen.  It merely created the effect of a person who had been severely burnt; caused excessive reading of News International’s output?  The masks caused angst among London’s general populace. Alternatively had stayover got Dr Who and Alexander Dumas?  Was he the man in the iron mask?  Or had Dr Who been confused with the wizard of Oz?  He and his colleague were masquerading as the “Tin man”, who allegedly had no brain…….I leave it to hashers to make their own decisions. 

In keeping with the Dr Who theme, the hare Love Deuce, arrived with 2 daleks; whacker and 2 AM. But hashers were left to wonder, where was the plunger?  With no plunger, there had been an apparent mastectomy, becoming very fashionable with men and their manbo8bs.  There was a gun, of sorts, it was short and floppy.  It appears that the daleks had a case of brewer’s drupe, notwithstanding the short barrel.  Clearly Whacker and 2 AM had been indulging in excessive social drinking. As daleks they had been emasculated.  I understand that wearing these Dalek outfits was a torrid experience; according to Whacker the build-up of sweat was bad, well that’s a positive, as they may be a commensurate increase in thirst. 

No Dr Who is complete without a TARDIS.  Immediately outside Earls Court Tube station is a “Time and Relative Dimension in Space”device (TARDIS to the non-cognoscenti). To earthlings and hashers this structure may also be known as a Police, public call box.  A structure used by the“Girls and Boys in blue”.  Conveniently, but not arranged by Love Deuce, (Actually, Scribe LD did organise this through Met Police!! – Dingo) a policeman was on hand to open the TARDIS so we can have a look inside.  What is in there?  Well it stored a lot of stuff, but it did have a wash basin and other facilities. 

The run was set by Love Deuce, around Hyde park and its environs, including a yet to be opened fayre, complete with a large Ferris wheel and a radio mast topped with an illuminated white knob.  Makes up for the hashers emasculated daleks.  There was a drink stop of chili vodka and maggots (wine gums soaked in Vodka). Excellent; on inn.

The scribe did not stay for the down down, so sinners have not been mentioned.  It appears that a comment on campanology may have gone un-noticed, but a few chimed in.  Surprising really, as many hashers either work within earshot of Big Ben or from Bow Bells. 

Hobo

Hare Yorkie

A night of almost.  Its almost 7:15, there is no sign of the hare and almost no-one notices. The Hare arrives, time passes, and almost everyone is quite happy to stay in the pub until the hare nudges the GM, at which point almost everyone shambles outside into the cold night, leaving a few lingering inside the pub until the run actually gets going.

We’re off.  Down to the canal and turn left, not the way we usually run from this pub. We almost like the idea until we get to the first false trail mark and have to go all the way back.

Then it’s down the tow path the normal way toward the gate we almost always go through and which almost half of the pack runs past, despite there being no trail that way.  Eventually, we all get together again in the fields where almost all of us get caught up in more false trails – some of the Hare’s making and some of our own.

It was great being off the hard surface and into grass, so rare in a city based Hash.  There was less light pollution, we were bathed in light from the moon in its Waxing Gibbons phase, and often dazzled by the arc lights some of us wore on our heads.  One feature of these light conditions is that flour can take on the colour of its surroundings and become almost invisible, which is why almost all of the pack ended up having to follow the Hare while also enjoying the shiggy.

Horsenden Hill looms.  We almost always run up it, so the Hare has cannily set the trail around it for a change.  This doesn’t stop some of the pack, including Pope, from running up it on the off chance of spotting a trail at the top while the rest of the pack struggles with disbelief and the above lighting conditions until , finally, salvation appears in the form of a road and we can make out the run markings again.

From then on, it was an on street trail, set with the guile of an experienced Hare who knows the area well.  It was never the right option to take the “obvious” exit from a check and almost all of the pack were unaware of how far they had to go until they were almost Home, thanks to the back streets and footpaths used. Spirits were raised as “The Black Horse” came into view, and crushed when we realised it was the wrong “Black Horse”.

Back at the pub, after a decent interval, Wacker presided over the Circle and awarded down downs to:

The Hare, Yorkie;

Love Deuce, for Twerking (“A sacred, traditional practice originating from the Amhara tribe. The act of twerking occurs when one’s legs move in such a way that causes the buttocks to resonate, connecting the participant with cosmic energy. It can be used as an act of communication and also can allow the user to communicate with the dead.” (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=twerking)) on the trail;

Stay Over, for Minding the Step;

Tash, for Next Week;

F Shakespeare for reminding us that there was an old brothel on the trail – to which his after dd comment was that the Pride tasted like the whore’s mouth (before or after? We never got to find out);

Tinkerbell and Eeyore, for returning

Pope, for not being able to distinguish between Love Deuce and Dingo’s rear ends (He also, very cautiously avoided letting on as to which he preferred);

Butt Plug, and his Harem of Roll Back, Dingo and Love Deuce, for almost going to Benidorm to run a half marathon (almost as it is this weekend)

And finally, Adam the Lager Drinker, a virg*n, for doing two laps of the pub car park by way of a run.

As according to Pickled F*rt run write ups are now subject to editing and censorship I have decided that 2 versions of the evening are now required to confuse both the censor and anyone else with nothing better to do with their time than read WLH3 run write ups. There is “THE GRUMPY OLD MAN”version and the” normal” version, I will leave it to the reader to decide which one is which.

The pack descended on Hampstead for an unseasonal night run, most of which was off road on the heath, but being the bunch of intelligent forward planners we are, most of us had remembered to bring a torch and had full confidence in the trail laying abilities of the co hares, our esteemed GM, Dingo and Eric.

For some blo8dy stupid reason our idi8t Hare Raiser decided that Hampstead in the pitch dark would be a wonderful venue and failed to make it doubly clear on the website to bring an extremely powerful torch and then to compound it all, allow the run to be set by some femininazi suffragette bayarch, Dingo and the most infamously inept hare in WLH3 history, Eric. Talk about a recipe for disaster!

The weather had behaved itself and the night was reasonably mild for the time of the year and the pack set out across the heath on a variety of terrain, woodland, open heath, paved paths, muddy tracks taking in all the heath in its autumnal glory. The checks were well marked and not too difficult and all in all was an excellent example of a run for our 2 virg8ns, Amy and Clare and also vindicated the decision of long time LH3 harriette, Car Say No to check out the other hash in London (City of course being a checkless black top sprinting club rather than a hash). After a reasonable length, but not too long a trail, the markings finally led the pack up Parliament Hill with its excellent views of London for a welcome drink stop consisting of port, red wine and some homemade chocolate rocky road made by our very own (call me Nigella), Dingo. Predictably enough the grateful pack made short work of the refreshments on offer and then ambled back on the welcome downward slope to the pub.

Cursing ourselves for not wearing at least 3 layers we stupidly braved exposure and then potential broken limbs on the quagmire that is Hampstead Heath in winter (that’s why we go there in spring and summer, f*wits!). As we slipped and stumbled in the dark trying to find what few markings there were, I thought there’s no chance our 2 virg8ns Amy and Clare and LH3 visitor, Car Say No will come back again, even a City 2 check, 8 miler will be a welcome relief after this latest hashing master class in disaster. After what seemed half a lifetime and somehow having avoided serious injury (no thanks to the idi8t hares) the entirely predictable drink stop venue was the top of Parliament Hill with the same old boring vista of London. You would have hoped that the refreshments on offer would have compensated for the view, but not a bit of it, Eric had already guzzled half the port and to add insult to injury, it was not even a decent vintage, add to that a box wine better suited to embalming corpses and some kind of chocolate flavoured concrete that did for 3 of my fillings and you get the picture. The only redeeming feature was a short downhill on inn that didn’t even need much marking from the hares it was so predictable.

After a nice downhill amble the pack repaired to the pub to replenish lost body fluids with a decent selection of beers and even wine for the harriettes. It was a pleasant surprise to find that the pub had laid on a welcoming buffet of rice, ratatouille and chicken in a nice creamy sauce (Dingo had plainly done some good PR with the landlord). Seeing how the pack hoovered up the fare on offer, seconds were swiftly provided and it was a well fed pack that was called outside to the circle by our RA for the evening Wacker.   

Finally we got back to the pub only to discover it was another yuppified gastro pub charging £4 a pint and god knows what for the plonk they called wine. Having somehow felt guilty about bankrupting the hash, they laid on a buffet for the hash, a bit of boiled rice that hadn’t even been cooked in organic saffron scented chicken stock, some Frog veggie dish and a bit of battery farm chicken in some bland cook in sauce. The portions were so meagre they had to bring out more before we suffered from malnutrition. To cap it all we were dragged out into the freezing cold for the privilege of listening to Wacker spouting bullsh*t in the circle.

The following were justly convicted of their crimes and in the non sexist spirit of WLH3, girly down downs of Pimms were offered as well as the more traditional beer. 

Dingo and Eric as hares, Simon/Casual for hashing once a year when there is food on offer, Rambo for mud wrestling, Butt Plug for thinking he could do a half marathon with no training, Clare and Amy virg8ns, Spare Rib deputising for LH3 visitor Car Say No (who had driven off), Your scribe for being illiterate enough to have to spend£285 on a creative writing course to create these semi literate masterpieces for the WLH3 archives, Next Week for playing with gadgets and a couple of others that I could neither remember or decipher from Wackers scrawled notes.

What the hell is the circle coming to when we give out girly drinks like Pimms, is that why the subs went up to £2 a run, for f*ks sake! Let these feminists drink beer, it’s good enough for blokes to swallow so why not them? One of these days there will be an RA who can a) give down downs that are actually worth recording and b) be legible enough to record. As you thick b*stards can surmise it was the usual predictable trash along with some ridiculous notion that the scribe be enrolled on a creative writing course, well stuff that, you ain’t educated like wot I is.  

On On

Mad Cow

No No

Grumpy Bovine