Here is a map showing locations of some of the WLH runs during 2016.  Clicking on a run location will allow you to view the trail for that run.

Hopefully this will be helpful if you are a hare trying to decide where to set your next trail.

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

I was late arriving due to a “Good Service” on the District line being 30 mins late, but thanks to the normal WLH3 punctuality was in perfect time. Walking to the pub I was overtaken by Gay Pride who totally ignored me, but was punished later anyway.

The hare talk provided loads of information that was all total bo££ocks. A typical Pope run with lots of loops and devious check backs through the finer parts of Ealing missing all the shiggy, burning tyres and encampments. So devious in fact that we lost? Eagermount and Rent Boy. Knickers was front running again following her high altitude training in the murder capital of the world with Jacaranda hash. M.M is now a granny three times over so thinks she ought to act her age and be called M.G.M. Road Kill did well and managed to keep up with me although I did wait for him after a couple of loops!

An excellent supply of bottled beer for the down downs administered by Whacker, but the best stuff was given to an Aussie, what a waste! What did I get? Chiswick!!

Sometime during the evening (keeping up with topical issues) we started a new hash for the London Area Dementia Sufferers. All runners would be tagged so that when they get lost the hot fuzz can easily find them. Trouble is can’t remember what it is called or what time of day we said we would run, but Miss Dunny Penny has already asked for rent Boy to be tagged.

On-On to the Ulmus glabra Horizontalis otherwise known as the Wych Elm.

If you drink to much there is a clue in the name.

Called Away

Said scribe was so surprised to be propositioned to write the words that scribe foolishly agreed. It must have been the beer! The run was over, & we were already sipping & gulping much needed excellent ales at the On In.
So why didn’t the GM get a Down2 for mismanagement, and for not appointing a scribe BEFORE the run began?!
Well at least the beer was good, West Country ales like Tribute & Betty Stoggs along side classic London Pride.
Good thing I happened to have a notebook & pen at hand, as well as a pint.
however an attempt at accumulating an assortment of opinions from other hashers was not altogether successful as they were too involved in gossiping & the Amber nectar.
But the general outlook was one of disgruntled approval, that the run was better than… “expected”.. ” hugely better than young Gurneys”” , whatever that meant, (I gave up on that convoluted comment from Titanic Dickhead ) & it was no wonder that Pope was pontificating as he reckoned Snickers the Hare had ” stolen” his run.
One tick in the box surely for those using the tube, was that the pub was within spitting distance ( for once!) of the station, Northfields. Also ales well kept &didn’t run out , ( as has been known in other hostelries)

Well, the run was reasonable, as was the weather, cold but dry at least, and certainly very clearly marked.
A lot of residential streets, as one would expect in that part of Ealing,
But there were a few sections where the pack was diverted down dark & dingy alley ways, and past dimly lit allotments, through a murky graveyard, where all of a sudden we seemed to be running back in time into the Holmesian world of Victorian half life… no murdererous screams at least.
But there was an atmosphere that once this area had been the countryside, now swamped in suburbia.
As we trooped through a more salubrious park, there were cries of “what’s this green stuff?” from a surprisingly front running Pope.
Indeed if it was The Pope’s stolen run, why was he so critical of lack of grass underfoot, but might explain his FRB position.
Tennis matches in play for hashers’ diversion? But we ran on relentlessly, where was the On In?

Back to the Pub, the Circle was called,and , well, the beer must have been good as as the “apologetic hare” Snickers was described as “tall, handsome suave & debonaire”!
But he was called in after a couple of returnees, and admonished that the run was “too long, too dark, too much scenery & too much grass”….Shitty trail song followed with The Pope, yet again , labouring ” he nicked my trail”.

3rd down2 was more unusual,as a squeaky clean sporty lady hasher was called up for frequenting dubious bars stuffed with Lady Boys whilst working & hashing in Pataya,Thailand.
The GM got a down2 for running 2 1/2 marathons in a day, wheel chair run in Reading, & hot foot to Fleet in Surrey . One other “athlete” had run one of these, so they were toasted as the “fit & unfit”…
Endless other down2’s :
Optimist for his sunglasses as weather has been “f***ing vile” & days are dark & freezing;
Rambo was rambling about something & rambling more, so Pope intervened “wake me up before you go go”;
Tango had a down2 for impersonating Liz Taylor in glittery earrings, (?)and general beer fuelled disorder took over.
Circle concluded with demands for Easter “0nesies” to be warn at next week ( now thisweek) ‘s run in Wandswoth. Ha ha!

Well, the run had been well timed as it was raining by the time hashers stumbled out of the pub.

On on…Generator

After a great deal of confusion, hare-switching, and pub-changing, Thursday’s run set off from the Crooked Billet in Wimbledon, with hares Fickle Fart and Dingo in charge. Smack The Oyster, nominally named as a co-hare, successfully avoided any hint of responsibility, as any self-respecting harriette would.

Fickle Fart, known far and wide for his love of laying muddy, shiggy-filled trails, is also locally famous for choosing pubs that require the pack to walk at least half the distance of the run just to arrive at the on-out, and this run was no different. As a result of the long slog up hill, hashers arrived at the pub in their usual *ahem* good spirits, looking forward both to the trail and to the opportunity to earn a free beer (offered by Dingo) to the first hasher to beat FF over the head with a stick.

The first clue as to the condition of the trail was Dingo’s arrival at the pub, wearing not standard shabby hash trainers but a pair of well-used Wellies. As there was no sign of FF either before or during the run, we can only assume that he knew of the reward offered for his demise and wisely chose to rejoin the pack only after they’d had a few back at the pub.

The trail was, as anticipated, generally muddy (note to future hares: Rent Boy likes shiggy, and this trail apparently didn’t have enough, although how he would know is anyone’s guess, as he has never before finished an entire run without stopping at a pub enroute) and meandering, taking the pack up, down, and around Wimbledon Common, finishing up with a long straightaway to the on-inn. As is typical of FF runs, this one treated the pack to several false trails, which this writer, being at the back of the pack, was fortunate to miss. There were also several apparently easy-to-break checks, resulting in the pack getting fairly spread out, with cries of on-on only being heard in the far distance.

Back at the Crooked Billet, the arrival of a boisterous group of mud-covered hashers must have caused no little consternation to the posh patrons who were attempting to have a nice meal and conversation, so the pack repaired in short order to the porch, where down-downs and general levity ensued.

We now leave our regularly-scheduled broadcast to bring you breaking news from the Colonies:

The Federal American Reconnaissance Team and the Combined London Investigation Team announced that they joined forces to investigate the Boston Marathon bombings, and the prime suspect was initially identified as a British national operating under the pseudonym “Naughty Nympho.” Despite their best efforts, Ms. Nympho eluded capture and managed to escape the country just hours ahead of the authorities, and she is now believed to have taken refuge in London at the home of a member of the Foreign Office.

In other news from the Colonies, a London solicitor going by the name of “Stayover” was held at the American-Canadian border under suspicion of engaging in subversive activities after being captured trying to sneak across the border on foot, abandoning his car near the border in Canada. Under questioning, the suspect claimed he was only trying to get information on snow skiing, but as authorities could not verify his story, and as he had crossed the border without proper documentation, he was detained for several hours before being released.

This same solicitor has since claimed credit for saving the life and liberty of one Last Tango, who was seen by London police dropping “flour” on the roads of London, and who avoided incarceration only after Stayover convinced the Met that a t-shirt-clad woman of mature years and sporting bright red hair could not possibly pose any threat to the city’s Elf and Safety.

Now, back to our programming:
The down-downs for questionable behaviour began with drinks for the Wellie-wearing hares in appreciation for their hard work setting the trail, and continued through recognising various transgressions to the highlight of the evening: the Wombles of Wimbledon Common, when Pope, Fickle Fart, Black Hole, and Boy Blunder were called into the circle to enjoy their 15 seconds of fame and be serenaded by the off-key efforts of the rest of the pack.

And finally, it’s been revealed that Britain has again resorted to press-ganging Americans, as Stayover (who ought to have known better) and FF railroaded Smack The Oyster into acting as scribe for this run, despite the fact that she is presently attempting to flee the country in an effort to avoid a forced marriage to Eric. Rumour has it that Eric, in anticipation of said marriage, has already purchased clothing suitable for the occasion.

Smack The Oyster has been determined by the Home Office to be of a type unfit to remain in the country and is therefore leaving at the end of this week with her Hash Hounds, Holly and Jerry Lee, to return, albeit temporarily, to America. Until then, thank you to all the hashers of London for a wonderful five years in my beloved Britain, and I hope to be back soon.

On On

Smack The Oyster