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.

Roses are red
Hashers are blue
Valentine’s Day run hared by Boy Blunder
What else to do?

Roses are red
Eric is a hunk
Three beer stops, gallons of mulled wine and cider
We were all a bit drunk

Roses are red
Cheap ale is a dream
Partying through the streets of Kennington
Tunes supplied by BB’s mobile music machine

Roses are red
Pubs are smoky
City hasher serenades us by the Thames
And is named Shitty-oke

Roses are red
Long trails are delights
Moron reunites the Harriettes
With their sexy crotchless tights

Roses are red
Beer is brown
Pope in the circle for retiring
Deserves a down down

on on!
Love Deuce

Run no 1429
Hare: Eric
Venue: Warwick Castle, Maida Vale

The dual attractions of a welcoming hostelry and a run hared by Eric were enough to tempt out the more impecunious hashers from the alternative of buying lager with wads of Swiss francs. Rain was not forecast but duly arrived in spades and after words of advice from the RA and then the hare, the pack sploshed off towards Regents Canal and Little Venice. A couple of long checks and almost immediately we were back within sight of the pub and then, in a flash, away past it, along elegant Edwardian and Victorian parades. The inappropriately named Sutherland Avenue came and went which obviously was nothing to do with our hare as it was far too genteel. Then some more well-known drinking establishments, the Prince Alfred with its wonderful partitioned rooms and The Warrington (formerly run by Gordon F***ing Ramsay) with its circular bar. Just as the prospect of a diversion into one or other looked very appealing we were deposited back at the pub. As it was about 25 minutes after we started, Wacker and others muttered darkly about running round again, but the beer taps were quickly spotted and the realisation that it was far better to be wet inside than out. Down-downs were liberally given to Son of Bin Hash’en for visiting and other misdemeanours, to the Wally with the Brolly (Pecker), for something to do with magnifying glasses and small body parts (Bhopal and Hand Job), missing African boyfriends (Kenny), aimless wandering (Funky Gibbon) and of course Eric for getting the pack back in double-quick time on a wet night.

On On

Funky Gibbon

On a Sunday morning, three hours before dawn, and after weeks of emails from Rent Boy containing invaluable information about the incompatibility of the Swiss National grid to EU adapters and long rambling missives advising us that winter sports insurance that excluded off piste skiing might not cover us if we skied off piste, each one of which was invariably followed by half a dozen “witty” ripostes from recipients who did not seem to be able to distinguish the subtle difference between “Reply” and “Reply All”, disparate groups of Hashers arrived at the Gatwick check-in for the flight to Switzerland. As we queued amongst the sophisticated skiing set, with their public school accents and designer snow gear, we witnessed one of those “Two worlds colliding” moments when a an unkempt and unshaven vagrant staggered into the terminal building to escape the bitter cold outside, his features ravaged by years of self-neglect and alcohol abuse this wretched figure blundered glazed eyed through the queues of fresh faced skiers oblivious to their horrified stares as they recoiled in disgust from the stench of stale liquor, and worse, emanating from this dribbling wreck of a human being that had intruded into their privileged world. It was only later, when we again saw this same flatulent old tramp lurging on to the aircraft that was to take us to Geneva, clutching a boarding card, that we realized that it was none other than Rambo, who had decided to circumvent the need to get up so early by indulging in an all-night drinking binge.

We arrived at the Montpelier Hotel in Verbier by mid-afternoon and some of the more enthusiastic skiers grabbed the free lift passes that were on offer for the last hour of the day and headed for the nearest cable car up to the pistes. Table Whine, Ryde and Rollback’s enthusiasm was unfortunately exceeded only by their stupidity and as the cable car moved off they realized that, in their haste, they had boarded a cable car going down the mountain and they spent the next hour on this cable car only to return to their original departure point. Although they did not get any skiing in that day they certainly got the most use out of their free lift passes.

Fickle Fart was first out the next morning, anxious to arrive on time for his ski class and impatient with the ski lift swipe card system, decided to take advantage of his compact stature and simply duck under the turn style, unaware that he was being observed from behind smoked glass by lift security staff. Only a garbled explanation in appalling school-boy French and a quickly produced lift pass saved him from being dragged off to the local Gendarmerie to get a unique insight into the Swiss judicial system.

Some others were not quite so early to head for the pistes; Janni had consumed so many apres ski beers and such enormous quantities of complementary wine at dinner the night before that it was noon before Rent Boy could get her sobered up enough to get her skis on the right way round.

Dingo, on her first ever winter sports holiday, took to skiing like a duck to water and by the end of the second day had distained of the nursery slopes and was whizzing down the main pistes. In the evening, always the party animal, she invited everyone to an impromptu midnight cocktail party on her balcony, much to the amusement of her roommate, Tiger Bum, who had just dropped off to sleep. Unfortunately the skiing bug was not the only bug that Dingo caught; the Nora Virus was sweeping through Verbier like wild fire and the following evening the balcony was put to another use as Dingo gave a spectacular display of projectile vomiting from it. In the cold mountain air the vomit froze before it hit the ground and passers by were in danger of being impaled by shards of frozen vomit falling from four floors above them. Half the hotel guests went down with the virus and soon nearly every balcony was festooned with frozen waterfalls of vomit glistening prettily in the winter sun. There even a suggestion that the Hotel Montpelier should be renamed the Hotel Montpukier.

In contrast to Dingo, the only other novice in our group, Butt Plug, turned out to be to the sport of skiing what Rambo is to the art of wit, charm and bright repartee. Entire classes of toddlers went down like nine pins as Plug hurtled down the nursery slopes, struggling in vain to master the snow plough turn. By the last day he claimed finally to have cracked it, only to be seen minutes later accelerating down the slope backwards towards another ignominious end.

Dingo is never one to stay down for long and the next day, after her ski school, she joined Fickle Fart on the pistes with his newly acquired companion. Fickle, living up to his name, and his growing reputation as an aging Lothario, had somehow managed to make the acquaintance of a stunningly beautiful Greek lady and the as the three of them traversed down the piste in a snow storm they heard a plaintiff cry from the mist. “Fickled Fart! Dingo, help me! I am lost and this fog is freaking me out!” It was none other than Nutsucker, alone on her snow board. FF and his friend escorted the two novices down through the blizzard, but the Greek lady was clearly getting impatient with the slow pace “Come on Daveed, I want to ski!” came the siren call of this Greek Goddess from the slope below him. “Don’t leave us Fickle Fart!” Pleaded Nutsucker and Dingo, as they struggled to keep up, from the slope above. FF, faced with the dilemma, of either leaving the two Harriettes to freeze to death on the mountainside, or seeing his up-market bit of fluff disappear into the mists below, and probably from his life forever, to his credit, chose the latter option. Probably just as well as the day before Nutsucker had led Neil down the wrong side of the wrong mountain to get the wrong bus and they had to spend eye watering amounts on a taxi to get back to the hotel despite having managed to hitch a lift part of the way clutching their snow boards under their arms.

Our other snow boarder, Next Week, donned a Batman costume and disappeared off each morning to indulge what bizarre fantasies we can only speculate as no one ever saw him again until the following evening.

All good things must come to an end and, all too fast, the time was past and once again we assembled at some ungodly hour to board our coach back to Geneva airport and bid a fond fair well to the Hotel Montpelier and its cheerful chalet girls, who were so obviously distressed by our departure that they were dancing around hugging one another as our coach pulled away. Five minutes later we bid it a fond hello again, half a kilometre down the road Dingo had piped up that Rambo was not on board and, despite numerous attempts to keep her quiet, the holiday rep eventually turned the bus around to fetch him while KC muttered darkly that Rambo deserved to be left behind because he had once abandoned KC in in similar circumstances. Curious that no one else had noticed that Rambo was missing in the first place, don’t you think?

On On

Anon

West London Hash House Harriers
Run Number 1428 31.1.13 (note the palindromic date)
Hare: Hobo
Venue: Express Tavern, Kew Bridge

With Hobo, it was a case of once bitten, twice shy. The last time he set a run from the Express Tavern, I think only Ryde and Martian Matron followed the whole trail. This was because it went all the way to Richmond Park, round the park, and back. I remember taking the 65 bus back to the pub with Drainoil and Eric. So this time, when we set off along the north bank of the Thames towards Chiswick, I stayed near the river, and met the pack just before Chiswick Bridge. And then, as the pack wandered around Duke’s Meadows, I started to cross the bridge and found the trail, at which point Stayover said, “This is Kew Bridge, right?”

I had expected him to say, “A man, a plan, a canal, Panama” on this palindromic day, but no. Not even “some men interpret nine memos” was uttered. Nor the more philosophical “Do geese see god.” I suppose it was all too much for a lawyer.

So we crossed the bridge, and went down the other side. At which point I advised Drainoil to stay next to the river until Kew Bridge. I did the same, as I believe did people like Bhopal and Knickers, who I always thought were runners of a more serious bent. The pack went off somewhere further south, possibly to Richmond Park. But we all got back to the pub, some a bit later than others.

The pub was busy, mainly because one half was occupied by the staff of Waterstone’s head office, celebrating their imminent move from Brentford to Piccadilly. But in our cosy half we were able to snuggle up and engage in the usual social intercourse. It was good to see Olymprick back again, not to mention Hot and Delicious (even though neither of them actually ran). An indoors circle was appreciated, deftly managed by Shakes Beer and Wacker.

These days, West London H3 has almost lost its reputation for being stingy, and a table top full of down downs was provided. These were rapidly dispensed to a variety of sinners, including the hare, and the visitors (Katoi Boy from Saigon and Randall from New Hampshire). Some hashers had started early in a desperate effort to stay in front (Road Kill, Wacker, Knickers). Others (Ryde and Tablewhine) were rewarded for injuring Boggers and administering poison to Spare Rib. Rambo and 2am were reported to be friendless, we were told Pickled Fart was rich and happy to pay for taxi rides for M&M and Butt Plug, and Stayover and yours truly were given an award for I know not what (something to do with Eric). In between all of this Martian Matron tickled the ivories. A good evening.

On On

More On

Another balmy evening saw the pack assemble in the tube free zone of St Margarets to celebrate/ commiserate Australia day . The hares were advertised as Dingo and Man Magnet, but the latter appeared to have aged, put on weight and somehow resembled Pickled Fart in drag, not a pretty sight.

This impression was confirmed when the first falsie was at the end of a very long alleyway leading to the river, a well known PF favourite for irritating the pack. After a bit of meandering around the roads and alleyways of St Margarets we headed up the riverbank towards Richmond bridge. At every check I had to render resuscitation to the leaky blow up wallaby I had been detailed to carry, Butt Plug meanwhile frightened passing children with a large blow up funnel web spider thus showing the gentler side of Australia.

Dingo wanting to avoid shiggy splattered hashers blundering about her flat studiously avoided any of Richmond or Old Deer Parks and skirted Richmond Green before setting another falsie towards the pedestrian footbridge beyond the main road bridge that only the more retarded members of the pack fell for. Eventually the welcome sight of a DS sign beckoned us into Dingo’s flat or was it a shrine as all footwear had to be removed for the pilgrims to enter. The pilgrims in question soon launched themselves into the food and booze provided, namely Fosters lager, wine and a cocktail containing those traditional Aussie staples, vodka and peach schnapps. Dingo had obviously been busy in her kitchen as she had cooked mini kangaroo (or was it horse!)meat pies, biscuits and pavlova, all of which were swiftly hoovered up by the pack. Was this an early contender for drink stop of the year? Venturing back out into the cold was a bit of a shock, but fortunately the gastropub was close at hand.
Having economised with 2 January runs at £2 per pint Wetherspoons pubs (which is all us plebs in north west London can afford), it was back to the recession free zone of south west London with 8 pints costing us £36.20 (no wonder no freebees were offered) compared to £22 for 11 pints in the Wetherspoons, now you why the subs went up! Having made the above investment the pack were herded outside to witness summary judgement with The Optimist presiding over the kangaroo court. The following criminals were justly convicted:

Dingo for haring and Australia day
Pickled Fart, co hare and metrosexual with fetching blonde hairdo
Bondi and Saddle Saw, descendants of convicts despatched to Botany Bay
Stayover and Eric for the forthcoming Burns night celebrations of a serial Scots p***head and womaniser who fiddled the excise taxes he collected to fund these activities whilst writing gibberish that was supposed to be poetry
Schnickers and Blunder, returners
Shakesbeer, some obscene act with a kangaroo
Butt Plug, for missing finding a soul mate on last week’s run, Post An*l Drip
Periodical for wearing his pyjama bottoms on the run
The scribe, maliciously and falsely accused of bestial acts with a wallaby and celebration of birthday

On On
MAD COW.

See More Photos

To tear a group or eaters and drinkers away from a perfectly serviceable pub offering dinner and beer combined for less than £5 is less than gentlemanly, to encourage them out into the cold is even less so, but this was Funky Gibbons lot for Hash 1426. Starting in close proximity from a tube station however was a welcome change helping to avoiding the 2.5 hour homeward journey endured by various hashers the previous week.

With the presence of visitors confirmed, Post Anal Drip began his explanation of the bizarre feature of hashing in San Diego – mainly that they were very fast hashers as the proliferation of Kenyan distances runners running out of the 11 kennels frequently led to confusion. Stayover explained this later in crystal clear terms only a legal mind could master…

A brisk on on to the left, down and over some main roads soon placed the pack in a number of fiendish but well marked checks before taking the clean trainered and (for the most part) un-torch equipped into the dark, the long cold dark muddy mess overlooking North London, at times lending wonder to where, exactly, one & the pack could be. Up round and through the passage ways however and one could be left with no doubt as the regroup permitted a wonderful nighttime view of that continual theater of disappointment, Wembly Stadium.

Down down and through some backyards into a stop for some well deserved and very welcome refreshments in the form of those well known January treats of jelly babies and Licorice all sorts, but more importantly the nip of gods own supply, just to keep the chill out, you know?

Back through the off road, through what should have dirtied the footwear of all, through and over more fields, (but no dogging locations this week) and then back to the inn, for dinns, and downs.

As a relative newcomer to the sport there are two things learned this week. 1) Never wash your trainers and then take them to the hash/never wear new socks either. 2) never eat the ‘mega’ size curry before the down downs start, not unless the rennies are close to hand.

As the pack had consisted of many ‘men’ who, frankly don’t know what cold means only 3 hardy Scots set forth in shorts, and for such a heinous crime such as showing the English up, were promptly reminded not to do so again… as was highlighted, the carpet was clearly designed to hide and potential re-visitations from the Mega curry, but thankfully this went untested.

Lessons learned, humm, now to apply them…

On On

Watering Matilda

This trail evoked a double first in run write ups, it inspired the first ever run write up in verse, appropriately by Shakesbeer and a second run write up from Kenny. Perhaps this makes up for Pope’s run the previous week that failed to inspire even a single write up!

First the words of the immortal Bard:-

Thus appointed, I know that I can well
tell the tale of a hash set in Hanwell,
In the wilds of Zone Four
where the transport’s a bore,
thus requiring all hashers to plan well.

So with Rambo performing as hare,
we were told: “Bring dry socks and shoes (spare),
a strong torch, and a bit
of a First Aid Field Kit.”
(That’s for Pope, just in case of a scare.)

From the Viaduct did the pack dash
with an “On On” their torches did flash.
But a gloomy canal
was the threatening locale
where The Optimist almost went SPLASH!

Through the shiggy, the mud and the dark,
past some barbed wire and then through a park,
in a golf course, o’er ridges,
and somewhere near Three Bridges,
we all ran, vainly seeking a mark.

At each check from the front of the pack
the hounds ran, seeking forth in the black.
But the hare – tricky bloke –
was just having a joke.
Every damned time we had to turn back!

And then each of the pack had to choose
’cause the hare clearly planned to abuse.
Jump the stream, or get wet?
An amusing vignette…
It’s no wonder we needed dry shoes.

‘Neath the viaduct built by Brunel
(Though in darkness who really could tell?)
came the cry of “On Inn!”
and each hasher did grin
for the end of that cold, muddy Hell.

Then came Circle with singing and jeers
and the swift distribution of beers.
First our dear Rambo drank
so the pack could says thanks
for the hashiest trail set in years.

Also Kenny was chosen and cursed
and soon drank, having worked up a thirst.
FRB at the end,
she just could not defend
her rash boast of: “I’ve never been first!”

Also Shakesbeer (though memory’s hazy)
and then Stayover’s hat, which looked crazy,
then came Tablewhine, Ryde,
and The Optimist’s slide,
and Yam Gurning got one ’cause he’s lazy.

The way home caused a near self-destruct.
Every train from that station was fukd.
Though the trail did not lack,
please let’s NEVER go back,
‘Cause the trip home from Hanwell just SUCKED.

That’s the tale of the huffing and puffing,
and the Circle of bullshit and bluffing,
Now your scribe is set free,
though I think you’ll agree
that they don’t call her Shakesbeer for nothing.

Now, Kenny’s Prose

It was on a dark, dark night on a dark, dark river, canal, football
pitch, dogging spot, park, alley, street and golf course that, Rambo
laid a terriffic off-road route through a surprisingly rural Hanwell.

It was shiggy to the left, shiggy to the right. Shiggy all over
Optimist when he fell in the brambles and then again in the stream
(not quite the wet bush he was hoping for)! Mad Cow also enjoyed the
terrain and was spotted taking to all fours.

Tablewhine and Ryde were reunited with some long lost (before Xmas)
property – a merkin and associated head gear, whilst Stayover
was also reunited with his “Slapper on Tour” hat.

If the Canadian, Shakesbeer is anything to go by our economy is going
nowhere fast as it took her 49 hrs to get from Canada to Heathrow.

May the hash grow in strength from now and forever, Amen.