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.