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”.