HARES: Nut Sucker and Minge-&-Tonic wearing stupid bobble hats..
SCRIBE: Psychodelic
Miscellaneous Run Info:

The RA had given us really wet weather- sack him. I caught all at the first check… and again two Checks later I was still in touch, enough to observe the intrepid explorer Wacker crossing the busy road and stopping to pant away once off the bridge. He got it wrong.. Call Girl has never got it wrong in her life and her stationary motion exercises may be the reason- a new way of checking it out but what about the Trail.

After a rescue by the Hares, the Run was steaming along at a fast pace out of my sight. I have it on good authority that Contours lead the front runners astray on a plastic bottle trail instead of flour. He wasted drinking time with the delayed return of the Pack so he never made the Circle later.

The SCB route led to the Drink Stop with the help of Nut Sucker, passing three real ale pubs in town on the way. We were then presented with wine from a bag! Sacrilege. A miserable beer-less drink stop in the rain, so Dingo wanted revenge in the Circle with wine down-downs for the Hares.
There were quite a lot of lost souls tonight with Pope, Roadkill and Knickers all coming up with excuses for early returns. Even one hare (Minge & Tonic) got lost off her own Trail after the SCB split – she forgot its true direction at one Check on the fast runners loop towards the end, but she made it to the Pub. I absolved her sins there and then on the spot so no punishment!
Highlights of the Circle:
a) The Hares Nut Sucker and Minge-&-Tonic had kept ISIS at bay so were given beer Down-Downs instead of wine and many deemed this as unjust after the drink choice at the Run Drink Stop.
b) Visitors called into the middle were MickMac (he survived the latest Brussels terrorism) and Snitch Bitch (from St Louis, USA), still surviving here in London after two weeks.
c) USA Returners from 5 years ago Dum Buff and wife Con Tripper had drinks waiting but Periodical and Prince had got them lost somewhere, in another Pub. Look for the Returners elsewhere in the next three weeks.
d) The Virgin Kevin was chatted up by the Hares in the Pub before the Run, so after doing the wet run he earned his drink.
e) Prince showed off a fitting T-shirt before the Run (the first time for many months/ years) but failed to turn up for suitable punishment from the RA. Periodical had led him astray.
f) As New Zealand has decided to stick with the Union Jack on its flag, Man Magnet and Dingo (the two Aussie Sisters) were called on to celebrate this wonderful fact.
g) Wacker proceeded to present today’s RA Lick-a-Pile with a 100 Run mug and congratulated him on being sacked after 26 years in his Halliburton job! Did the Hash contribute to his demise? He has an RA job now but his income is not as great.
h) KC was punished for seducing Nut Sucker back to his house for beer, or so he claimed! They had enough energy to get to the Pub late. Healthy beer.
i) Foreskin’s clothes were immaculate because he is now retired and spends all his time doing washing as nothing else to do during the day! Get another life!
j) There were too many pairs of tight python trousers on display and even in over 70’s- so Pickled Fart, Pope and Rambo had to suffer some more expansion.

West London Run MDXC
10 March MMXVI
The Hope – Richmond
Hare: Crap Nav
Scribe: More On

“When life is getting you down,
And you need a little hope.
Look deep down inside yourself,
And you’ll find the way to cope”

Crap Nav’s solution was to set a run, from the little Hope no less – a pub we haven’t visited in a long time. In fact, when we were gathering at the pub, most of those present were still reminiscing about the old days and the 30th anniversary the previous week.

Crap Nav, who lives in the vicinity and should know better, failed to check the Environmental Agency website, which had predicted severe flooding in Richmond. This was immediately apparent as we approached the River Thames near Twickenham Bridge, where there was a large lake and no visible towpath, but with Kaffir as a front runner, and with KC just managing to keep his head above water, the pack managed to follow bits of the river towards Richmond, at which point we crossed the bridge and followed some more bits of the river, towards Ham. Or some people did.

Once we crossed Richmond Bridge, there was a certain amount of peeling, as older members decided the beer on offer in the pub was more attractive than a trip to the Star and Garter, now that it’s no longer an old folks’ home.

Meanwhile, Wacker had picked up a large plank of plasterboard, and looked like Eric Sykes in the silent movie from the 1970s as he swayed about crashing into everything.

Back at the pub Lick a Pile eventually succeeded on organising a circle, but not before Mad Cow was heard complaining about the absence of water in the gents (when did he last wash his hands anyway?).

Rent Boy, who should have been the hare, but pulled out claiming that gout had stopped him from setting a run, was presented with an appropriate card, and Wacker was given advice on how to repair his ceiling. Martian Matron was rewarded for being a Rollback lookalike (Lick a Pile has a vivid imagination!) and Pope and Pickled Fart were penalised for failing to walk on water, Contour was accused of stripping in the street, and Crab Picker was heard calling for the RNLI on his mobile phone during the run.

And that was that. So thanks to Crap Nav for setting a run at short notice.

Pub: Duchess
Hare: On All Fours
Write up by Skylark

Well it seems that West London Hash has been feeling a little left behind what with London H3’s slick quarterly magazine, enviable hare-line, and professional website, and so they should. So to try to rectify this they decided to recruit one of London H3’s top scribes to acclaim their glorious trail from The Duchess at Battersea. This decision they may regret.
For choosing a pub that was within sight of the dog’s home, it was quipped that the hare, All Fours, should be renamed to All Paws. Instead she was made to give her chalk talk on hands and knees. This we felt was unfair treatment for someone who had stepped in at the last minute to fill yet another gap in West London’s increasingly sparse looking hare-line.
With an encouraging spurt of imagination, All Fours took the trail straight through the Savona estate. Sadly in this 8km trail in which Pope counted only seven checks, the well of creativity quickly dried. The highlight for most was the part where the hare got lost on her own trail and ended up blindly following the blundering pack, marking trail behind them as she went. She did though finally get us to Battersea Park and we briefly got to see the pagoda, the river, and the Rosary gate. It was essentially a quick in-out, but maybe that’s what she’s used to.
In all fairness it was a well-timed run, with most of the pack getting back to the pub in about an hour. The Duchess, with its range of fine ales, good location and eye catching décor (that would be the tastefully framed nudes then) is a venue to be remembered. Dingo, a GM that always leads by example, certainly thought so as she had spent the entire trail propping up the bar and getting increasingly giggly on the pub’s wine selection. Even before the on-out she had jumped onto Pope’s lap for a quick bounce up and down and left him with a wet crotch (from spilt wine). Then during the circle she had attempted to fling herself upon a departing five-a-side team who had simply wanted to get away from that group of weirdos with their rude songs.
The evening ended with even more debauchery as Dingo was plied, rather unnecessarily, with shooter cocktails. The Slippery Nipples came out, followed by Sex on the Beach and Screaming Orgasms. The bar staff didn’t actually know how to mix a screaming orgasm, so Dingo ended up having a fake one. Well, we’re sure that wasn’t the first time.
My work here as scribe is done. In the interests of fairness the London H3’s edit hare has been included on the distribution list, so that if West London decide to protect the guilty by way of censorship or publication ban then it can instead be included in the next edition of On Paper. Well we do like to give a fair representation of our rival London kennels. Oh and don’t forget, London H3 are hosting a far superior away weekend to the Norfolk Broads in August. See their website for details.

Pub:-The Grand Junction Arms
Hare:-Wacker
Write up by Optimist

The Evening Standard front page advert said it all “Turn me on” (ad for New Beats Pill+ (wireless speaker)) and the
large pack gathering in The Grand Junction Arms clearly were in anticipation of Wacker’s trail set through the urbane delights of Harlesden, Park Royal and Willesden.

The Evening Standard also featured an article on Operation Kestrel with photos showing Met police officers searching for guns in Harlesden, this only added to the frisson.

On peering through the steamed up windows the rain was heavy and constant as it fell on the puddles gathering on the pavements and gullies. The words of Squeeze came to mind “And so it’s our assumption we’re really up the junction”.

The landlord cheerfully saying “enjoy your run” as we left our bags behind the bar. Unperturbed, undaunted and pumped up, with thoughts of “well its bound to ease off” the pack of eleven ran off into the night.

The sense of “lets get this over with asap” (too literally) was immediately evident with death by “petrol” on the agenda with the pack storming off across Acton Lane main road into a line of starting to move traffic, as the nearby traffic lights had just turned green. Dam it someone politely said.

The pack streamed down North Acton Road into and around a playing field, on through a trading estate and up Victoria Rd and right along the Canal.

Flushed as was inventor Alexander Cumming with enthusiasm, the pack continued to break checks with the speed of a rat up a drain pipe. Yeah right!

Pope called Man Magnet, Mam Magnet maybe his mind was at that moment just a stream of thoughts or his thinking had become obscured by clouds.

Passing Car Giant depot, turning left up Scrubbs Lane (away from Wormwood Scrubs and the Prison no visiting “Uncle” today) by as the rain continued we were all feeling very well scrubbed as we cut through to Harrow Rd.
In the wet the trail was becoming harder and harder to find, for the FRB’s and arriving pack the services of NCIS or CSI or Wacker the hare were badly needed!

The trail almost reaching Kensal Rise station before heading due West back towards Harlesden.

Back at the pub two bowls of Hash Chips appeared as emergency rations drizzled in red sauce and splashes of mayonnaise. Despite the shelter, sustenance and a selection of fine Youngs ales, Called Away (was), Thunderthighs and a Hasher in a blue WLH3 left before The Circle.
The remaining super hardcore hashers are hereby named in this WLH3 (despatch) write up, background music provided by Wet Wet Wet:
~~~~~~~ Wacker, Mad Cow, Pope, Sir Hump-a-lot, Nut Sucker, Optimist, KMA and Man Magnet ~~~~~~~

Mad Cow presided as RA.

On on
Optimist

NB: Daryl Hannah sent her apologies.

Hared by Butt Plug

Write up By Pickled Fart

Hampton Wick is one of the best kept secrets of the Western London suburbs, buffered by parkland this charming village of congenial pubs and cosy restaurants lies less than a mile from Kingston Town centre but, separated from it, and, thankfully, the chavaratti it attracts, by the Thames.

In common with much of the local architecture, although probably Victorian built, the Swan is a mock-Tudor timber framed building in sympathy with the nearby Hampton Court Palace, complete with jettied upper floor and herringbone brickwork in the style of the period it emulates.

Our Hare, Butt Plug, is famous, not only for his prowess in laying interesting off-road trails, but also for his legendary drink stops. As the heat of this warm July day subsided to a comfortable running temperature a sizeable pack assembled, including our lovely GM, back from a month in her native Australia, where she displayed an exceptional prowess in the Iron Man competition that is belied by her vivacious charm and elfin good looks.

So we have our GM back, a great Hare, a fine evening, a great location and a large pack, so what could possibly go wrong?

I shall give you a clue;

It’s lonesome away from your kindred and all,
By the campfire at night where the wild dingos call,
But there’s nothing so lonesome, so dull or so drear…

Yes, I think you have got it, the pub had no beer. Well nothing any self-respecting Hasher would call a beer, their three real ale taps were as dry as the proverbial witch’s tit, leaving just a selection of bottles and lager. The landlord, new to this establishment, pleaded that he had underestimated the additional demand generated by the Hampton Court flower show which was taking place at the time.

As an aside, on Googling the above song to get the words, I stumbled upon the information that it had been rated, by the Australasian performing rights society, as that countries fifth most popular and successful song (it did not say where that Rolf Harris classic, “Two Little Boys”, came in the ratings). It was even translated into other languages, there was a Dutch version released called “Café zonder bier”. And a German version called “Ich steh an der Bar und ich habe kein Geld”. It requires only a smattering of that language to realize that the title, and chorus, line has been changed to “I am standing at the bar and I have no money” in the German version, presumably because the sheer incompetence entailed in a pub running out of beer is something that would be unimaginably to the Teutonic mind and certainly not be considered an appropriate subject for humour.

Anyway, I digress from the task in hand, writing up this run. The trail took us to the river and in a loop around the Home Park and, with the use of some cunning live haring, exiting it again by means of the same gate before crossing the road to Bushy Park where skittish young deer started from our feet as we weaved our way through the bracken.

At a certain point, a table appeared, in the middle of Bush Park, groaning under the weight of cheeses, pitta bread, charcuterie, quails eggs and a selection of red and white wines with which to wash it all down. The humble drink stop of the past is consigned to history, this was a full blown buffet that would do credit to a top hotel. By what black art the hare conjured this all up in the middle of a deer park no one could guess but that did not them descending on it with the customary lack of restraint displayed by hasher when they encounter food and alcohol.

Back at the Swan Whacker presided over a lively circle where a handful of visitors were welcomed, including an attractive young Jordanian Harriette and her partner, I did try to make a mental note of the visitors’ Hash names for this account, and even enquired as to her name, in response to which she thrust her shapely bosom into my face to reveal it stitched across the chest of her T shirt, but for some reason I not take it in. The circle concluded with the Hare getting a well-deserved pint of lager and then we all decamped to the Foresters across the road which had more real ale taps than you could shake a stick at and without the badge reversed on a single one.

On On

P.F.

Hare Lick O’Pile

Write up by Pickled Fart

Mention Kingston upon Thames as a run location and it immediately conjures up images of the Wych Elm, a cosy little local pub nestling in its leafy Northern suburbs, where the beer is expensive enough to discourage the lower echelons of society from crossing its portals and Richmond Park, in all its verdant glory and with endless possibilities for pretty off road trails, is only a short jog away. This Hare however was determined to show us an altogether grimier side to the Royal Borough. The P trail led us in the opposite direction from the park, to a vast Weatherspoon’s beer supermarket, located in one of the less salubrious parts of Kingston town centre and about a mile from the nearest blade of grass. Officially this establishment is called the King’s Tun, but it is more commonly referred to amongst the local drinking classes as simply “The Day Centre “.

The pack set off in twilight through the Eden Vale and Bentall’s shopping centres, crossing Kingston Bridge, only to cross back again on the other side of the road.  The trail led us past the town hall and the eponymous King’s Stone on which the Saxon Kings of Mercia were crowned and Kingston’s famous “Fatberg”, now proudly  displayed on its own plinth in the market square. As the evening grew darker so did the trail,  Waitrose, John Lewis and Bentall’s gave way to Cost Cutters, Iceland and Sports Direct, as the trail weaved around the low rent side of town, through shabby, dimly lit shopping arcades which had seen better days, where Pit Bull terriers strained at leashes attached to faceless hoodies and wretched figures ravaged by self-neglect and alcohol abuse (no, not Rambo this time) shuffled past skulking mange ridden urban foxes rummaging through abandoned Kentucky Fried Chicken containers in the shadows. Then the trail led us out of the town centre altogether, assiduously giving what little greenery there was a wide berth,  past a few burnt out cars, to the sprawling Cambridge Road Council Estate, now euphemistically known as Social Housing. One of those monstrosities dreamt up by the architects and planners of the nineteen-sixties that won awards from just about everyone except those condemned to live in them. We picked our way through its labyrinths, carefully avoiding the used syringes and discarded cans of super strength lager and other such detritus of the social underclasses.  It was with some relieve that we crossed, literally and metaphorically, to the right side of the tracks and the marginally better neighbourhood on the other side, by means of the underpass beneath Norbiton station, as we did so a certain harriette was heard to opine on how well the Hare had kept the pack together thus far into the trail. Displaying my customary diplomacy I refrained from pointing out that it was not so much the Hare’s skill in trail laying that had kept the pack huddled together, as their fear of the environment through which he had just taken us. The trail taunted us by taking us to within fifty yards of Richmond Park before veering away from it towards the drink stop at that well-known local beauty spot, the Sainsbury’s Car Park, where we were treated to some strange Eastern European spirit with a taste vaguely reminiscent of battery acid.

Back at the pub the staff had thoughtfully reserved a section for the Hash which they had blocked off from the rest of the hoi polio, who frequent such establishments, with a barricade of chairs. Within this alcove an inner barrier of chairs symbolically blocked off the Richmond Clique from the ordinary Hashers who had not been elevated to their rarefied world, or had been defenestrated from it; a clique within a clique as it were.   

A circle was eventually organised, if that is not a misuse of the word, the Hare received his customary down down, as did Knob Job visiting from Madrid and Not Contagious for wearing a rather fetching Ebola T shirt.  I was called to the fore because I had posted a comment on the web site that the pub was frequented by scantily clad girls getting tanked up on cheap alcopops before venturing into the local night clubs and I received a down down of a cheap alcopop, that stuff called Wckd that I have seen advertised, but had never before tried, and never will again, even three pints of Guinness could not wash away the sickly chemical aftertaste of saccharin it left behind.                      

Next week WLH3 are in Wimbledon, and, before that conjures up any images of cosy little local pubs nestling on the fringes of Wimbledon Common, with the promise of pretty off road trails, the pub is the Prince of Wales, a vast beer supermarket in a less salubrious part of Wimbledon town centre and in the opposite direction from the Common, and about a mile from the nearest blade of grass.

On On

P.F.   

The P trail started at Acton Town underground station, which was opened as Mill Hill Park on 1 July 1879 by the Metropolitan District Railway (MDR, now the District line) on its extension from Turnham Green to Ealing Broadway.

The name Acton means Oak Town and is an Anglo-Saxon name, suggesting that there was a settlement at Acton in Saxon times. The first recorded mention of Acton was in 1181. Most of the settlement in the Middle Ages lay along the Uxbridge Road and close to the parish church of St. Mary’s. There were several inns here by the late fourteenth century.

The P trail led past Action Fire Station where I found Man Magnet admiring the 1930 architecture or was she in fact dreaming about the hunky firemen inside 😉 …. The original fire station was opened in the High Street 1899 and was in use until the current station on Gunnersbury Lane opened in 1930.

As a south Londoner I was worried about being “north” of the river. On arrival at Aeronaut my concerns were justified. Firstly the friendly (not) bouncer quizzed Man Magnet and me about wearing track suits – the explanation that we were part of a running group appeared to be accepted, next he demanded that I leave my bottle of water at the door. Clearly the draft airport rules on liquids and gels also apply at the Aeronaut.

The Aeronaut is part pub, part brewery and part circus! The pub pays tribute to local aviator George Lee Temple who was the first Englishman to fly an aeroplane upside down.

The trail was well marked and took the pack in a circular route out to the east and south before returning back to the Aeronaut.

Back at the pub some member of the pack watch part a Circus Act that was taking part in the other bar area.

The Aeronaut is also the home of the state-of-the-art Laine’s Brewery:

The Hares Martian Matron and Moron

There was a playground stop where Skylark, Pope, Loveduce & Dingo acted their shoe sizes and not their ages!

Obviously relieved that no one got lost or refused entry by the friendly bouncer and Martian Matron bought a large round of drinks to celebrate. Unfortunately her debit card was refused; the bill was entered as £2075!

The run passed through the sprawling South Acton Estate and one of the sixties tower blocks (Harlech Tower) was the original location for Only Fools And Horses. The RA felt that Plug and Freeloader looked liked Del Boy and Rodney: 

Freeloader earned another Down Down by leaving his shoes in the pub and not putting them in the disabled toilet with the bags.The returnees included Sleep Cheeks, Screw Loose, Disco King & Herbert Pecker.

On On DayStripper

Hare: Eric the Red, aka the Viking, the scot and a few other names to numerous to list.

I arrived at Putney tube station, knowing where the pub was, but I did look around for a “P” trail for confirmation.  No “P” sign was visible, it must have been erased by the worthy burghers of Putney, but there again I may be half blind.  However, when walking to the pub a “P” was spotted on an intermittent basis.  Was this an ominous sign of things to come?  Was this an omen?  The “P” frequency and the geographic location of the “P”’s would best be described as sporadic and random.  Does this account for the thin turnout? I do not think so, it was dangerously close to half term.  Moreover, hashers are made of sterner stuff. A challenging “P” trail is not a problem. 

The Hare guaranteed a degree of shiggy.  He was not wrong, in fact very accurate.  But there were a few blind alleys, where the trail was alleged to go, but the trail petered out.  It was noted that KC was always on the trail, so to start with we followed him.  Questions were asked if on occasions if the trail had been laid?  There were a number of occasions when it became a live hare, the trail being made up as we went along.  This is an acceptable form of hashing, but we need to be told.  Was this by design?  Probably when there were trail failures we needed plan B – the hare was in the lead. 

It was on one of the live hare incidents that there had been some hashers had been rechristened by the Madrid hash.  It is alleged that roll-up had been rechristened “roll-over” or was it “leg-over”.  Nutsucker had been rechristened “Mutt – Sucker”, dangerous – you are liable to have the RSPCA after you; but it could be worse – being rechristened “Butt Sucker”, well – kiss my arse.  You may have numerous amorous southern European running behind you. 

But to speculate, I do not know if Dingo was running on the Madrid hash.  What would happen if Dingo was rechristened, what would happen then?  We could have pingo (Hydro laccolith – a mound of earth covered ice found in the arctic or sub-arctic regions) or worse still to “Pongo” to which the word “pygmaeus” could be added: a person of the forest who lives close to Australia.  This is dangerous territory, I will desist.  But clearly prior to the Madrid trip, there needs to be a mass christening, where everyone’s hash name is changed to be Madrid compliant – where is our religious adviser. 

No sinners and other people guilty of misdemeanour have been included. 

Yours

Hobo

Maybe it’s because I am Dutch, but Dingo’s concept of romance is clearly different from mine.  Fat Ba*tard as the Ultimate Romantic?  We will forgive her, though, as she had ordered a silvery moon to bathe the Park in lovely light.

A strong team of athletic whares, dressed as Tudor wenches (except Love Deuce, who forgot!), chased us around in the moonlight, with the hot breath of the park wardens in our necks.  The run was cleverly designed, with a bit of a figure-of-eight idea.  It worked out even better than planned, as the wenches managed to lose not only Eric, but also Mad Cow, Pope and Charlatan…  We had entered the park through Bog Gate (very apt), and were veering towards Ham, under the enthusiastic guidance of Dingo.  But those unfortunate four, actually together with quite a few other hashers, bumped into the wardens, who told them to get out through Richmond Gate or get culled. 

Whilst the renegades were drowning their sorrows in the Roebuck, (see attached) Those of us on the not-so-straight and narrow curved back towards Richmond, and got a treat from FB: Naked Ladies, chicken nuggets and ½-sausages.  Boy Blunder, always happy to please, played the court photographer.

Back to the downs-downs, which were many (West London has long since lost its mean reputation), and funny.  I have to be selective, but I definitely need to mention For*skin.  He saved us all from salmonella poisoning by cooking the chicken nuggets that Roll Back had picked up from the supermarket, in the innocent belief that they were ready to serve.  Bravo, and thank you Sir!  Nut Su*ker was accused of signing up for a Madrid Hash event in the name of Mutt Su*ker.  It defies the imagination, but Butt Plug’s telling of the tale was pretty suggestive.  Do we need to mention that Nut Su*ker did/did not forget her ticket for the QPR match, and that FB dropped the Naked Ladies on a zebra crossing?  I take it you get the gist.

Honourable mentions go to Thunderthighs, who loves an opportunity to show off her silky red dress, and Skaraoke, who does, too.  Except his dress was called a Spanish spy outfit.  I need to read up on my Hilary Mantel to understand it all, but as I said before, I am Dutch.

On On, Martian Matron

A few hardy souls made the journey to Westbourne Park in the face of the tube strike and lashing rain. Unlike the Richmond Clique, for whom it was just not sufficiently gentrified (where would one buy a mocha latte double caf decaf half caf Frappuccino en route?) and far too difficult in terms of transport (even just looking at something as vulgar as the tube map darling would make me want to lie down with an asprin and a hot towel), these were tough guys.

Not only were we without the presence of the Richmond Clique but certain tough guys in the Ealing Massiv also did not brave the elements and were noted by their absence. It would be unfair to single anyone out but bouncing on the ground apparently was not a good transport substitute and crazy bovines were worried their hooves might slip on the rain soaked pavements.

In fact we were so tough that we formed a gang innit, henceforth me and my bro’s bruv we will be known as the Westbourne Park Crew innit, this is what am sayin bruv.

The trail had been washed away by the rain, so our hare Mudgee Smuggler had to run on ahead to re set it, innit. This works well bruv, dya know what I mean? Innit. We woz finking why we don’t do that awl the tame bruv, innit. Mudgee had also smuggled some drink stop onto his boat, for a drink stop, innit.

The drink stop went down the hatch (not his boat hatch bruv), and afterwards the pub were hospitable and generous, innit. The Hare Raiser should take note for future, innit, cos it’s lak a great venue bruv. The haberdash awarded the Westbourne Park Crew with a free oyster card holder, innit, which was useful for getting the tube home bruv (err..).

Wot am sayin bruv is that, lak, we didn’t have any stories for the circle, so we decided to pretend to be hhh from the Richmond Clique and Ealing Massiv, iniit. We did this bruv, cos it was funny at the time (ya know what I’m sayin bruv), cos we’d all had a few on Mudgee’s boat, (ya know what I’m sayin bruv).  It might lak not be as funny a week later, innit bruv, but in the photos [Insert Link to photos] you might see a Nutsu*ker, a Dingo, a Mad Cow, a moron Rolling Back his jersey, a B Plug, a Pope (interesting steve wif me up his jumper bruv), a Mad Cow, a Man Magnet, a DOA we picked up on trail (cos that’s how we roll bruv in the Park Crew), and a pic of us all togeva. (see pics here)

Stayover

Seeing as Clark Kent seemed to be capable of meeting his deadlines as well as saving the planet it is incumbent upon me to file this report promptly.

The area around Gloucester Rd were treated to a strange menagerie of hhh comprising Giraffes, Crocodiles, black & white creatures which could have been, Dalmatians, Gloucester Old Spots, or as it turned out strangely asexual cows a tiger, mix in the two hares in matching something indefinable, a couple of white boiler suits, batman, superman and finally Thunderthighs who seemed to be impersonating Helen Mirren dressed  as Olivia Newton John in her role as Sandy in Grease. I suppose 2am’s dressing as a Dalek can be justified on the grounds that it was a one piece costume though perhaps not quite in the generally accepted description of a onesie.

Despite threats of having to wear someone’s pre-worn and quite possibly unwashed spare onesie there were a number of hhh who refused to succumb and were not penalised, perhaps the block of ice next time?.

The trail made a change from others I have done from this pub in setting out in a northerly direction. Unfortunately Foreskin and I lost trail relatively early on and to compound our problems neither of our costumes invested us with any superpowers or any gadgets which may have eased our plight. Local knowledge however, allowed the pair of us to predict with some accuracy where we would pickup the trail having engineered ourselves a monumental shortcut and caused the population of High St Kensington some amusement as we ambled through.

Despite being for a hhh a shy and retiring soul I enjoyed the comments and attention that my costume attracted and found it strangely comfortable. Oh dear, I fancy that any pretence at sartorial elegance I may once have had has finally evaporated.

The pub was heaving as usual, it was a shame that the manager could not have provided somewhere for our bags, I got the feeling he was not desperate for our trade

The circle held outside on the pavement. As with last week I have few details of who received Down Downs, beyond the usual for the hares, visitors (well done Carrot Fungus for having a onesie with him despite being in transit from Tokyo to Belfast) and myself for not having filed my report for the previous weeks Australia Day run

All in all very good fun – Freeloader

“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