Run 1465, from Raynes Park.  We met at a lovely pub.
It was called the Rock, had but two real ales, but also did wonderful grub.
With our GM absent, we had a fine stand-in – Stay Over, well practiced and drilled.
He took over precedings with consummate style: concise and expertly skilled,

The Hare was Butt Plug, of whom great things, had been said and proffered before,
There was talk of luxurious drink stops, with Shiraz, olives and more.
But the greedy-eyed pack were left wanting, ‘No drink stop?!’ they cried, ‘It’s a con!’
So with hopes dashed and some grumbling, we all set off with an ‘On On!’.

We welcomed our virgins and visitors who, had travelled here from afar;
We had some from London H3 for the night although they’d not travelled so far.
We had late arrivals – Rambo, again – who left early before all the drinking,
And Tango caught up with the pack finally, but by then beers were already sinking.

The moon was full, the sky was clear, the hashers gathered together.
Suitably dressed in neon and black and prepared for inclement weather.
Torches were held, or strapped to our heads, as we ventured off into the night.
With eyes peeled and ears cocked, we made a formidable sight.

Initial confusion was the call of the day, as our FRB lost the chalk,
Summoned back shortly to follow the rest, they set off once again at a walk.
Some loops through suburbia rapidly followed, with hashers sent hither and yon,
Utterly failing to find the true path we enthusiastically blundered on on.

Our Hare was too clever, and in the pitch black, we followed a false trail or two;
But having already lost the original trail, this created a hullaballoo.
Some hashers went this way, some hashers went that, it was something of a farce;
It was only when Butt Plug showed us the way, that we with both our hands found our arse.

Under the beautiful hunter’s moon, our torches stretched over the moors,
Up hill and down dale and back on ourselves the pack and the stragglers toured.
‘Much further?’ was heard, and ‘How far to the pub?!’ as stamina’s waned like the moon.
‘On in!’ was heard, to the delight of all and the FRB took off like a loon.

Social drinking ensued and all were enthused, by the run in the open air.
The circle was called – inside the pub! – and the RA was heard to declare.
‘Hash hush! Hash hush! Before we begin, there’s some committee business to address!
Our Hash Song Meister has deemed to attend – Reach Around himself, no less!’

After water was downed, for not turning up, more was downed once again,
This time for inaccurate scribing as last weeks write-up was a  pain!
Shakesbeer was welcomed back from the East, Moscow to be precise.
She’s not lost her knack for drinking and put it away in a thrice.

Our visitors – Dagwood and Saffron – both from the land down under,
Along with a virgin called Dave – who stared around in wonder,
Were all given the traditional hash welcome, we save for our Ozzie sports,
You’re worthless, colonial bastards without fathers or proper passports!

Our Hash Cash, Man Magnet was also called in, to answer for sartorial crimes,
To explain the holes, in the knees of her tights – which sounded like interesting times.
F*cking Shakespeare and Charlatan, Stay Over and Fickle, were also called in for a drink
Stay Over for super-keen running and Fart for moaning, I think?

Some announcements were made, but I will not attempt, to relay them here in pen,
After last weeks debacle I don’t wish again, to be given Hash Scribe duties again!
A pleasant nights hashing on an autumnal eve, had left us all with a warm glow,
I look forward to long, dark wintry nights – and hashing in the snow!

On On!
KMA

With a pub chosen near Central London, a reliable hare – Naughty Nympho – and a bevy of eager hashers, run no.1464 had all the ingredients for a great nights hashing.  What could possibly go wrong?  The usual suspects met up in the Carpenter’s Arms in the depths of Edgeware Rd, a short, if somewhat elusive, P trail from Marble Arch tube.  The venue appeared ideal, 3 plus real ales to choose from, a secure room for our bags and boots and attractive décor in the form of olde worlde carpenter’s tools from pre-war (the Crimean I think).  The GM announced the hash in usual style, welcoming visitors – LipsDick from Oregon, Randall and Scott (both pilots, not a 1970’s crime-fighting duo)and one more who’s name eludes me..  The night was dark, the winds a blowin’ and the threat of rain lay heavy in the skies.  But the hashers enthusiasm is not easily dampened and an eager pack strode boldly into the night.

As close as we were to the illustrious delights of Hyde Park, the more experienced hashers of the group (of whom there were many) made several attempts to pre-guess the hare by heading where they thought the run would go, but to no avail, we were looped hither and yon, taken down some dark alleys – not for the first time for some – and positively teased with the expectation of fresh air and countryside, only to have it replaced by some rather poky areas around Paddington/Bayswater Rd.  But, finally, our patience was rewarded.  After some rather crafty, and completely out of character, short-cutting by Wacca, with KMA being led astray, we were bordering greenery!

With Knickers leading the way now, we ran head-long into the utter blackness of the park, incapable of seeing any flour or chalk of any kind until Bhopal came to our rescue with his head-torch.  As everyone was checking, the split-up began in earnest.  The trail was eventually located and we On-On’ ed for all of a minute before, disaster, the trail ran into a rail.  Indeed, the hare had neglected to check the closing times of certain, somewhat residential, areas and our trail was locked off!  But again, showing that never-say-die spirit so prevalent at WLH, Stay Over immediately announced ‘Live trail!’  and sprinted off into the darkness.   And what a fortuitous route he took.  Within 5 minutes of blindly running the moors of west London, we found ourselves on trail again, what luck!

So, with a dash past the Serpentine followed by a long on-in down Park Lane, we finally circled in on our point of origin – the Carpenter’s Arms.  No drink stop, one false trail, not too many check points and some fine, albeit dark, scenery, all in all a good trail was the general consensus.  Now, to the beer.

It is here our light-hearted tale of jolly hashers, running, drinking and making merry takes a woeful turn down some dark alleys (again).  Beer One – never found the name, had one pint, which took 3 mins to settle and was then promptly told it had run out. Oh dear.  Beer Two – served to Stay Over and distinctly tasting of soap, was also pulled. Oh deary dear.  Beer Three – Shipyard was it’s name, looked lovely, pulled two pints and was told by the increasingly grumpy bar staff -”’s’all gone mate”. Which left us with a stout – something Knight – was dark, bittery and not at all a quaffable ale, but we soldiered on.  Our patience was eventually rewarded when the Shipyard was put back on a little later.  But the on-down beer was the stout.  Oh well.

Wacca nobly accepted the duties of RA and presided over a boisterous crowd.  The Hare received no less than three down-downs, of a fruit-based beverage no less (is coconut a fruit?  turns out, it is);  our visitors were applauded and abused –with one attempt made to name Randall, our US pilot, as Cockpit, no Joystick I believe, though I’m unsure if any result was arrived at.  Fickle Fart was rewarded for the longest journey from Birmingham to London by public transport – nearly 4hrs apparently; Next Week for excessively keen exercising and All Fours was roundly applauded for achieving her 50^th WL hash and received the priceless tankard in recognition of time served. 

Social drinking ensued for many afterwards.  Eric, it was said, had slunk off to the nearby Wetherspoons, only to return to us later in the evening.   Drinking continued, much hilarity was had by all and eventually, when time and alcohol had taken their toll, we called it a night and headed home.

On On! KMA

Note to self: in future, make sure you do not find yourself loitering around a checkpoint in the company of Dingo and the Pope, when scribe duties are still to be handed out. Better to head off and pretend to be breaking the check than to stick around and get dumped on. Anyway, I digress. By the time this incident occurred I, and much of the rest of the pack, were recovering from the life-threating experience of crossing the North Circular in full late-rush-hour spate. But more on that later. The run started with the customary welcome to visitors, returnees, etc, which included hashers from Texas and Australia (who was, I believe, considering joining WLH permanently). Birthday boy for the day was Kiss My Ass, who was duly issued with the birthday cake hat and the bare ass pants. The spare set of ass pants were allocated to All Fours, for no particular reason that I could discern, although this did give rise to certain ungentlemanly activity later in the run. Then it was time to head On On into the wilds of Ealing Our hares for the evening, Ryde and TableWhine, had felt it necessary for us to experience some of the newly reclaimed scenic woodland pathways adjacent to the Brentham Estate, and this necessitated the perilous North Circular Road crossing. Having just returned from a few days working in Bangkok, a city not renowned for its courteous driving, I was fortunate enough to have picked up a few road crossing survival techniques. The best tip, in my view, is to wait for some local to attempt the crossing first, then follow closely behind, but keeping a good 10m or so downstream. That way, the cars hit the other guy first, which slows them down a bit. Anyway, this technique worked OK for me, and I got to the other side largely unscathed, and then just kept on running to drown out the sound of car horns and the dull thud of metal against flesh. It was only later, as we were running along the A40 that I saw the fleet of ambulances, presumably heading to the scene of carnage on the North Circular. But I guess the attrition rate was not that excessive, since there seemed to be more people at the circle than there were at the start. And so we progressed along some of the more obscure back alleys of North Ealing, encountering more checks than a bad game of chess, and more false trails than an Agatha Christie novel. Sometimes, we were even running along the intended trail set by the hares, although this is more likely to have been the result of luck rather than judgment as many hashers had omitted to bring along a torch. (Apparently instructions should have gone out to remind hashers to come suitably equipped, but this had somehow failed to be passed on). To give the hares credit where it is due, they did manage to make good use of the limited bits of greenery available in this otherwise rather suburban environment. On several occasions throughout the run, Optimist was observed flashing at people in various dark alleyways. If he has not been reported to the Police for this behaviour, then hopefully we may see some entertaining photos on the site shortly. Arriving back in the Haven Arms after, I thought, having been among the front 2 or 3 FRBs towards the latter part of the run, I was not entirely surprised to see several fellow hashers sitting at the bar already half way through their first pint! They (no names to protect the guilty) had obviously got the practice of short-cutting down to a fine art. And then on to the circle, with our RA for the evening, Butt Plug, awarding down downs to all the usual suspects including the hares, visitors, etc. A special penalty was awarded to Bhopal, Stayover, and Kiss My Ass for molesting All Fours en-route. (I did not witness the event in question, but apparently it involved some sort of interaction with her bare ass pants.) Her revenge was to give them a good whacking on their bare ass pants with a wooden plank. I felt that Bhopal was probably enjoying the experience a bit too much as he asked for more, whereas Stayover had clearly experienced repeated corporal punishment in his schooldays and was quick to slide additional bum protection into his pants before he received his whacking. I’m sure they have all learned their lesson, but don’t ask me what.

On On New Balls (Please)

Another warm night in our ongoing Indian summer and the expectant crowd of hashers were waiting for the pre-run address from the GM; it was a few minutes before I realised Dingo had started as I was waiting for her to stand up.

Anyway, there I was at the back being my normal inconspicuous self, when I was nominated run scribe due to some crazy story about my refusal to wear a bra. Antipodeans are obviously a few years behind the times and have not yet realised that the equality issue has moved on from gender to personal freedoms – my preference to wear knickers was completely ignored.

The hare Bhopal gave the usual run signage details for the benefit of visitors and we were off. We could tell the run had started by the fact that within one minute Pope, PF and Mad Cow were deep in conversation being overtaken by More On.

At the first check, I asked Butt Plug whether he enjoyed the roller disco, he replied that it was a great night apart from the roller skating; I thought this could be a good opener for the down-downs until finding out that he was RA for the night. And to be honest that’s about all of note that I can remember of the run until we arrived at the beer stop. I was thinking what a good idea this was until the gang planks leading to Bhopal’s barge got a bit tricky in the dark and my thoughts turned to what a brave fellow he is to manage them after every hash. I spent a few minutes speculating, whilst enjoying the rum and coke, how long Pope would last if he lived on a boat as he breaks a foot running in the park.

Talking nautical reminds me of my son’s first joke which at the time I thought was pretty good for a seven year old – ‘Why are pirates called pirates? Because they just arrrrr!’

That said, the run was pretty good, with the more erudite amongst us – some would say obsessive anorak types (Wacker), referring to a figure of eight run pattern with Hammersmith bridge as the fulcrum. I wouldn’t know about such things but remembered that when we crossed the bridge for a second time another antipodean hasher called on-on in the direction of the original out trail.

Which brings me to the down-downs which, quite frankly, are a bit of an issue from my point of view. Hashers will remember that they were held in a small room which could not hold all the attendees. Whilst this is to be expected from mismanagement, it resulted in the scribe not hearing a thing. But I had a cunning plan – I would ask the RA for a set of his notes to crib from after. Little did I expect a crumpled up Christmas menu with the spidery scribblings of a madmen all around the edge and in between such delights as ‘bacon wrapped cumberland sausages’ and ‘spicy coated king prawns’.  Suffice to say the only names and associated misdemeanours I can decipher are (in no particular order): Optimist lining up for a ride behind All Fours at the roller disco, Table Whine being first to the drink stop, PF guilty of eating alone, Pope being propositioned by Eric (again), Dingo walking backwards into cars, visitor Crengi’s nude deli (?!), How Long being a fitness freak and attacking a pizza man and finally Muff Diver (so that’s his name), going across the bridge the wrong way round, upside down.

In my alcohol induced happiness towards the end of the night I took down Plug’s email address (in between ‘beer battered onion rings’ and ‘chocolate brownies’), thinking I would contact him to fill in the missing gaps but fortunately in the morning common sense prevailed and I returned to my usual indifference.

On On, Roadkill

Scribe – KC

This was truly a forest run, much of it in the dark, through trees, bushes, and shrubs, and more shrubs, bushes, and trees, in this green and pleasant little known Surrey village. For a few anxious moments, at 19.26 hrs to be precise, the four or five hashers who had turned up at the George and Dragon were beginning to wonder whether this was to be a village too far for most. With ‘W’ absent from the postcode might those who thought about getting a life have cause to do just that? For a week at least? “But it’s quality, not quantity” roared/ howled/ rationalised Dingo, the sixth to arrive, in snazzy bike apparel and hard hat to boot, though minus other bits of essential sports gear (but more about that later). All fears were however soon allayed, as 19.38 hrs approaches, and trip by trop, the hotly brewed dribbled in, on two, four or more heels (as some Eastenders would say). It was a respectable pack for a run site few had ever heard of.

Ditton in fact comes from the Saxon word dictune, meaning a village situated on a dike or trench of water. The G&D stood guard at a high spot, ensuring weary travellers, city brokers and hashers find it easily in the dark, to receive succour and sustenance after the long, arduous journey from different parts of the Greater London empire. On-outing  from the G&D, the run meandered through the aforementioned trees, bushes and shrubs, first in the light, then half light and then no light, treading softly (not so much on mosturised dreams as on shiggy and early autumn leaf fall), except when the trail traverses tarmac,  mostly ‘C’ and ‘D’ country roads/lanes, and also a busy ‘B’ road on which a forlorn Red Cafe stood.

When all at once, the pack came upon – a fallen tree trunk. This spanned a deep chasm filled with fetid water and forest gunge. The hare (Skylark) had presented the pack with a mother of a dike (which begged the question: Did or Ditton? Aye), inhabited by creatures large and small, including leeches and other nasties like the Leptospira bacterium. The last of these causes the usually fatal Weils disease, which affects the membranes within brain, liver and heart, and is transmitted by animals (rats, voles, foxes, wild dogs) leaving body fluids in the water.

The less intrepid hashers inched their way to the opposite bank, either at great sacrifice to their bottoms, or by reverting to type and adopting the doggy position (for which down downs were later rendered). The more intrepid (Rambo, Impossible? one might add), braved the leeches and Leptos, wetting themselves in the process. We’ll know if anyone had caught the nasties as the Weil’s incubation period can be between one to three weeks (so look out on future WLH3 runs for anyone howling at street lighting or drinking from the toilet bowl). All these brave acts were in fact quite unnecessary as, had anyone bothered to check, only a few yards on, shrouded in evening mist, was to be found a National Trust bridge which any child could have crossed blind-folded.

Forest runs in the dark do strange things to some hashers, like turning into werewolves. Stayover developed a penchant in the bushes for human flesh, devouring a savoury rambo-burger and a somewhat soggy Impossible Pissa, before sweet-toothing on M&M. Others had to make do with the chips and leftover pub grub which the landlord generously laid on back at the G&D (apart from Gaylick who splashed out for  a prime house sir-loin). An early circle ensued (dictated by the train times), with DDs awarded to: Dingo (who else but) and Love D (Forty-All) for coming in joint first in the legless afterwards category of the Bacchus half-marathon; a number of old gits for going on Saga holidays; three doggy position ditch-likkers (with Hobo in the rear); SF and his blonde visitor from Madrid (for just being there, I think); etc etc.

All in all – other than for need of more strategically placed Chalk Circles and FT indexes to permit the more laid back play catch-up –  a fairly decent run at a pretty neck of the woods.

Epilogue: One well deserved DD was somehow overlooked. Dingo, despite appearances to the contrary, was not as well kitted out for the run as she would normally have liked. You see, she has only one sports bra. After doing a fine job of keeping the balance at the Bacchus half-marathon, it somehow went AWOL. “I slumped into bed fully clothed (and legless) on Saturday nite, but it wasn’t on me in the morning; looked under the bed and every nook and corner of my usually tidy flat, yet it seems to have just vanished in thin air”, so whispered Dingo to another hasher before the run. But midway through the dike event, she suddenly remembered. “Of course, it was in the washing machine all along  – along with my dirty socks and mickers, but I had forgotten to turn the damn thing on”. Three days of sweaty stuff in an enclosed space? There’s a good chance it would have turned as green as the water in the Ditton trench, hopefully minus the Leptos. No worries, its about time for some new sports gear anyway, I reckon.

So last Thursday 5th September the WLH3 descended on Duffy’s in Northfields for Run 1455, and did we remember it was Pope’s birthday? Yes, we did! as a crown and tinsel topped antennae were on offer to the birthday “youth”, to flaunt as he hared us round his trail. Pope opted for the antennae, possibly so he could live up to his name and communicate with the powers above. Visitors and “v*rgin” visitors were duly welcomed, the hash always on the look out for a v*rgin, but this one, with no hash handle, had run in the Caribbean, though not on a Virgin Island. Stayover was spotted immediately moving in to check her out!

So off we set, fairly much on time, most hashers already well oiled with Betty Stoggs and other fine ales on tap, (although the Ruddles was deemed to be raddled). There was a sense of deja vu at the start as I have distinct memories of a fairly recentish run from said pub, during which a disgruntled Pope had been particularly vociferous in proclaiming his disdain for that hare, due to the lack of “green stuff”, until we had reached Elthorpe Park. where, ( for those who are geographically challenged,) there were flood lights and tennis courts… So, in justification of his previous belligerence, Pope on this occasion blazed a magnificent scenic trail that was both very green and exceedingly watery. The pack followed a meandering route that took us through every park, every Boston Manoresque nature trail, along the intertwining Grand Union Canal (occasionally not so grand, but stagnant) and flowing River Brent, over Gallow’s Bridge, (no ghosts of highwaymen) and Osterley Lock…through Elthorpe Park with footballers this time, and eventually down a dubious back lane into the green green grassy garden of the Pope. His family had obviously heeded his warning not to eat or drink his Birthday treat to us all, as a buffet of alcoholic beverages, cream crackers and cheeses; pasties and sausages; nuts and crisps awaited us; and if that was not all, trays of sweetly cut birthday cake were circulated. And even though Pope had ‘ad a go at the suffragettes for their pink unidentifiable sweet drinks in St James last week, well, he of course provided a few bottles of rose vino pinko just to live up to his reputation, what reputation? Dusk was drawing in, and the trail led us forth to the, by now, close at hand pub.

Now for deja vu two ! All of a sudden, my relaxed dream like state was interrupted by Man Magnet, confessing , not that she had lost the money bags, but that she had failed to find a scribe…So would I oblige? Great ! to be told after the run was over, but at least I was informed before the circle. Why deja vu? because the last time I was scribe, I was asked in the same place, in the same pub, with same make of beer in glass, same situation after the run was well over, only difference was the then GM Stayover had failed to designate a scribe at the start. On on on ..

Eventually the serenity of the pub garden, (where a few of us were sitting, drinking and chatting) was invaded by an explosion of hashers ready for the circle, called by ButPlugg. Lots of cheers for the birthday hare” fine figure of a man young Pope”, accused of “using all the flour in the cake” instead of on the trail; and “Nazi storm troopering Pope…DZat’s Pope” and other songs were sung….general bedlam; Ozzy visitor, and 69 and 1/2 from Dubai; the “Brazilian, (“show us your Brazilian” pleaded Mad Cow); the Bahamas harriette were called; various “reprobates”, Kiss my Ar8e & Hareem sank their down downs; there was general heckling re: the suffragette run and B Wacker had been observed taking his lady’s underwear home, shock horror; “Daisy, Daisy …” was the down down song for the S African who arrived by bike, and Rambo had to drink out of his shoe for being a sneak … it appears our very kind pub hosts had donated beer; and copious hash chips were available for consumption…a usual good hashy birthday time was had by all and the weather had been fine too…on on on…. Generator

Every principle of liberty enunciated in any civilized country on earth, with very few exceptions, was intended entirely for men, and when women tried to force the putting into practice of these principles, for women, then they discovered they had come into a very, very unpleasant situation indeed.– Emmeline Pankhurst
If we are to be totally honest with ourselves, it has to be admitted the Hash has not always been at the forefront in the battle against sexism and a run to celebrate the emancipation of women is an appropriate theme for Dingo’s first trail as GM. It goes some way to redress the balance and, hopefully, may also go some way towards remolding the attitude of certain male hashers on these issues to something that is more appropriate for the twenty first century. Let us hope that this run marks an end to sexism on the West London and the beginning of an enlightened new era.

The run was hosted from the Adam and Eve (Google Genesis 3 16 if you not see the irony in this) and on arrival at this pub I was greeted by the sight of numerous male hashers in bras and various other items of female attire and a number of harriettes bearing whips and various other instruments of corporal punishment. What this all had to do with the suffragette movement I am not too sure, perhaps our new GM had got the wrong end of the stick and got it into her pretty little blonde head that its leader had actually been called Emmeline Spankhurst. Most the whips and things were fun imitations, but the one Man Magnet was carrying was a real leather bull whip, straight out of Indiana Jones. It does make you wonder what she gets up to in her private life that she should even possess such a thing. Later in the evening I had an opportunity to test it with a dexterous crack across Dingo’s pert little Lycra clad bottom and the satisfying squeal of pain it evoked was testimony to it its authenticity!

The pack was cajoled out of the pub for the start of the run and the bra wearing hashers had their humiliation compounded with the addition of water filled balloons, a sort of poor man’s silicone implant, and we were promised no less than three drink stops. The trail weaved round St James Park and Buckingham palace to the bemusement of tourists and, as if we were not attracting enough attention as it were, we were soon accompanied by Boy Blunder wearing a long blonde wig and riding a bicycle behind which he towed a trailer bearing a PA system that blared out appalling pop music. This was later explained that this had been “girl power” music, though I am not sure what girl power is, perhaps it is a bit like horse power, but applied to washing machines and vacuum cleaners instead of cars and motor cycles. The other items on Blunder’s trailer were the materials for the drink stops, the first of which took place in St James Park. I do not know what the drink was, I have never seen or tasted anything like it before and hope never to do so again, it was an unnatural looking purple colour and tasted of pure saccharin, but we were assured that it contained alcohol so drunk it anyway. The second drink stop was even more sweet and sickly than the first; Love Deuce told me that these were the sort of drink that Harriettes liked, I was tempted to point out that we men do not share their metabolic need for sugar rushes to avert a hypoglycemic strop every five minutes but experience has taught me that logic and facts are both redundant in any discussion with the ladies so I kept a diplomatic silence and merely gave an understanding nod. For the final drink stop we ran across the front of the House of Commons, still a hive of activity and television crews for the historic debate on military intervention in Syria, which culminated in David Cameron becoming the first Prime Minister since Lord North to lose a vote on matter of war, to end up before the statue of Emmeline Pankhurst herself for the final drink stop in Victoria Tower Gardens behind the houses of Parliament. This drink stop was accompanied by chocolate brownies made by Dingo’s own fair hand which we tried to share with a charming young Community Support Officer stationed at the adjacent exit to the Common’s car park but she declined with that classic phrase “not when I am on duty”.

Back at the pub, as they prepared for the circle, I noticed a large plastic box filled with ice. Ha! I thought, this is what happens when you let the girlies run things, drinks with ice in them for down downs. They will be having little umbrellas in them next! Anyway, you can imagine my consternation when I ended up sitting in this box full of ice, clad in a mankini, for the most of the duration of the circle! My crime? Apparently I had, allegedly, commented once or twice, in passing, and by way of constructive criticism, on what a complete dog’s breakfast the web site had become since my self-defenestration from the committee. I have noticed in the past that the fairer sex do not always take kindly to criticism, however well intentioned, for example I have always believed that you should criticize women’s’ driving when appropriate, otherwise they will never improve, but it is surprising how ungrateful they can be in return.

The balloon implants soon become water bombs as the circle progressed and became more boisterous with the pub remaining surprisingly tolerant of our antics, down downs were awarded to various miscreants visitors and a vir*in, who when asked how she had enjoyed her first hash, replied that she had found it “all a bit weird”. What could she mean?

Things did not calm  down much after the circle was concluded, Tango appeared in dominatrix costume  wielding a spanking paddle; the combination of whips and alcohol was bound to  get some Hashers over excited, one of whom slapped On All Four’s bottom once too  often and she responded by giving him a swinging smack across the face that sent  him spinning like a top across the pub, but I will not embarrass the Hasher  further by naming him. All right, I will then, it was Sky Lark (not Eric for a  change).

In all one of the livelier Thursday evenings, so, now that we have expunged all trace of sexism from WLH3 what next? How about a wet T shirt run before the weather gets too cold?

On On, PF

For the second week running (with more to come next week) WLH3 spread its wings to the north west passage of London to Kenton, an area as yet to follow in the gentrified footsteps of some London neighbourhoods as evidenced in the complete absence of tapas bars or posh wines in the pub. Fortunately, the Scots that had swamped nearby Wembley the previous day for the footie had departed (bar Eric eventually turning up late). Predictably a number of the south west London WLH3 residents deemed this location to be too far and possibly too chavvy, despite the ease with which it could be located after a brief perusal of the TFL website, the station being all of 100 yards away.

The hare (Funky Gibbon) admitted to letting his enthusiasm run away with him and admitted to a 5.5 mile trail which as it turned out was around 6 miles according to possessors of gadgets (that they had learned to use). The sky looked threatening (the hare already had received a soaking), but Wacker’s RA skills kept the rain clouds at bay as we stumbled out on a very humid evening back through South Kenton station from whence hashers had sallied forth a few minutes earlier. We were soon on to green top in the shape of Northwick Park, Wacker once again tried to second guess a hare by heading in the direction of Harrow on the Hill (after attempting to second guess the scribe the previous week in Pinner and losing 3 nil you would have thought he’d learned better), predictably the hare had other ideas as once again we went through a station (Northwick Park)in search of (for most) unknown territory. Sky Lark was totally upstaged in the FRB stakes by our latest recruit Misled who hurtled into unknown territory with great speed and enthusiasm and saved the more elderly members of the pack the chore of checking. After a certain amount of blacktop the pack once again found itself in open country where Wacker once again failed miserably to second guess the hare and thus missed the obvious direct route (along with other sheep like pack members) to a regroup at the pond on top of the hill. With a 6 mile trail in prospect shortcuts have to be found. Eventually the pack via commendable amounts of off road found themselves at Preston Road where a second P trail (already discovered by the scribe earlier as a better alternative) wound its way back to the pub via more parkland.

The pub landlord generously laid on platters of sandwiches (hoovered by the jackal like pack in a minute flat) and later on (after seeing the speed with which said food disappeared,)mini sausages, onion rings ,chips (for which there was no estate bottled balsamic vinegar to sprinkle on! )and roast potatoes. This being Kenton, canapés, tapas,dim sum , blinis, sushi etc  and other posh snack food were conspicuous by their absence along with Chablis, Sancerre and Cote de Beaune to wash them down with. We made do with beer (and yes they did have real ale)as we know our place in the pecking order of humanity.

After a decent interval the RA called the refreshed pack to order to punish various sinners and visitors. As is common with most RAs, the down down notes I am consulting look like they were scribbled by a drunken clerk in bad Mandarin so the list is prone to misinterpretation and my memory fogged by 5 pints of Youngs Special. After punishing the hare, Love Duece stood in for the departed virgin as approx the same age. Rollback was naturally flattered  to be deputed to represent a 70s porn star ,Mary Millington who was born in Kenton. Obviously Pyschedelic represented Kenton old boy ,Stuart Pearce (England footballer known as Pyscho). Knickers was punished for loading her plate with half the sandwiches claiming they were for sharing (total B*llox). Our Malaysian visitors were acknowledged. Lick a Pile, Man Magnet, Impossible and Sarah the Snail were punished for various illegible crimes and F**k**g  Shakespeare as a returner.

All in all a successful visit up the north west passage of London.  

On On, Mad Cow

The Queen’s Head, Pinner – Hare: Mad Cow

The date was 8/8. In the Dingo clubs (sorry, bingo clubs) of England, that is always “two fat ladies”. But in the absence of such, and having arrived early, I was able to observe a bit of intellectual repartee. As one does.

Martian Matron to Pope: Last time we were at this pub you broke your ankle, but before then your daughters gave us a great rendition of songs from Mathilda the Musical.

Psychodelic: (Sings Waltzing Matilda)

Pope: Mathilda not Matilda. Roald Dahl you know.

Psychodelic: Who’s Ronald Dahl?

And then I asked Crap Nav how old he was. He accused me of asking him a very personal question. But actually he was just trying to be grumpy and I didn’t think he was old enough. The same with Road Kill, who turned up wearing a grumpy old man t-shirt. A few people seem to be born grumpy, and we know who they are, but most have to develop the skills. Just look at Pope.

And then we set off. A new route around Pinner, with a fair amount of greenery, some children’s playgrounds, and a drink stop at which Pimms and canapés were served. For the uninitiated, what they call canapés in Pinner are what they call sandwiches everywhere else. But they were very tasty anyway, with a range of cheeses and patés which did us proud. A very competitive hasher wearing a Pacman shirt and Usain Bolt shorts seemed to be the first at every check. How Long still has a lot to learn about hashing, but he’s still young and not at all grumpy.

It was nice to welcome visitors during the run, since they were not there at the start. Tako Belle made an appearance, with young Godzilla, who was carried around most of the trail by Ryde, until Tablewhine took over for the short stretch back to the pub from the drink stop. And Captain Titanic, looking as dapper as ever, with a moustache that must have sold a thousand second-hand cars. Other visitors, who were there at the start, included M Diver from Tokyo and a return appearance of Hot ‘n Juicy from Cairo.

All of them were given down downs by Wacker, with Hot ‘n Juicy given special attention as she was celebrating the first day of the Eid al Fitr. Yorky Porky was included as an honorary Japanese and not a Moslem (difficult with that name). Man Magnet was rewarded for blocking the sewers of Kingston with the world’s largest fatberg. Dingo’s absence of geographical knowledge was noted – complaining that the next three runs are too close to each other, just because they are not in Richmond. Dingo is fast developing as a grump, and she’s only been GM for a short time. She’ll be up there with Pope before long. And Skylark, who was complaining about running in bongo bongo land, just because it’s not Thames Ditton. Not just grumpy, but offensive too, displaying an attitude that we simply don’t tolerate on the hash. The skinny white git.

Two visitors from what is left of Christchurch were welcomed. JFK was given a drink, and Becks was given a name for thinking that plastic bottles in a park looked like ‘Co6k or Twos’. Don’t ask me why – she’s a kiwi after all. And I seem to recall Blunder saying something about a boat trip from somewhere to somewhere, but not around the Baltic like Eurohash. Probably rowing around the lake in Regent’s Park. And that was it.

More On

I guess Dingo flirting no longer works for getting locals to write up the run. Either that, or she just forgot to ask. Since I’m crashing on her floor, I figured I could oblige.

The P trail from Ravenscourt Park should have given everyone an inkling of what to come. I think the hare, Called Away, actually got lost setting the P trail, it seemed to meander through parks, neighborhoods, businesses, until finally getting to the pub, which was actually around the corner from Stamford Brook. I was disappointed the bouncy slide and kiddie pool weren’t on the course.

A good-sized pack turned up, including visitors from Belgium, the GM from Saigon (bringing along her very own vi6gin), and a few other exotic locale, who I forgot. Called Away talked about the trail and kept rambling about tide tables and river crossings. What a wan6er. There was no water crossing on the trail, or drink checks for that matter, which would have been welcome in the heat. For a little while, I thought I was back in Cairo, except for the distinct lack of sand.

The pack took off, only to discover that every other mark on the trail was a check. The hare seemed to place them at every intersection that had at least five options. Most of the pack was happy to just let a few of the keen hashers run up and down side streets. We ran under some roads and found ourselves in Chiswick Park, where we scampered through bushes but never ran to actually look at the famous house. Stayover did point out a couple rolling around in some bushes we ran past – trust him. I vaguely recall running through some other parks and neighborhoods, but I really don’t remember all the details, since by that point I was hallucinating from the heat.

Eventually, the pack made it back to the pub, where we took over the garden area. Plug called out people for various crimes, but I had already downed at least three pints in an effort to rehydrate and don’t remember any of the crimes. I am told it was Rent Boys 50th bday. Also, late in the circle, there was an attempt to rename Skylark something about eating bushes, since he not only fell into some during the run, but attempted to pull two harriettes in with him. Naughty boy!

As the hashers departed for the tube, All Fours assured everyone that she was perfectly capable of cycling home…that is, until she was unable to turn on her light and hit the curb at the end of the block. She was ordered to dismount and was escorted to the station. Last we knew, she was still sleeping as she awaited her train. (attached)

On on!

Hot ‘n’ Juicy (Cairo H3)

Emerging from Putney Station, I was about to follow the P-trail up the hill to the Green Man pub when I spotted an elegant, smartly dressed, business woman standing by the bus stop, who looked somehow familiar.  Then it clicked – it was none other than our very own GM, Dingo.  I just hadn’t recognised her with her clothes on. I left her and her lazier acolytes to the delights of the No.85 and did my best to work up a thirst for the traditional pre-hash pint by continuing up the P-trail. Mind you, I think I would have taken the bus too if I had been wearing a pencil skirt and high heels, but you’ll have to wait until the next Red Dress Run for that.

We had quite an international gathering for this run, with 14 visitors from all over the world including Egypt, San Francisco, Iowa, and even the City of London. Our hare for the day was Phickle F, who set us off into the wilds of Putney Heath and thence on into the dense jungle that is Wimbledon Common.  I do not exaggerate when I say that I have encountered less impenetrable tracks in the depths of the Malaysian jungle than some of the trails laid by our hare.

At one point I was intrepidly way out in front of the pack, having just successfully broken a check (a fairly rare occurrence for me) when I heard a distant cry of “New Balls Please”. Had we strayed so far off course that we were now in the grounds of the All England Club?  No, it was our GM again, trying to locate me so that she could ‘offer’ me the honour of scribe duties for the evening.

By the time we reached the furthest extremity of the run (Queen’s Mere by my reckoning, but I could be wrong) the pack had become rather lethargic, with only desultory efforts to try to break the check. So we were quite happy to follow the cry of On On, which we assumed would lead us onto the trail back home.    This optimism turned out to be misplaced.  Somehow the FRBs had managed to pick up the wrong part of hare’s trail and were heading in an unintended direction. Our esteemed hare-meister (his words, not mine!) Phickle F then had to retrieve the situation with desperate cries of “On Back” and the scattering of copious amounts of flour to mark out the new trail.  What then ensued will probably not go down in WLH history as PF’s finest hour, but basically entailed something resembling a live hare run, with the hash-meister continuing to chuck flour and chivvy the pack back onto the intended route home.  Even then the return journey was not that straightforward, with the On-In trail crossing over the On-Out trail and consequently leaving several less observant hashers heading in the wrong direction. Indeed, they may still be wandering around the common as I write this.

Back in the pub, Down-downs were awarded to our numerous visitors, who were all polite enough to say how much they enjoyed running with WLH.  Phickle F was of course made to atone for his trail laying misdemeanours, and Shakesbeer was castigated for not fing-off to Russia on schedule. (Apparently this penalty will continue every week until she does so).  Finally, we had the task of christening Peter, a relative newcomer to the West London Hash.  He had been observed making a plunge into the bushes whilst out on the run, so the RA proposed variations on the theme of Bush Diver, Brazilian, etc.  The hash name finally selected was (I think) Sh*t in the Bush, so welcome to your new family SITB.

On On

New Balls (Please)

Last Weeks Run Write Up Curtesy of Drain Oil An Eric run..and what a great experience. I arrived with Flasher and Felicity Shagwell, now of Oslo H3, who rank WLH3 their favourite London Hash and were my kind hosts when I visited Dushanbe a few years back. There was a good cross section of hashers in the Monkey Puzzle, both Londoners and visitors from overseas. It was good to returnees including Linford.

Dingo surprisingly asked me to write up the run but she evidently knew of the Inflappable Pope’s instruction to Eric to keep the run entirely in Hyde Park…which would keep me on trail. It should have been a simple run but by varying the level of flour laid, the hare managed to so confuse the pack, that they were kept pretty well together..those who persevered. At some stage Dingo, who was concerned that her run-upwriter was absent, was led astray by Spare Rib and lost the plot. Effes managed to confuse out and in trails and Radar was so bemused by friendly squirrels (so wary in Scotland) that she turned back early. In Sussex, we eat them. It was a fine evening but such a shame to see the Round Pond in such bad shape ! Surprisingly, most hounds seemed to enjoy the run though Flasher commented that it was the worst run that he had ever completed. He had earlier got mislaid and went to ask a young maiden if she had seen a pack of runners; she was KC, from Euston (sorry, Houston) on a work-placement in London. Not then wearing a hash shirt; later she put on a Shiggy sock (one of a pair) and explained she used it in Texas to protect her ankles from the dry brush there….in Malaysia we call it bush and Shiggy is invariably muddy, soggy and wet.

The hasherdabber did a good trade in T-shirts later. The Landlord of the Monkey Puzzle was most generous in down2 beers and costing and let me postpone payment after consumption as my coins were in my hash-bag. Splendid Badger, Furtive Ferret and Stowford Press to drink. The Circle was held in the narrow side street and various RAs strutted their stuff. Little White Buss and Alouette from Oslo H3 joined other Norwegian hashers. Stayover punished for the overuse of his inflatable zimmer frame on trail (the committees generous retirement gift) I forget other notable miscreants.

By the way, LWB commented that he would not be going to Interhash 2014 in Hainan because of too many Chinese. Give it a thought; Hainan Province in China, on a tropical island off Vietnam, is bigger than Belgium (let alone Bruxelles) and should be fun.

Onion Ain

You can’t go far wrong in leafy Richmond on one of the warmest days so far. Well, some hares could, but luckily Nutsucker (co-hare FF) realized this natural potential and laid the trail mostly off-road. That said, the hare did manage to trick most of the pack into following a few false trails before we finally made our way down to the river. Then it was on up the hill and into Richmond Park. And what a glorious trail – across the open plains, on into the woods, sun filtering through the trees, deer in the distance, fresh breeze. And just as everyone’s pace seemed to be slowing down to a ramble a perfectly-timed and -placed drink stop. This being the 4th July we were “treated” to Budweiser, wine, something else liquid with little bits in, doughnuts and pretzels. Influenced by the American service culture, all of three hashers served these refreshments across an impromptu bar counter that was a mighty fallen tree.

It was also at this point that we noticed the pack was considerably smaller than it had been at the start. The hare made a late appearance, but visitor Little pair (locally now known as Small tits) and five others apparently independently got lost on entering the park. Luckily (for some) they managed to find their way back to the The Dukes Head, which with its dilapidated exterior did not quite blend in with the genteel surroundings.

Back to the American theme: Most people’s idea of “Wear or bring something typically American” (as encouraged in the weekly email) clearly extended no further than wearing a hash t-shirt from a US kennel. And that was those who bothered. Best effort goes to Dingo for draping the American flag round shoulders in the style of a US sprinter having just won the 100 m in the Olympics. Apparently the flag was stolen, down down for that. Other down downs were many and funny.

On on

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