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

More For Less

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”.

On On

Stay Over

This was no ordinary run. Oh no. This was a midsummer run and tradition dictates that a midsummer run shall have fine weather (thank you to Wacker), fine food (thank you Eagermount and Periodical), and fine hares (well two out of three isn’t bad).

The run departed the Duchess of Cambridge and wound its way through the pristine suburbs of Chiswick visiting patches of greenery along the way, it made its way up to Acton Park – which was a revelation to those whose previous experience of Acton has been the less salubrious Horn Road end of this settlement, where the greenery is restricted to the occasional skunk farm – there were fine old trees, lush green grass, expansive vistas and definite signs of civilization.

Leaving the park the run made its way to the drinks stop at the home of Eagermount. Here hashers were given a glimpse of the international, jet setting, opulent life style of the hares. In a rich garden with roses and other scented flowers providing a stunning back drop, foods from the North lands of the never setting sun had been flown in and laid out beautifully on fine table clothes; what a shame it was to be wasted on hashers, whose normal idea of luxury is to put ketchup on their chips.

From the land of Father Christmas poor Prancer had been slaughtered and pieces of him turned into beautiful canapés. Herrings had been dragged from the sea, Salmon ripped from rivers, and elk cut from the heard and butchered. All this booty was piled high and offered along with other delicacies like skorfore, crème fraiche, smoked cod roe, prawns, sliced egg, and dill; beetroot and gherkins; Jarlsberg and Danish Blue; fine ham and who knows what else. All this was washed down with Aquavit and Lapin Kulta beer.

All the hashers agreed that the beer was fantastic but they were not sure about all that funny foreign food. Back at the pub the day was saved as a fine selection of proper English ale was on hand to restore everyone’s equilibrium. Wacker gave some of this away during the down downs and everyone said everything had been marvellous.

On On

Butt Plug

By some amazing miracle Bonnie, who has now accepted that, whenever he is the Hare, he will do his upmost best to out rank the RA and provide rain for his trail, to such an extent that LH3 now request that everyone brings an umbrella when he is the laying the trail for them….. BUT, this night… shock in the making, even as black clouds hovered around St James Park and we all expected it to start to rain… somehow it stayed away. Perhaps the weather Gods took pity on him, we will never know.

As to the Trail itself? It was a fab trail, taking in some great sites and Bonnie had even managed to rope in some coppers to stop the FRB’s from getting back to the pub to soon, and allow the SCB’s and knitting circle to catch up. Although Dingo, thinking that she had the pack behind her cried “lets charge he can’t stop us all”, hoping everyone would follow suit, but alas would anyone follow an Australian into dangerous territory? Lets face it it was that sort of attitude to the forces of law and order that led to most of their ancestors ending up down under in the first place. Once she had realized that no-one was about to follow, her little croak of “we will wait here officer” was barely heard.

Once back at the pub everyone was happy, having their thirst quenched and talking about how had it not rained when the clouds looked so ominous. In due course the circle was called with Butt Plug and Yam leading as RA’s.

Down Downs;

Bonnie got awarded his down down like a smug little *&%^ as it hadn’t rained on his trial since 1886.
It was nearly a perfect trail, good weather, (shock) good scenery, good length (fnaar fnaar) but Eric the… made it back to the On Inn… so sorry no perfect score. 10% loss is normally regarded as the maximum acceptable, but we can stretch that a bit so long as Eric is amongst the missing.

We had a few returners & visitors.
Nasty Bastard from Australia…. Says it all really doesn’t it… AND if one Aussie drinks…..

Marxist as a returner.

Stay Over was awarded a down down for the delivery of new haberdashery which was well ordered but with one flaw. They were all cut for women only… What no mens shirts???? DOH.

Dingo was reunited with her Mad Hatters Hat & as we were bored with “All Australians..” she was made to drink Oz still…. Upside down, although typical of all Aussie’s, she cheated.

Lastly our Australian friend Bondi who is leaving as they are getting deported and heading back to Oz land –hurrah! just another few thousand more to go- gifts were handed out along with their version of our National Anthem. Wasn’t bad either, they do have brains and imagination… Of course they have imagination that’s all they can rely on in thinking they can beat us Brits for the Ashes…

I’m sure more down downs were awarded but the drinking took precedence and warped the mind.

On On

Sparerib

A slight imbalance in the demographics of Southall was noted on the eve of the 06th June as West London’s intrepid hashers followed “P” after “P” after “P” after “P” (to the power of infinity) to a random point on a Punjabi pavement; where incidentally there was nowhere to pee. Brookside Close was location “A” with a postcode for Hayes (UB4) as opposed to Southall.

The On On led initially to Minet Country Park, a borough Grade 1 Site of Nature Conservation Importance, complete with a pongy klong that constituted the first of the promised river crossings. Or possibly this was the local tributary of the Ganges, silted as one hasher postulated with the ashes of the locally deceased. So ming, rumour has it, that multiple hashers may be sporting new shoes next week!

The On On was rather industrial for a while before meeting and following the more picturesque Grand Union canal, where Thunder Thighs wanted to pee but instead pulled a potential new pet in the form of a handsome canal dwelling creature who gave her the thumbs up, she however became much more interested in watching the rat eating a Tesco’s sandwich. Our observation of the local wildlife continued when we all had a really good look at a bloated dead swan-who needs Spring Watch?

Two hashers were almost wiped out on route to Cranford Park… Freeloader’s ankle disappeared down a hole and Guilty went splat. We passed by a Church and all worshiped the ground that Rambo – before us – had so carefully walked on (NOT!). Some wondered how, that without a dog to walk, one could have come across such interesting locations? River crossing two, complete with rope swing, was delightful, being of pure spring water, but now sadly polluted with the remnants of UB4 that still clung to our trainers.

Still rather confused as to the location of “B” we hurdled a barrier and a few gates, ran over glass and through nettles, and hung out around the perimeter fence of Heathrow; it really did look like there had been a crash landing, and in fact there was; Man Magnet tripped on barbed wire, after which there were two conveniently located mattresses for the injured hasher to rest on; she now sports a hole in her shoe, although that may just be an enlarged version of one that had been there before. At some point, somewhere on this almost 8 mile trail- and that does not include the 1.5 miles P trail from Southall station to point A- a blistered Kenny took off her shoe and ran and hopped the rest of the trail like a kangaroo.

On Inn was a sunset affair to The Green Man in Hatton Cross -Point B – phew; good prices for a beer and curry and a hole in the wall near the gents toilets. Apparently this hole was for hiding priests, but luckily for Pope his beer belly was too large to stick him in there. Down downs were rather late, and, taking place as they did less than half a mile from the threshold off the live runway, we decided that it was etiquette to speak and sing between planes, and then down beer as they passed, only a few hundred feet above our heads. A new hash song was “invented” at this disco pub that had music pumping out in to the beer garden … “Always look on the bright side of life …” down down down down…..

Thanks to Rambo for setting the trail and for chauffeuring bags; you had a pretty good turnout given your reputation and the location … but no virgins or returnees or guests so you were rewarded with three well deserved down downs! “Na kaleni, suka”* says Shakes Beer who was practicing her Russian … but I think that was just for the trek from the station to start which took her over 30 minutes!

On On

Turn-Me-Off

* On your knees bitch in Russian

The night was cold, the night was wet.
The trail was gone, the skies a threat.
But hashers ran as hashers may.
And on their way were heard to say:
“We’ll run in cold! We’ll run in wet!
Though trail is gone and skies a threat!”

“On on! On on!” they ran and ran.
They ran as only hashers can.
They ran through carparks, ran past trees.
They ran in freezing, wheezing breeze.
They ran on paths and on the street.
They ran and ran on squelching feet.

“We’ll run in cold! We’ll run in wet!
Though trail is gone and skies a threat!
We’ll run through carparks, run past trees!
We’ll run in freezing, wheezing breeze!
We’ll run on paths and on the street!
We’ll run and run on squelching feet!”

And then they stopped and drank shot
And all began to lose the plot.
They cursed their lot with groans and wails,
“Oh woe is us, for now it hails!
Oh woe is us, the trail is long!
Our feet are wet! The wind is strong!”

They whined and moaned and carried on.
They cursed the skies. Their faith was gone.
“What’s with this hail? What’s with this rain?
We want the pub! Let’s end this pain!
We want our beer! We want our wine!
It’s Curry Night! We want to dine!”

The pub was warm. The pub had beer.
(Though London Pride had disappeared!)
But warm and dry and beer and wine
Changed all opinions. Life was fine.
“The trail was great! The hares deluxe!”
No more the cries of, “This hash sucks!”

The Circle came, as circles do
And hashers drank a beer (or two).
They drank and sang and sang and drank,
“Give us our beer! We’ve hares to thank!
We’ll sing and drink, and drink and sing.
Let beer be poured! Let voices ring!”

The night was cold, the night was wet.
The trail was gone, the skies a threat.
But hashers ran as hashers must.
And whined and groused and moaned and cussed.
Yes hashers ran, as hashers do.
‘Cause every hasher is true blue!

Shakes Beer