Run Write Up Rated 18+

However, Dingo’s canine scent and the geographical competence of those who were meant to hare meant that we actually met up in King’s Cross. To my knowledge the West London Hash is so named due to running anywhere with a ‘W’ in the postcode, within the Greater London area. Obviously the rules have changed as meeting in King’s Cross (N1) is to appease those with Jonathan Woss – esque lisps as to a ‘W’ in the name of the location.

As Mother Nature then downed a slush puppy and then proceeded to open her 888 crack and endow the Hash with the subsequent climatic occurrence, 9 hashers set of a trail to blaze the streets of north London dry. 9 could have been 13 but for four hashers, namely Bhopal, Unacceptable, Rambo and Thunderthighs commenting at the start of the hash as “It’s too rainy, we’ll stay here” and the motivational“I’ll see you at the finish” .

For those who did run, it seemed after the debacle of initial hare raising and the subsequent sorting out of that problem, Mother Nature’s slush puppy p8ss down took the p8ss itself in washing away the trail. To believe that Dingo took the afternoon off to mark a trail led to 7 others, with retrospective awareness, produce helpful remarks such as‘what was the f point…eh?’ Thankfully, what Australians lack in culture they make up in memory and the trail was re-done as we ran. Practically every mark had to be re-done and even the checks, which we still had to check as icicles were falling upon our continually soaking hash gear, but familiarity helped us get back on trail as we ran back into a postcode with a‘W’.

The hash sells itself as a ‘drinking club with a running problem’ but this would have to be re-written as something not before seen was to be focused upon my retinas. There was the usual athletic techniques as shown by Stayover, Dingo, Kiss My A8se and even my-John Barnes athleticism of the late 1990s-self but to my absolute shock… for all he was fat and round, for all he does bounce on the ground, POPE f RAN THE WHOLE f HASH (F it…I’ll give him the whole distance!)!! However, he constantly moaned like a bi8ch about the weather throughout, along with Pickled F who did have reason to moan at a driver who nearly ran him and yours truly over as they didn’t have their f headlights on (yes…the driver was female!) . But West London turned to City Hash in terms of our unforeseen running at speed abilities. If this was a play by the Bard, I’m sure the narrator would come out with a line such as ‘If it’s cold and rainy, one f runs!’

Like midgets we ran back into the hhh who stayed in the pub as they were happily drinking what they had already bought some time ago. The 9 who ran went to the bar and ordered their drinks feeling morally justified for some reason but not sure if that feeling can be put into words just yet.  As we jollied and had conversation which included a mention of crap jokes being repeated by Stayover as he went to a stand up show the previous night (I bet that long winter’s evening just flew by!) out of the blue a small group of hashers burst through the door having, would you believe it…RUN. Namely S Fart, Mic-Mac, Charlatan, Spare-Rib and the imaginatively named Lionel had followed the trail re-drawn by Dingo and had made it back. They may have attended late but an enthusiasm of Henry V proportions was shown by the following dialogue between S Fart and Spare Rib.

Spare Rib: “It’s f raining, let’s stay in the pub and drink beer.”

Sperm Fart: No, let’s run, we should earn our beer on the hash!”

Spare Rib: ‘OK’

And On-On to the circle where I would have attended earlier but for Mad Cow’s King John hash cash style of collecting money. Even more possessive was Rambo who had lost his pint, distracted the circle and crieduntil a fellow hasher found a whole pint that was sitting at the bar for the duration of his rant. Dingo was made to drink as she obviously had to celebrate Australia’s ashes but by the time she finished downing her half pint Australia did something more shocking to English eyes and had enough time to develop a culture!

So after more jollying in a north London, dog vomit ridden, bullet holed pub in the back streets of somewhere without a ‘W’in the post code, we hashers pushed towards merriment with the festive season approaching.

Of this Hash, the audience may cry hurrah to those nine, those happy nine who ran in the rain. Hurrah also to those few, those happy few who ran even when late for we are a band of brothers (and sisters…let’s not be sexist!). But to quote Charlatan, to those who know not how to use the calendar sections of their smartphones and to the soft hhh who never earned their beers…

‘To Hash or not to Hash?’ is certainly a question that must be answered!

It was a dark, chilly night in South West London…………………………………………No it wasn’t it was South East London!!!  What was the hare thinking!  We were reminded by the hare that Waterloo had a W in it!
It was the first time I have had to use my tube pass on a hash!   I would normally welcome it but it was on said tube that I got collared with these duties!
What looked like a relatively poor turn out rectified itself as several hashers turned up for the après hash jollies.  Plug (who had just returned from a hash girls away weekend), 2AM and what seemed like 10 other hashers turned up.  The journey to the East must have proved too much for these hashers.
There were not one but two drink stops en route as well as other non conventional stops to look at a big tank with a big barrell.  I had to listen to Mad Cow and Kiss My Ar8e having a “who’s got the biggest d1ck” conversation whilst salivating over said tank!  A concoction of Malibu and advocat was given at the first stop and the second stop was at a fancy wine bar.  I think the hare is a bit of a Del Boy on the sly.  I think he would prefer a poncy cocktail with an umbrella to the pints he normally drinks on the hash.
Anyway, the advocat must have gone to Mad Cow’s head as he tripped over a paving stone on the way to the tube station and grazed his elbow.  Dingo, Love Deuce and I saw him crumpled on the floor as we came round the corner, good job we weren’t quicker or Dingo would have dry humped him!  He insisted the paving stone was 3 inches high but I saw it and reckon it can’t have been more than 1cm.  I suspect he has already written a letter of complaint to the council.    Nevertheless, Dingo, Love Deuce and I carried him to the station and told him what a brave boy he was.
We seemed to lose half the hashers en route as Run to Eat (RTE) decided to pop in her local for a pint and take about 8 other hashers with her! The beautiful and elegant Nut Cracker (k)Nee Sucker (NCkNS) to name but one (she begged me to give her a big write up 🙂 ).  We tried to save some wine for them at drink stop no. 2 but everybody really appreciated the nice chardonnay hence all bottles were squeezed dry.
There were several down downs, The Americans (Cyclopath and RTE) for something American related, Nashie for something Nashie related, NCkNS for something trivial, Butt Plug for his new found role of jiggalo.  I can’t remember any stories but I remember it was a T34 Russian tank with an 85mm barrell.
Oh speaking of which, I heard a story about Pope straddling the barrell.  Glad I didn’t see that as I would of gouged my eyes out!!!

The hash preamble started with a frank exchange of views between Pickled Fart and Dingo.  The email exchange was conducted in the public domain, so was available to those who use and look at the comment section of the website.  I am not sure if that many use this function.  No doubt the people who engaged in this spat felt better for it. However the use of the comments function may be beyond the capacity of many hashers.  Nevertheless it is good to see the innovative use the site.

It was the Dr Who run <<cue the Dr Who music>>, the world’s longest running science fiction TV programme.  Well it is good to know that it has now been adopted by the world’s most populous running/drinking club.  We are assured that the Doctor appears internationally, on BBC entertainment (the money making part of the BBC).  The hash, being an international organisations had 2 participants had flown in from the USA, that afternoon, to attend the Dr Who conference.  Conference attendance, I understand, was a sell-out, but not in the 43 seconds (as was reported for the return Python gig). 

Maintaining the Dr Who theme, Stayover arrived with his roll of aluminium foil, a strange cultural habit of people coming from north of Hadrian’s wall?  Well why not?  He is probably an avid Great British Bake off fan.  Stayover and another hasher created a mask.  The mask was supposed to make them look like cybermen.  It merely created the effect of a person who had been severely burnt; caused excessive reading of News International’s output?  The masks caused angst among London’s general populace. Alternatively had stayover got Dr Who and Alexander Dumas?  Was he the man in the iron mask?  Or had Dr Who been confused with the wizard of Oz?  He and his colleague were masquerading as the “Tin man”, who allegedly had no brain…….I leave it to hashers to make their own decisions. 

In keeping with the Dr Who theme, the hare Love Deuce, arrived with 2 daleks; whacker and 2 AM. But hashers were left to wonder, where was the plunger?  With no plunger, there had been an apparent mastectomy, becoming very fashionable with men and their manbo8bs.  There was a gun, of sorts, it was short and floppy.  It appears that the daleks had a case of brewer’s drupe, notwithstanding the short barrel.  Clearly Whacker and 2 AM had been indulging in excessive social drinking. As daleks they had been emasculated.  I understand that wearing these Dalek outfits was a torrid experience; according to Whacker the build-up of sweat was bad, well that’s a positive, as they may be a commensurate increase in thirst. 

No Dr Who is complete without a TARDIS.  Immediately outside Earls Court Tube station is a “Time and Relative Dimension in Space”device (TARDIS to the non-cognoscenti). To earthlings and hashers this structure may also be known as a Police, public call box.  A structure used by the“Girls and Boys in blue”.  Conveniently, but not arranged by Love Deuce, (Actually, Scribe LD did organise this through Met Police!! – Dingo) a policeman was on hand to open the TARDIS so we can have a look inside.  What is in there?  Well it stored a lot of stuff, but it did have a wash basin and other facilities. 

The run was set by Love Deuce, around Hyde park and its environs, including a yet to be opened fayre, complete with a large Ferris wheel and a radio mast topped with an illuminated white knob.  Makes up for the hashers emasculated daleks.  There was a drink stop of chili vodka and maggots (wine gums soaked in Vodka). Excellent; on inn.

The scribe did not stay for the down down, so sinners have not been mentioned.  It appears that a comment on campanology may have gone un-noticed, but a few chimed in.  Surprising really, as many hashers either work within earshot of Big Ben or from Bow Bells. 

Hobo

Hare Yorkie

A night of almost.  Its almost 7:15, there is no sign of the hare and almost no-one notices. The Hare arrives, time passes, and almost everyone is quite happy to stay in the pub until the hare nudges the GM, at which point almost everyone shambles outside into the cold night, leaving a few lingering inside the pub until the run actually gets going.

We’re off.  Down to the canal and turn left, not the way we usually run from this pub. We almost like the idea until we get to the first false trail mark and have to go all the way back.

Then it’s down the tow path the normal way toward the gate we almost always go through and which almost half of the pack runs past, despite there being no trail that way.  Eventually, we all get together again in the fields where almost all of us get caught up in more false trails – some of the Hare’s making and some of our own.

It was great being off the hard surface and into grass, so rare in a city based Hash.  There was less light pollution, we were bathed in light from the moon in its Waxing Gibbons phase, and often dazzled by the arc lights some of us wore on our heads.  One feature of these light conditions is that flour can take on the colour of its surroundings and become almost invisible, which is why almost all of the pack ended up having to follow the Hare while also enjoying the shiggy.

Horsenden Hill looms.  We almost always run up it, so the Hare has cannily set the trail around it for a change.  This doesn’t stop some of the pack, including Pope, from running up it on the off chance of spotting a trail at the top while the rest of the pack struggles with disbelief and the above lighting conditions until , finally, salvation appears in the form of a road and we can make out the run markings again.

From then on, it was an on street trail, set with the guile of an experienced Hare who knows the area well.  It was never the right option to take the “obvious” exit from a check and almost all of the pack were unaware of how far they had to go until they were almost Home, thanks to the back streets and footpaths used. Spirits were raised as “The Black Horse” came into view, and crushed when we realised it was the wrong “Black Horse”.

Back at the pub, after a decent interval, Wacker presided over the Circle and awarded down downs to:

The Hare, Yorkie;

Love Deuce, for Twerking (“A sacred, traditional practice originating from the Amhara tribe. The act of twerking occurs when one’s legs move in such a way that causes the buttocks to resonate, connecting the participant with cosmic energy. It can be used as an act of communication and also can allow the user to communicate with the dead.” (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=twerking)) on the trail;

Stay Over, for Minding the Step;

Tash, for Next Week;

F Shakespeare for reminding us that there was an old brothel on the trail – to which his after dd comment was that the Pride tasted like the whore’s mouth (before or after? We never got to find out);

Tinkerbell and Eeyore, for returning

Pope, for not being able to distinguish between Love Deuce and Dingo’s rear ends (He also, very cautiously avoided letting on as to which he preferred);

Butt Plug, and his Harem of Roll Back, Dingo and Love Deuce, for almost going to Benidorm to run a half marathon (almost as it is this weekend)

And finally, Adam the Lager Drinker, a virg*n, for doing two laps of the pub car park by way of a run.

As according to Pickled F*rt run write ups are now subject to editing and censorship I have decided that 2 versions of the evening are now required to confuse both the censor and anyone else with nothing better to do with their time than read WLH3 run write ups. There is “THE GRUMPY OLD MAN”version and the” normal” version, I will leave it to the reader to decide which one is which.

The pack descended on Hampstead for an unseasonal night run, most of which was off road on the heath, but being the bunch of intelligent forward planners we are, most of us had remembered to bring a torch and had full confidence in the trail laying abilities of the co hares, our esteemed GM, Dingo and Eric.

For some blo8dy stupid reason our idi8t Hare Raiser decided that Hampstead in the pitch dark would be a wonderful venue and failed to make it doubly clear on the website to bring an extremely powerful torch and then to compound it all, allow the run to be set by some femininazi suffragette bayarch, Dingo and the most infamously inept hare in WLH3 history, Eric. Talk about a recipe for disaster!

The weather had behaved itself and the night was reasonably mild for the time of the year and the pack set out across the heath on a variety of terrain, woodland, open heath, paved paths, muddy tracks taking in all the heath in its autumnal glory. The checks were well marked and not too difficult and all in all was an excellent example of a run for our 2 virg8ns, Amy and Clare and also vindicated the decision of long time LH3 harriette, Car Say No to check out the other hash in London (City of course being a checkless black top sprinting club rather than a hash). After a reasonable length, but not too long a trail, the markings finally led the pack up Parliament Hill with its excellent views of London for a welcome drink stop consisting of port, red wine and some homemade chocolate rocky road made by our very own (call me Nigella), Dingo. Predictably enough the grateful pack made short work of the refreshments on offer and then ambled back on the welcome downward slope to the pub.

Cursing ourselves for not wearing at least 3 layers we stupidly braved exposure and then potential broken limbs on the quagmire that is Hampstead Heath in winter (that’s why we go there in spring and summer, f*wits!). As we slipped and stumbled in the dark trying to find what few markings there were, I thought there’s no chance our 2 virg8ns Amy and Clare and LH3 visitor, Car Say No will come back again, even a City 2 check, 8 miler will be a welcome relief after this latest hashing master class in disaster. After what seemed half a lifetime and somehow having avoided serious injury (no thanks to the idi8t hares) the entirely predictable drink stop venue was the top of Parliament Hill with the same old boring vista of London. You would have hoped that the refreshments on offer would have compensated for the view, but not a bit of it, Eric had already guzzled half the port and to add insult to injury, it was not even a decent vintage, add to that a box wine better suited to embalming corpses and some kind of chocolate flavoured concrete that did for 3 of my fillings and you get the picture. The only redeeming feature was a short downhill on inn that didn’t even need much marking from the hares it was so predictable.

After a nice downhill amble the pack repaired to the pub to replenish lost body fluids with a decent selection of beers and even wine for the harriettes. It was a pleasant surprise to find that the pub had laid on a welcoming buffet of rice, ratatouille and chicken in a nice creamy sauce (Dingo had plainly done some good PR with the landlord). Seeing how the pack hoovered up the fare on offer, seconds were swiftly provided and it was a well fed pack that was called outside to the circle by our RA for the evening Wacker.   

Finally we got back to the pub only to discover it was another yuppified gastro pub charging £4 a pint and god knows what for the plonk they called wine. Having somehow felt guilty about bankrupting the hash, they laid on a buffet for the hash, a bit of boiled rice that hadn’t even been cooked in organic saffron scented chicken stock, some Frog veggie dish and a bit of battery farm chicken in some bland cook in sauce. The portions were so meagre they had to bring out more before we suffered from malnutrition. To cap it all we were dragged out into the freezing cold for the privilege of listening to Wacker spouting bullsh*t in the circle.

The following were justly convicted of their crimes and in the non sexist spirit of WLH3, girly down downs of Pimms were offered as well as the more traditional beer. 

Dingo and Eric as hares, Simon/Casual for hashing once a year when there is food on offer, Rambo for mud wrestling, Butt Plug for thinking he could do a half marathon with no training, Clare and Amy virg8ns, Spare Rib deputising for LH3 visitor Car Say No (who had driven off), Your scribe for being illiterate enough to have to spend£285 on a creative writing course to create these semi literate masterpieces for the WLH3 archives, Next Week for playing with gadgets and a couple of others that I could neither remember or decipher from Wackers scrawled notes.

What the hell is the circle coming to when we give out girly drinks like Pimms, is that why the subs went up to £2 a run, for f*ks sake! Let these feminists drink beer, it’s good enough for blokes to swallow so why not them? One of these days there will be an RA who can a) give down downs that are actually worth recording and b) be legible enough to record. As you thick b*stards can surmise it was the usual predictable trash along with some ridiculous notion that the scribe be enrolled on a creative writing course, well stuff that, you ain’t educated like wot I is.  

On On

Mad Cow

No No

Grumpy Bovine

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.