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

After a weekend of sunning themselves silly on the beaches of Cyprus the intrepid Dingo et al re-joined us for this trail, all returned safe and sound from their sojourn overseas. But no! One errant hasher had failed to make the return leg and, allegedly, chosen to travel the shores of the wee island earning coins as a roving gypsy. Indeed, after being pushed unceremoniously off a cliff, Fickle Fahrt had decided to stay in Cyprus – whether out of a fit of pique at his brusque treatment, or in an attempt to inculcate him into the burgeoning black market as a palm-reader remains to be seen. Suffice to say, he was last seen sporting a gold earring and a bandana and with a queue of young ladies, eagerly waiting with coins in hand, on the beach.

And On-On to the Kingston run. Numbered as run 1442 by the GM and Hared by the redoubtable Man Magnet, the hashers dutifully arrive at the Wych Elm in Kingston in fine form. A regular haunt of the WLH of some 20 odd years, the pub knew us well, and had accommodated for us suitably. We were joined by some virgins, some visitors and some veterans in the form of the venerable Drain Oil from the Kuala Lumpur hash of some 44 years standing.

With beers to go, and dressed accordingly for the time of year – but, alas, not for the weather – we sallied forth into the suburbs of Kingston to enjoy the delights of Richmond park in bloom. The mood was light, but the skies were dark, and an apprehensive Stay Over (in shorts and Tee) led the On.

With a warning from the Hare that the beginning trail may be ‘a little tricky’ we hit the park, and immediately split three ways into a classic ‘Where’s the flour?’ formation. After some morose milling, the trail was eventually located and the pursuit began through the trees and across the heaths. With the addition of a Hash Horn, we cut a noisy swathe through the Richmond landscape, scattering deer as we went and generally making a nuisance of ourselves to all and sundry. Still, the Hare had promised us some ‘beautiful scenery’ in the form of the Isabella Plantation, and we were not to be disappointed.

Horticultural notes: after the May Bank holiday, and well into late Spring, Richmond Park will delight the visitor with beautiful displays of Magnolias, Rhododendrons, Azaleas and Camellias as you bask in the warm evenings with sunset glinting through the trees.

In a freezing gale and drizzle, numbing to those hardy fools in shorts and tees (Kiss my Ass and the Stay Over to name but two) we sought the sanctuary and shelter of the woods, where to our delight we were rewarded by the glorious blooms of the Isabella Plantation in full Technicolor. So blinded by the beauty were our lead hashers however, that they failed to pay any attention whatsoever to the route and took us back on ourselves to complete two if not three laps of the flowerbeds. Pretty though the scenery was, much grumbling could be heard amid the shrubbery. The Hare dutifully put us straight and we took off, once more, into the gloom.

A grateful pack were rewarded for their efforts with a much-needed drinks-stop on the hill, with a wonderful view of the rain-soaked hills of Richmond, indeed, we could almost see the tops of the clouds, so elevated (into the wind) were we. After Pimms and crackers, both of excellent quality, we ran, hell-for-leather through the heather, to the gate and then the pub, for beer and more appropriate clothing.

After some social drinking and free chips from the bar, we proceeded to a the down-down in the garden, once we all suitably attired in scarves, borrowed coats and gloves. A wobbly and very uncircle-like circle was chalked onto the floor of the beer garden and Jakarta hasher Roll Back was nominated to lead the down-downs. She immediately named Lick a Pile as her second (or bitch as Dingo insisted on calling him).

Our virgins were anointed, (one in absence, but stood-in by Dingo), our visitors were welcomed – from Dublin hash, but his name eludes me – and various misdemeanours were punished. The trail was voted as not being Shitty, unlike the weather, though we tried to blame Man Magnet for that, but she was having none of it. Kiss my Ass was charged with ape-like behaviour after being witnessed swinging through the trees at one of the checkpoints and another charge was awarded to a WLHer who had finally managed to convince his better half that a weekend hill-hashing in Norway was a far better way to spend the final May Bank holiday than gardening. Well done sir! Dingo was called into the circle no less than three times for various charges, yet still didn’t manage to drink a whole pint of Fuller’s finest – which should have earned her a charge on its own!

And so it was, after a wet and weary night, the latest chapter in the tale of the WLH came to a cheery, beery and somewhat bleary end.

On On!

Kiss my Ass

I was late arriving due to a “Good Service” on the District line being 30 mins late, but thanks to the normal WLH3 punctuality was in perfect time. Walking to the pub I was overtaken by Gay Pride who totally ignored me, but was punished later anyway.

The hare talk provided loads of information that was all total bo££ocks. A typical Pope run with lots of loops and devious check backs through the finer parts of Ealing missing all the shiggy, burning tyres and encampments. So devious in fact that we lost? Eagermount and Rent Boy. Knickers was front running again following her high altitude training in the murder capital of the world with Jacaranda hash. M.M is now a granny three times over so thinks she ought to act her age and be called M.G.M. Road Kill did well and managed to keep up with me although I did wait for him after a couple of loops!

An excellent supply of bottled beer for the down downs administered by Whacker, but the best stuff was given to an Aussie, what a waste! What did I get? Chiswick!!

Sometime during the evening (keeping up with topical issues) we started a new hash for the London Area Dementia Sufferers. All runners would be tagged so that when they get lost the hot fuzz can easily find them. Trouble is can’t remember what it is called or what time of day we said we would run, but Miss Dunny Penny has already asked for rent Boy to be tagged.

On-On to the Ulmus glabra Horizontalis otherwise known as the Wych Elm.

If you drink to much there is a clue in the name.

Called Away

Said scribe was so surprised to be propositioned to write the words that scribe foolishly agreed. It must have been the beer! The run was over, & we were already sipping & gulping much needed excellent ales at the On In.
So why didn’t the GM get a Down2 for mismanagement, and for not appointing a scribe BEFORE the run began?!
Well at least the beer was good, West Country ales like Tribute & Betty Stoggs along side classic London Pride.
Good thing I happened to have a notebook & pen at hand, as well as a pint.
however an attempt at accumulating an assortment of opinions from other hashers was not altogether successful as they were too involved in gossiping & the Amber nectar.
But the general outlook was one of disgruntled approval, that the run was better than… “expected”.. ” hugely better than young Gurneys”” , whatever that meant, (I gave up on that convoluted comment from Titanic Dickhead ) & it was no wonder that Pope was pontificating as he reckoned Snickers the Hare had ” stolen” his run.
One tick in the box surely for those using the tube, was that the pub was within spitting distance ( for once!) of the station, Northfields. Also ales well kept &didn’t run out , ( as has been known in other hostelries)

Well, the run was reasonable, as was the weather, cold but dry at least, and certainly very clearly marked.
A lot of residential streets, as one would expect in that part of Ealing,
But there were a few sections where the pack was diverted down dark & dingy alley ways, and past dimly lit allotments, through a murky graveyard, where all of a sudden we seemed to be running back in time into the Holmesian world of Victorian half life… no murdererous screams at least.
But there was an atmosphere that once this area had been the countryside, now swamped in suburbia.
As we trooped through a more salubrious park, there were cries of “what’s this green stuff?” from a surprisingly front running Pope.
Indeed if it was The Pope’s stolen run, why was he so critical of lack of grass underfoot, but might explain his FRB position.
Tennis matches in play for hashers’ diversion? But we ran on relentlessly, where was the On In?

Back to the Pub, the Circle was called,and , well, the beer must have been good as as the “apologetic hare” Snickers was described as “tall, handsome suave & debonaire”!
But he was called in after a couple of returnees, and admonished that the run was “too long, too dark, too much scenery & too much grass”….Shitty trail song followed with The Pope, yet again , labouring ” he nicked my trail”.

3rd down2 was more unusual,as a squeaky clean sporty lady hasher was called up for frequenting dubious bars stuffed with Lady Boys whilst working & hashing in Pataya,Thailand.
The GM got a down2 for running 2 1/2 marathons in a day, wheel chair run in Reading, & hot foot to Fleet in Surrey . One other “athlete” had run one of these, so they were toasted as the “fit & unfit”…
Endless other down2’s :
Optimist for his sunglasses as weather has been “f***ing vile” & days are dark & freezing;
Rambo was rambling about something & rambling more, so Pope intervened “wake me up before you go go”;
Tango had a down2 for impersonating Liz Taylor in glittery earrings, (?)and general beer fuelled disorder took over.
Circle concluded with demands for Easter “0nesies” to be warn at next week ( now thisweek) ‘s run in Wandswoth. Ha ha!

Well, the run had been well timed as it was raining by the time hashers stumbled out of the pub.

On on…Generator

After a great deal of confusion, hare-switching, and pub-changing, Thursday’s run set off from the Crooked Billet in Wimbledon, with hares Fickle Fart and Dingo in charge. Smack The Oyster, nominally named as a co-hare, successfully avoided any hint of responsibility, as any self-respecting harriette would.

Fickle Fart, known far and wide for his love of laying muddy, shiggy-filled trails, is also locally famous for choosing pubs that require the pack to walk at least half the distance of the run just to arrive at the on-out, and this run was no different. As a result of the long slog up hill, hashers arrived at the pub in their usual *ahem* good spirits, looking forward both to the trail and to the opportunity to earn a free beer (offered by Dingo) to the first hasher to beat FF over the head with a stick.

The first clue as to the condition of the trail was Dingo’s arrival at the pub, wearing not standard shabby hash trainers but a pair of well-used Wellies. As there was no sign of FF either before or during the run, we can only assume that he knew of the reward offered for his demise and wisely chose to rejoin the pack only after they’d had a few back at the pub.

The trail was, as anticipated, generally muddy (note to future hares: Rent Boy likes shiggy, and this trail apparently didn’t have enough, although how he would know is anyone’s guess, as he has never before finished an entire run without stopping at a pub enroute) and meandering, taking the pack up, down, and around Wimbledon Common, finishing up with a long straightaway to the on-inn. As is typical of FF runs, this one treated the pack to several false trails, which this writer, being at the back of the pack, was fortunate to miss. There were also several apparently easy-to-break checks, resulting in the pack getting fairly spread out, with cries of on-on only being heard in the far distance.

Back at the Crooked Billet, the arrival of a boisterous group of mud-covered hashers must have caused no little consternation to the posh patrons who were attempting to have a nice meal and conversation, so the pack repaired in short order to the porch, where down-downs and general levity ensued.

We now leave our regularly-scheduled broadcast to bring you breaking news from the Colonies:

The Federal American Reconnaissance Team and the Combined London Investigation Team announced that they joined forces to investigate the Boston Marathon bombings, and the prime suspect was initially identified as a British national operating under the pseudonym “Naughty Nympho.” Despite their best efforts, Ms. Nympho eluded capture and managed to escape the country just hours ahead of the authorities, and she is now believed to have taken refuge in London at the home of a member of the Foreign Office.

In other news from the Colonies, a London solicitor going by the name of “Stayover” was held at the American-Canadian border under suspicion of engaging in subversive activities after being captured trying to sneak across the border on foot, abandoning his car near the border in Canada. Under questioning, the suspect claimed he was only trying to get information on snow skiing, but as authorities could not verify his story, and as he had crossed the border without proper documentation, he was detained for several hours before being released.

This same solicitor has since claimed credit for saving the life and liberty of one Last Tango, who was seen by London police dropping “flour” on the roads of London, and who avoided incarceration only after Stayover convinced the Met that a t-shirt-clad woman of mature years and sporting bright red hair could not possibly pose any threat to the city’s Elf and Safety.

Now, back to our programming:
The down-downs for questionable behaviour began with drinks for the Wellie-wearing hares in appreciation for their hard work setting the trail, and continued through recognising various transgressions to the highlight of the evening: the Wombles of Wimbledon Common, when Pope, Fickle Fart, Black Hole, and Boy Blunder were called into the circle to enjoy their 15 seconds of fame and be serenaded by the off-key efforts of the rest of the pack.

And finally, it’s been revealed that Britain has again resorted to press-ganging Americans, as Stayover (who ought to have known better) and FF railroaded Smack The Oyster into acting as scribe for this run, despite the fact that she is presently attempting to flee the country in an effort to avoid a forced marriage to Eric. Rumour has it that Eric, in anticipation of said marriage, has already purchased clothing suitable for the occasion.

Smack The Oyster has been determined by the Home Office to be of a type unfit to remain in the country and is therefore leaving at the end of this week with her Hash Hounds, Holly and Jerry Lee, to return, albeit temporarily, to America. Until then, thank you to all the hashers of London for a wonderful five years in my beloved Britain, and I hope to be back soon.

On On

Smack The Oyster

Run number 1437 on the 4th of April 2013 from the White Horse, Hampstead

Hares Dingo and Next Week

The open fire that greeted us, along with the Hares, at the White Horse was very welcome on this un-seasonally cold evening. Dingo wore a hat that was slightly taller than her, she had, just the day before, declared, in an email from Cairo, that this would be a “Mad Hatters” run. For what reason never quite became clear, but Dingo shares a surname with the girl who inspired the original Alice in Wonderland so maybe that had something to do with it; Google this if you doubt it. The pub had kindly reserved the area around the fire, but it caused some consternation when some Hashers noticed that all the tables around them bore notices declaring that they were reserved for a “Running club”, but they relaxed again after it was explained that this actually meant the Hash.

A week in Egypt, under its new Islamic rulers, had clearly done nothing to instil in Dingo the Muslim feminine virtues of self-effacement and deference to males as she barked orders at all and sundry as the process of parting the hashers from their bags and getting them all outside became even more protracted and chaotic than usual due to a conflict between the stand in GM Pope’s Mussoliniesque obsession with starting runs on time and Dingo’s attempts to give Nut Sucker and other late comers a chance to get changed and deposit their bags.

Once outside, in an act of enforced jollification, silly hats were handed out to those who had come without, or baht’at as they say in More On’s neck of the woods, and the most garish and camp of those was reserved for this humble author, who had, in reply to Dingo’s email, had the temerity to suggest that a run on Hampstead Heath might be sufficient entertainment in itself without the need for ridiculous headgear. The Hares’ talk introduced several exotic new forms of check, including group hugs and the somewhat risqué “saddle slap check”, as if there were not enough perversions perpetrated on Hampstead Heath as it was.

The trail made a bee line for the Heath and the first check at the end of the causeway between Hampstead ponds. What happened next is a matter of conflicting accounts but it ended up with the pack all sliding down a slippery slope and then running around like headless chickens at end of a very long false trail on the North side of the ponds. After Dingo screaming “On Back” until she was hoarse (we should be so lucky) the pack eventually returned to the check and was directed across the causeway, this was later presented by the Hares as a cunning tactic to get the pack together, well, as we say on the Hash, sounds like, sounds like…etc.

Anyway the trail settled down to a left hander round the Heath taking in some nice views of the viaduct pond and culminating in a drink stop a few hundred yards from the pub. Generally it was a good trail of the right length which stayed off the tarmac and kept the pack together, with the exception of one visiting City hasher who, obviously unfamiliar with the concept of hashing off road, away from street lights and the comforting smell of carbon monoxide, had managed to get lost and arrived at the drink stop just as everyone else was leaving.

Another discontent was Crap Nav, as we approached the pub we found him heading in the other direction with a face like a Lurgan spade. He had turned up late and had failed to find an arrow outside the pub –the first arrow was ten yards away and in the direction of the Heath, who would have thought of looking there?-anyway, not even Dingo’s sunny charm could coax him back to the pub and he stomped on towards the station, clearly not a happy bunny.

Back at the pub the staff were friendly, if somewhat overwhelmed at times, and, after the circle the pub generously laid on free food for the hash.

The circle took place in the pub’s tiny beer garden, down downs awarded, of course, to the Hares, to our welcome visitors from City Hash and an innocence of virgins who had enjoyed their first Hash run, and to a few sinners of which I was one, some ridiculous calumny about me being a grumpy old man for not wanting to run around in a silly hat. Moron got the prize for the best headgear, a rather fetching fleecy number; he had clearly taken advantage of the tragically high mortality rate amongst new born lambs on his native Yorkshire Dales this spring and had recycled one into a hat.

Towards the end of the circle the RA, Wacker, gave the floor to More On. It is hazardous to hand over the circle at the best of times, let alone to a man with a dead sheep on his head, as the relationship between brevity and wit is one that eludes many hashers, and when the temperature is hovering around zero it is not the best of times. We were treated to a rambling diatribe about an article in the Guardian involving some research that had claimed to link patterns of male baldness to heart disease, what this had to do with the Hash no one knew nor cared as we became far more concerned with the more immediate health risk of hypothermia long before it reached anything resembling a punch line. The practice making spurious associations between the physical characteristics of individual hashers and unconnected events reported in the press is a relatively recent introduction to the West London circle and it is one that is as about as welcome, and usually about as funny, as a turd in a swimming pool. Better to stick to the traditional circle humour based on parodying what Hashers have actually said or done, there is seldom any shortage of material.

Anyway, to paraphrase Guns n’ Roses’ November Rain, nothing lasts for ever, not even More On’s anecdotes, and eventually Tango got a chance to enlighten us that the location of her run next week is to be Temple. Thankfully we are to get a respite from the recent spate of fun fascism and are not obliged to don bizarre clothing or headgear for this trail, but, as Tango is the Hare, perhaps we should, out of respect, all turn up twenty minutes after the run has started, get lost on the trail and spend the rest of the evening moaning about it over extremely large glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.

On On

F.F.

West London H3 run 1434

Lick a pile is a modest sort of bloke. He does not blow his own trumpet, unlike some other hares we know,[who could you mean!!-FF] but he knows how to set a trail. Loads of small but perfectly formed arrows, clear trail even in the dark forest, and nice S and L bits to choose from. Perfect length, and pack (admittedly small) kept together well. And then the best drink stop of the year, even if it is only March… There was Guinness, and Irish whisky, and hot dogs containing a guaranteed minimum of 53% travellers’ ponies. All courtesy of Mrs Lick a pile, Sexlove, assisted by the Lovechildren.

Lick a pile does not sound or look very Irish, and indeed he isn’t. It just so happens his birthday coincides with St. Patrick’s Day. He was not wearing green, and hardly anybody else did. West London is not a great hash for fancy dress. Just wait for the onesies…

Teddington is obviously too far for most members of the management. Where is our Leader when we need him? Fortunately, Crap Nav had cycled all the way to Tide End Cottage to do the religious bits. There was beer and a birthday song for the hare, and beer for the visitors. Beer, too, for the only two wearing green (Bondi and myself). Special mention should be made of Hobo. He had turned up half an hour late and then decided to run to Kingston and back. When he was called into the circle he made a stunning impression of sartorial elegance. Having been punished for wearing a flasher’s Mac the week before, he was now seen in a dark blue banker’s coat to set off his bare legs and running shoes. Breath taking!

However, the award of the evening went to Tango. Not only did she turn up on time, but allegedly she is going to have, after 116 text messages, the date of the year! Or, according to some, of the century… Remember, Tango, I have it on good authority that if the blind date fails some offers are still valid. Never let it be said the Hash is not generous.

On On, see you next week,

Martian Matron

Another Thursday night with the usual reprobates, plus another of Stay over’s runners and a mother and daughter from Perth ( Bluey &?). Bonnie assured me it would probably be a shortish run, how wrong he was! He is obviously not wearing out he wife with enough chores and stuff.

The run itself, headed off to the river via the Salutation and Bhopal’s boat, although there were no drinks stops at either, just a check. The trail the headed along the river with a few zigs and zags to keep us on our toes. The pace though was fast and unremitting and always going away from the pub. The pack almost got to Chiswick House gates before turning back to the Hogarth Roundabout and a welcome check. The trail then went up Chiswick Lane turning right into Beverley Road at the end of which the trail went right- away from the pub! Panic struck I made to head home, but was rounded up by the hare, and onward we went. The trail turning back on itself by Stanford Brook: saw my chance to break for home whilst the hare was looking the other way! My understanding was the trail went around the North side of Ravenscourt park which was closed but that did not stop Moron and Martian Matron risk serious damage to their nether regions by climbing the spiked fence. They were suitably rewarded by a Down Down for their efforts.

The pub was good if a bit pricey. Rambo arrived 10 minutes after everyone else being late again, as collection for a new watch for him will take place at the next hash.

The circle was done by Wacker. Downs Downs went to Vistors from Perth (Aus), M&M and the new runner, The Hare Naughty Nympho, Butt plug for his smack me T-shirt And ………………………….Either dementia has set in of I went back inside?

On On

Pope

Pub The Doric Arch
Hare Yam Gurning

This weeks run started off with the turn up of the usual suspects (Inspector!) and after find the pub and setting a new P trail from the map location..1/2mile way, we all managed to meet up.

The tiny running people all set off with high sprits from The Doric Arch, Cheesy Chips Arch with the Hare ‘ Yum Gurring’ setting his first trail for WLH.

We all started well and kept a re-group at the checks well to begin with until we all started to notice they we had turned into Gulliver’s travels and the tracks we where all where following were getting, smaller, Small, Smaller, and Smaller.. until only very very tiny little people could see the trail :p

The tiny checks could be seen ‘just’ and its was then followed by the tiny people setting off again with even higher tinier sprits.

Return to the Pub we found that we had indeed return to the a smaller world and the area was indeed small for all of us to fit into.

A good circle was had outside..

Down Downs for Pope, who retired from the Vatican

Down Down for City ex GM Heavy Pants

Down Down Race.

Down Down for Scaryoke & Blunder for Bromance..

Naming of a guy.. Just need to remember what! DOH!

On On

Scary Oaky

Write up of run no 1431 From The Wych Elm, Kingston, 21 February 2013

Hares Fickle Fart and Smack the Oyster

The usual motley crew assembled at the Wych Elm for what had been a widely billed as a green and muddy run. Our Hare, Fickle Fart had, as usual, roped in a glamorous assistant, this time in the shapely form of Smack the Oyster, who has somehow still not been thrown out the country despite loitering with intent to become a British subject long after her visa had expired.

After a mercifully short Hare talk on this bitterly cold night the run headed smartly for Richmond Park, which was fortunate as half the pack ignored the trail and made their own way there. The hare was very appreciative of this smart thinking and congratulated the FRBs on their ingenuity with cheerful remarks like “Can’t you follow a simple bloody trail you bunch of ******** and ***** and ****!”

Feeling smug the FRBs entered the park and began the traditional search to see which way round we would go. The trail turned out to be a left hander, punctuated with a few cunning zig zags and well placed checks. The trail exited the Park through Ham Gate to weave around Ham Common for a mile or so along narrow shiggy ridden woodland paths in stygian darkness only to bring the pack back to within a few hundred yards of Ham gate again and a check on the edge of the common. The first arrows away from the check led the pack down a long alley way, so long in fact that alarm bells were beginning to sound and a sense of déjà vu descend on those who were familiar with FF’s trails. Sure enough, at the end of the alley way, the pack were greeted with the inevitable False Trail marking accompanied by a mocking message, just to add insult to injury.

Back at the pub Manny, the congenial Spanish Landlord served up bowls of chips and a circle was eventually formed in Wych Elm’s stylish beer garden and our Hare, Fickle Fart, was presented with a naked lady, courtesy of Dingo, not Dingo herself of course, but a cake baked by her in the shape of a naked lady, as he had gained a year recently and a celebration was considered in order. The lady cake was quickly demolished and consumed by a hungry mob. Our RA s offered some stories about exciting stuff that had happened but your scribe has long since forgotten what they were. The evening concluded with the usual festivities.

On On

Butt Plug

Roses are red
Hashers are blue
Valentine’s Day run hared by Boy Blunder
What else to do?

Roses are red
Eric is a hunk
Three beer stops, gallons of mulled wine and cider
We were all a bit drunk

Roses are red
Cheap ale is a dream
Partying through the streets of Kennington
Tunes supplied by BB’s mobile music machine

Roses are red
Pubs are smoky
City hasher serenades us by the Thames
And is named Shitty-oke

Roses are red
Long trails are delights
Moron reunites the Harriettes
With their sexy crotchless tights

Roses are red
Beer is brown
Pope in the circle for retiring
Deserves a down down

on on!
Love Deuce

Run no 1429
Hare: Eric
Venue: Warwick Castle, Maida Vale

The dual attractions of a welcoming hostelry and a run hared by Eric were enough to tempt out the more impecunious hashers from the alternative of buying lager with wads of Swiss francs. Rain was not forecast but duly arrived in spades and after words of advice from the RA and then the hare, the pack sploshed off towards Regents Canal and Little Venice. A couple of long checks and almost immediately we were back within sight of the pub and then, in a flash, away past it, along elegant Edwardian and Victorian parades. The inappropriately named Sutherland Avenue came and went which obviously was nothing to do with our hare as it was far too genteel. Then some more well-known drinking establishments, the Prince Alfred with its wonderful partitioned rooms and The Warrington (formerly run by Gordon F***ing Ramsay) with its circular bar. Just as the prospect of a diversion into one or other looked very appealing we were deposited back at the pub. As it was about 25 minutes after we started, Wacker and others muttered darkly about running round again, but the beer taps were quickly spotted and the realisation that it was far better to be wet inside than out. Down-downs were liberally given to Son of Bin Hash’en for visiting and other misdemeanours, to the Wally with the Brolly (Pecker), for something to do with magnifying glasses and small body parts (Bhopal and Hand Job), missing African boyfriends (Kenny), aimless wandering (Funky Gibbon) and of course Eric for getting the pack back in double-quick time on a wet night.

On On

Funky Gibbon

On a Sunday morning, three hours before dawn, and after weeks of emails from Rent Boy containing invaluable information about the incompatibility of the Swiss National grid to EU adapters and long rambling missives advising us that winter sports insurance that excluded off piste skiing might not cover us if we skied off piste, each one of which was invariably followed by half a dozen “witty” ripostes from recipients who did not seem to be able to distinguish the subtle difference between “Reply” and “Reply All”, disparate groups of Hashers arrived at the Gatwick check-in for the flight to Switzerland. As we queued amongst the sophisticated skiing set, with their public school accents and designer snow gear, we witnessed one of those “Two worlds colliding” moments when a an unkempt and unshaven vagrant staggered into the terminal building to escape the bitter cold outside, his features ravaged by years of self-neglect and alcohol abuse this wretched figure blundered glazed eyed through the queues of fresh faced skiers oblivious to their horrified stares as they recoiled in disgust from the stench of stale liquor, and worse, emanating from this dribbling wreck of a human being that had intruded into their privileged world. It was only later, when we again saw this same flatulent old tramp lurging on to the aircraft that was to take us to Geneva, clutching a boarding card, that we realized that it was none other than Rambo, who had decided to circumvent the need to get up so early by indulging in an all-night drinking binge.

We arrived at the Montpelier Hotel in Verbier by mid-afternoon and some of the more enthusiastic skiers grabbed the free lift passes that were on offer for the last hour of the day and headed for the nearest cable car up to the pistes. Table Whine, Ryde and Rollback’s enthusiasm was unfortunately exceeded only by their stupidity and as the cable car moved off they realized that, in their haste, they had boarded a cable car going down the mountain and they spent the next hour on this cable car only to return to their original departure point. Although they did not get any skiing in that day they certainly got the most use out of their free lift passes.

Fickle Fart was first out the next morning, anxious to arrive on time for his ski class and impatient with the ski lift swipe card system, decided to take advantage of his compact stature and simply duck under the turn style, unaware that he was being observed from behind smoked glass by lift security staff. Only a garbled explanation in appalling school-boy French and a quickly produced lift pass saved him from being dragged off to the local Gendarmerie to get a unique insight into the Swiss judicial system.

Some others were not quite so early to head for the pistes; Janni had consumed so many apres ski beers and such enormous quantities of complementary wine at dinner the night before that it was noon before Rent Boy could get her sobered up enough to get her skis on the right way round.

Dingo, on her first ever winter sports holiday, took to skiing like a duck to water and by the end of the second day had distained of the nursery slopes and was whizzing down the main pistes. In the evening, always the party animal, she invited everyone to an impromptu midnight cocktail party on her balcony, much to the amusement of her roommate, Tiger Bum, who had just dropped off to sleep. Unfortunately the skiing bug was not the only bug that Dingo caught; the Nora Virus was sweeping through Verbier like wild fire and the following evening the balcony was put to another use as Dingo gave a spectacular display of projectile vomiting from it. In the cold mountain air the vomit froze before it hit the ground and passers by were in danger of being impaled by shards of frozen vomit falling from four floors above them. Half the hotel guests went down with the virus and soon nearly every balcony was festooned with frozen waterfalls of vomit glistening prettily in the winter sun. There even a suggestion that the Hotel Montpelier should be renamed the Hotel Montpukier.

In contrast to Dingo, the only other novice in our group, Butt Plug, turned out to be to the sport of skiing what Rambo is to the art of wit, charm and bright repartee. Entire classes of toddlers went down like nine pins as Plug hurtled down the nursery slopes, struggling in vain to master the snow plough turn. By the last day he claimed finally to have cracked it, only to be seen minutes later accelerating down the slope backwards towards another ignominious end.

Dingo is never one to stay down for long and the next day, after her ski school, she joined Fickle Fart on the pistes with his newly acquired companion. Fickle, living up to his name, and his growing reputation as an aging Lothario, had somehow managed to make the acquaintance of a stunningly beautiful Greek lady and the as the three of them traversed down the piste in a snow storm they heard a plaintiff cry from the mist. “Fickled Fart! Dingo, help me! I am lost and this fog is freaking me out!” It was none other than Nutsucker, alone on her snow board. FF and his friend escorted the two novices down through the blizzard, but the Greek lady was clearly getting impatient with the slow pace “Come on Daveed, I want to ski!” came the siren call of this Greek Goddess from the slope below him. “Don’t leave us Fickle Fart!” Pleaded Nutsucker and Dingo, as they struggled to keep up, from the slope above. FF, faced with the dilemma, of either leaving the two Harriettes to freeze to death on the mountainside, or seeing his up-market bit of fluff disappear into the mists below, and probably from his life forever, to his credit, chose the latter option. Probably just as well as the day before Nutsucker had led Neil down the wrong side of the wrong mountain to get the wrong bus and they had to spend eye watering amounts on a taxi to get back to the hotel despite having managed to hitch a lift part of the way clutching their snow boards under their arms.

Our other snow boarder, Next Week, donned a Batman costume and disappeared off each morning to indulge what bizarre fantasies we can only speculate as no one ever saw him again until the following evening.

All good things must come to an end and, all too fast, the time was past and once again we assembled at some ungodly hour to board our coach back to Geneva airport and bid a fond fair well to the Hotel Montpelier and its cheerful chalet girls, who were so obviously distressed by our departure that they were dancing around hugging one another as our coach pulled away. Five minutes later we bid it a fond hello again, half a kilometre down the road Dingo had piped up that Rambo was not on board and, despite numerous attempts to keep her quiet, the holiday rep eventually turned the bus around to fetch him while KC muttered darkly that Rambo deserved to be left behind because he had once abandoned KC in in similar circumstances. Curious that no one else had noticed that Rambo was missing in the first place, don’t you think?

On On

Anon

West London Hash House Harriers
Run Number 1428 31.1.13 (note the palindromic date)
Hare: Hobo
Venue: Express Tavern, Kew Bridge

With Hobo, it was a case of once bitten, twice shy. The last time he set a run from the Express Tavern, I think only Ryde and Martian Matron followed the whole trail. This was because it went all the way to Richmond Park, round the park, and back. I remember taking the 65 bus back to the pub with Drainoil and Eric. So this time, when we set off along the north bank of the Thames towards Chiswick, I stayed near the river, and met the pack just before Chiswick Bridge. And then, as the pack wandered around Duke’s Meadows, I started to cross the bridge and found the trail, at which point Stayover said, “This is Kew Bridge, right?”

I had expected him to say, “A man, a plan, a canal, Panama” on this palindromic day, but no. Not even “some men interpret nine memos” was uttered. Nor the more philosophical “Do geese see god.” I suppose it was all too much for a lawyer.

So we crossed the bridge, and went down the other side. At which point I advised Drainoil to stay next to the river until Kew Bridge. I did the same, as I believe did people like Bhopal and Knickers, who I always thought were runners of a more serious bent. The pack went off somewhere further south, possibly to Richmond Park. But we all got back to the pub, some a bit later than others.

The pub was busy, mainly because one half was occupied by the staff of Waterstone’s head office, celebrating their imminent move from Brentford to Piccadilly. But in our cosy half we were able to snuggle up and engage in the usual social intercourse. It was good to see Olymprick back again, not to mention Hot and Delicious (even though neither of them actually ran). An indoors circle was appreciated, deftly managed by Shakes Beer and Wacker.

These days, West London H3 has almost lost its reputation for being stingy, and a table top full of down downs was provided. These were rapidly dispensed to a variety of sinners, including the hare, and the visitors (Katoi Boy from Saigon and Randall from New Hampshire). Some hashers had started early in a desperate effort to stay in front (Road Kill, Wacker, Knickers). Others (Ryde and Tablewhine) were rewarded for injuring Boggers and administering poison to Spare Rib. Rambo and 2am were reported to be friendless, we were told Pickled Fart was rich and happy to pay for taxi rides for M&M and Butt Plug, and Stayover and yours truly were given an award for I know not what (something to do with Eric). In between all of this Martian Matron tickled the ivories. A good evening.

On On

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