The WLH3 Doomsday cult met for their last run (well we’ll know at 11.11am on Friday 21 December) in the mesmeric location of the Grosvenor pub in Pimlico. No passports were required as the pack were left to ponder if our last ever hare, Eagermount – ably aided by Queen Viper, would set us on the path to spiritual transformation. We were assured by the Hare it was going to be a short journey to the end of the world, with no false trails along the way, so with the divine intervention of the RA to clear the rain clouds off went the pack towards the river at Vauxhall.

A cunning first check left all but the most hardy hashers wishing the world would end. No-one took the easy way out and jumped off Vauxhall Bridge so with the valiant efforts of the few front runners the pack was off and running again past the sights you would not want to see before the end of the world. The drab culture of the Tate Gallery; the boring home of Channel 4; the towering edifice of London’s finest gate keepers at New Scotland Yard. A rather dubious double false trail in St James’s set the pack off looking for sanctuary outside Westminster Cathedral (surprisingly not full with the Pope’s imminent arrival) and then finally off to the very end of the world – Pimlico council estate.

Safely back in the Grosvenor, Hash Cash decided that all should repent and donate the last of their money to the WLH3 raffle with the promise of a bottle of virgin blood for the lucky doomsday hasher. The start of the galactic alignment then began to manifest itself to the tuneless lament of Martian Matron as the bar was transformed by food and more food and even more food – in fact as much food as has ever been seen on WLH3 since Mayan times. Replete with full stomachs the assembled hordes paid worship in the final circle.

Amongst those honoured were Eagermount and Queen Viper as the first lambs to the slaughter and lo it was deemed a good run. A weary traveller visiting from Las Vegas – UFC and virgin Jim from Des Moines Iowa were made to suffer warm ale and West London ribaldry. Casual was returning to donate his wealth to the Hash as he no longer had need for worldly possessions, along with hash groupie and drink scrounger Daisy. The remaining relic and former Mayan Hash RA, Drain Oil, then blessed the circle and opened the gate to hell.

The global reach of WLH3 was then laid bare with tales of sin, debauchery and drunkenness in London, Brussels and beyond. Spare Rib, Dingo, Optimist and Stay Over all guilty of crimes and bringing hash shame. Tales of further debauchery over the years – a mooning Periodical at the Finnish/Russian border in 1996 (he was wearing the very same trousers last night ); Pope’s n*ked escapades in a bar in SE Asia over 30 years ago and Love Deuce pole dancing in his memory. Finally sanity was restored as the WLH3 worshiped the God that is Rolf Harris. On 20 December 1969 Two Little Boys was number one so it was singalonga Rolf with lookalike More On. Amazing. As the final climax to the evening Stay Over was voted Hash Slapper of all time before Mad Cow was honoured for spending all the hash funds. We don’t need them in 2013 do we?

Finally a big thanks to Paul the landlord for the food and the many free beers donated for the circle – Cheers

On On
Wacker

The pack assembled slowly and quietly. Clearly some Hasher’s, on approaching the pub, sensed the funeral like atmosphere. “Who died?” was not a helpful question to ask the bar-staff who seemed suitable overwhelmed that more than 10 people were in the pub at the same time. Butt Plug was the hare for run 1420 which saw over 25 Hasher’s and a couple of yet-to-be-named returnees gather.

Waddling-off in the direction of Bushy Park we first hit the usual suburban obstacles of lamp-posts, car doors and dog poo. However “tis-the-season” the crazy Christmas lights of Teddington drew some “oohs & aaahhs”. Some Hasher’s are easily distracted. On entering the dark, misty fields of Bushy Park, Skylark remarked it was “like a film, how atmospheric?”…unlike the pub.

There was a distinct shortage of loud “ON-ON’s”. I know I’m new but if you’re up front leading the pack make sure the calls are loud so we know where you are and check that someone is following you! The trial was great though. Meandering through the park in the dark was a lark. The obstacles were also slightly more fun: deer, ponds, ice and the sheer darkness…or as Skylark called it, atmosphere.

Stayover had been complimenting Butt Plug on his previous drinks stop most of the way around. Everyone he spoke to must have heard about it. He’d mentioned it about every 250 metres. Towards the end though Stayover slowly realised that there wouldn’t be one. The compliments soon changed to moaning about every 25 metres.

On arrival back at the pub “the Wake” had cleared but the depression hadn’t lifted. Things soon livened-up though when a loud yelp echoed through the venue as Dingo attacked the pub dog. Dingo claims not to have seen it but others say it was a pre-meditated assault. Luckily the pub didn’t have a cat, otherwise Dingo would live-up to her full name.

The down-downs were slowly consumed. Perhaps the dropping temperature iced-up the ale on its way down the throat. Stayover was annoyed with the lack of an RA and continued to moan, clearly he’d still not got over the lack of a drinks stop. Ian & Matilda were our returnees who are perhaps now overdue a naming. Ian seems to have missed the drinking point of Hashing by claiming to be allergic to ale. I think The Pack may require medical documentation to prove this.

I liked the trail though, well done Butt Plug.

See you all next week.

Next Week.

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This was hared by Rent Boy who did a good job despite having to work within the constraints of having to get the pack out of Richmond Park before bullets started whistling around our ears. Tango was fashionably late and, wisely, aborted an attempt to follow the trail upon reading the notices on the park gates that old deers were being culled using high powered rifles; the Richmond Care Pathway as it is known locally. Anyway, the run write up proper, below, comes courtesy of Pope and is uncharacteristically succinct; normally Pope does not belief in using half a dozen words when a thousand will do and bore everybody senseless at the same time. On On FF

Good run in Richmond park and Petersham Meadows with a self-financed beer stop at the Roebuck. Nobody was shot mistakenly instead of the deer as part of the cull (although there were some suggestions of tying antlers to a certain hashers head). We had 10+ visitors primarily from the Dog’s bollocks New York hash and two virgins. The pub despite not being pre warned about Down Downs gave us the beers for free. Downs Downs were short and sweet .
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The Dead President’s Run
The pack was assembled on the 49th anniversary of the assassination of President Kennedy. Well at least I got that bit right. As the reader will see, this particular hash scribe was lacking a pen and paper to accurately record proceedings, but having been assigned the task of scribe after the event thankfully pen and paper were not necessary. Therefore all that follows is likely to be inaccurate and mostly irrelevant, but it doesn’t matter as no pfucker will read the pfucking thing anyway.

As usual the hares had made an exceptional effort. Well, one of them had anyway. The RA also entered into the spirit of things so we had the tenacity of Lincon, the glamour of Kennedy Onassis, and Eric wearing a hash T shirt with a dodgy looking stain.

After a brief introduction to our visitors, virgins and returners the pack were set loose, and the usual chaos and apathy followed. FRB’s checked, while most of us just stood around chatting. The trail was a mix of city, park, and canal side scenery, some cunning false trails tricked the pack, who were only still interested due to the earlier promise of a drinks stop. Finally after 7km we reach the promised stop….. but hang on…. where are the drinks? Oh.. it’s OK Eric is looking after them. Good plan hares!! Thankfully some reserve supplies were found and the thirsty pack was sated. Then it was on-inn to the circle.

Unfortunately as I have fairly limited brain capacity that is regularly reduced by excessive alcohol intake I can’t remember too much about what followed. Two female virgins (Jean and Laura) were given down-down’s before someone had to remind the RA to put his tongue away and that there was one thirsty male virgin also standing in the circle. One returner was given a down-down who said Eric was the only hasher he remembered (must have been a long time ago….) Dingo was given a down-down for something (being Jackie-O?) Shakes Beer was given a down-down for something (being Canadian? Seems a bit harsh…) and Eric was given a down-down for being a womaniser (hang on…… something seems wrong here…). The RA did a fantastic job of entertaining the pack despite sporting a silly hat and some genitalia inspired facial hair. Great circle, great run.

On-on

Rollback

WLH3 Micro trash for run # 1416 at Eight Bells, Putney Bridge. Hare: Rollback

There’s nothing like a memorable run and true to hash form this was nothing like a memorable run: pavement bashing, no use of surrounding greenery with only moderate views of the river. Likewise the pub: whilst once a standard bearer for H3 food, is now reduced to offering a few bowls of under – cooked chips. As such, the hash is an allegory for getting old: nothing ever improves.

However, the down downs did provide some entertainment:

Visitor Oral S* from bonnie wee Scotland lived up to the national stereotype by arriving p**d on the largesse of others (her employer) and leaving even more p**d but in between provided amusement for all by taking 10 minutes to put on her shoes (I can’t bring myself to say running shoes).

Hobo was shameless in conducting business in hash time and Tango solicited yet another free ride, this time from a bus driver. I’ll leave the reader to imagine the form of payment.

Love Duece from the UAE H3 was a welcome visitor, as was the virgin from Venezuela (erm..got to be a story there). It’s always nice to see normal people before they’ve been turned by the H3.

Finally yours truly, whose heroic derring-do in foiling an armed robbery was cruelly distorted into self-harm by trolley surfing in the local supermarket. As if..