"Serve the public trust, protect the innocent, uphold the law"
Yup, the resemblance was indeed uncanny - Hawkeye was turning into Robocop before my very eyes, as he strapped on his leg protectors, and proceeded to light up the car park with his 1,000 lumen head torch (no doubt the latest military issue). The assembled hashers peered cautiously out from behind their cars into this harsh glare, as the rain floated around and about in a fine blanket of drizzle.
"Longs 5, Shorts 3, no hills."
After last week's epic excursion [note to the Hashalator - I can't believe it was under 7 miles with less than 500ft of uphilliness…just wait until my next hash!], there was a collective sigh of relief from the hounds, and we pottered off down the road in the usual disorderly fashion.
"Jo would not have been a happy bunny"
"Taurophobia is a fear of bulls, although any agrizophobics (fear of wild animals) or zoophobics (animals in general) would have been similar disconcerted, whilst algophobics (fear of pain) might well also have had something to say about this. Luckily I was running alongside RoboHawkeye when I noticed two large, fast-moving black shapes out of the corner of my eye, so was able to put on a determined spurt to place him between myself and impending danger/death. Even more luckily, RoboHawkeye (his spatial vision night camera must have been malfunctioning) was blissfully unaware of 2 excited bullocks charging through the midst of the hash, hence my keenness for him to lay down his life for mine. Let's just say that from that point on, for the rest of the hash there was some very cautious and deliberate checking whenever entering a field.
"Hah, I told you it wasn't a golf course!"….[5 seconds later]… "what's that flag doing in the ground over there?"
Yes, we were crossing Stoke Park Golf Course at the time, but RoboHawkeye wasn't to know, as the drizzle had begun to short circuit his navigation systems. Maybe he was developing catagelophobia (fear of being ridiculed), or more seriously, turning atychiphobic (fear of failure)?
Luckily we had the human GPS that is Ken running alongside (GPS = 'Grumpy Pissed-off Senior') to gently point out the significance of such nomenclature.
"This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you might know me better there"
After about 4 miles, we crawled through a hole in the hedge, and into a magical world of fairy lights, mulled wine, and tables laden with food. The Shorts had evidently been there for some time, given the considerable inroads that had been made into the box of fudge, the flapjacks…..and well, almost every plate on offer. However, Alan & Sandra had catered according to the usual approximation of a quarter of a hasher's bodyweight in food, which seemed just about right.
"Ah, I'm just going have one of these scotch eggs"……[picks one up]….."oh, they're rather dainty"…..[chews]…."but they don't taste like normal scotch eggs"
The hundreds and thousands sprinkled on top should have given the game away, but it still took RoboHawkeye about 4 of these 'scotch eggs' before he figured out that they were, in fact, chocolates. Maybe his sensory controls were now playing up? Or possibly he was developing signs of geliophobia (fear of being laughed at)? However, most of the hash were more pre-occupied with other things 'playing up', notably their guts as they waddled away from the feeding frenzy back into the soundless dark.
"Is it 0.8 or 0.9 of a mile back to the pub - this IS important!"
There was some consternation in the pack about how far there was still to go. Lots of checking ensued - not of the floured variety, but of the 'interrogating the hare' variety. Luckily there were no 'On Backs' (they would have been roundly ignored anyway), as everybody puffed, wheezed, and belched their way along the pavements of Stoke Poges, back to the welcoming lights of the Rose & Crown. I say 'welcoming', but the assembled Tuesday night poker crew didn't seem to be overly keen upon our arrival, and Roger took the cue, adopting one of his more 'sotto voce' demeanours, last heard when trying to placate the orc-like regulars of the Beaconsfield Arms after one of Ken's grittier urban hashes earlier this year.
"500 not out….even Brian Lara didn't manage that"
Ken received his lovingly-embossed t-shirt, and promptly threw it on the beer-soaked bar behind him [note to self - should we consider having one decent technical running t-shirt for HWH3 rather than a series of bar towels?] and returned to his long-running dialogue about Ebola, bats, and virus protection suits - nothing like a global pandemic to cheer up GPS Ken, eh? So, with a parting shot of remembering Roger's New Year's Day Hash, complete with the novelty Blue Curaçao pannatone (or whatever happens to be left at the back of his drinks cabinet), we thanked Alan & Sandra for their 'Narnia' hash, and headed for the exit. All apart from Hawkeye, who promptly walked through a door into the kitchen.
Now that Colemanballs are a thing of the past with the great ex-broadcaster passing on to the 19th hole in the sky, there is space on earth for a new 'foot in mouth' commentator here on earth…..I hereby present:
Heard a good Hawkism lately? If so, please submit them to the hash, and the best one will win....bugger all actually, but it'll be amusing and pass the time of day.