It used to be that the scribe (previous week’s hare) had to try to remember what happened. As you get older this becomes harder. By pure accident, an alternative scheme was born. The whole hash do the writeup on Whatsapp and the scribe only needs to edit these ramblings.
The Green Dragon doesn’t quite live up to its exotic name, a fact more poignant as we arrived towards the end of the day’s rainstorms. We huddled under the awning while Mia distributed carol sheets. These were built to last and appropriately waterproof. It emerged that Nicola was present in a managerial capacity while absent Lawrence was said to have planned/ laid the trail and Billy performed the remaining role of hare (was that re-flouring or deflowering?), saying that the route would be short (true) and that there would be “no shiggy”, yeah right.
I don’t know whether this idea of 4 hares and a dog was a spoof on the spoof of 4 weddings that had popped up on the tele just as we were heading out earlier. Anyway, it may have been the hare-iest hash of the year.
So off we went to find the “no shiggy” to the sound of your scribe’s shoes grinding down the tarmac. Before too long we entered a muddy wood and headed down towards Bourne End.
Conehead had forgotten his trousers (or had they just fallen off due to recent weight loss?). Alternative hash names were proposed. Mick was so impressed that he did an on-back (or was I dreaming?).
Carol stops occurred at several checks. It turned out that the choice of “carols” was questionable and quite easily forgettable - if singers delivered Jingle Bells on our doorstep they would not get a contribution. Moose was saving his voice for calling the trail because he’d never been allowed to sing in any band :-(
We got down to the bottom of the hill and there was some kind of split. Then re-joined. Then there was another (rinse and repeat).
Wooburn town is a nice little spot in the middle of industrial estates. Apparently (I did not notice) some hashers almost got locked in by an automatic gate. This proves the wisdom of not overdoing things by trail-blazing.
A Christmas tree of Wooburn Green provided the last carol stop. The singing here was particularly funereal, despite Mia’s descant.
Roger’s old ‘ouse was passed as we struggled back up to Flackwell Heath. Apparently he had been waiting years to announce that. No blue plaque though. This may have been removed by the same angry resident who rubbed out the On Inn.
We returned quite dry (apart from shoes) to the pub where the beer was good enough for Hawkeye to congratulate the landlord and chips were laid on. Roger’s ramblings were not memorable but he and Scribbler talked of a Bake Off next week. (Oh no, not sweet stuff that clashes with the beer. I’m hoping for a slice of that garlic flatbread.) I can’t recall anything about fancy dress but I’m sure hashers can do their thing whatever that is.
There really isn’t room to include a sufficient number of Tosca Wild quotes. Click the link to get a decent list. Nicola suggested that: "I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying." might be attributable to our GM.
Thanks to the above pack of hares for the run, the chips and arranging for the rain to stop around 8.