Hashers do it with Stile. Yes, the puns have started. So, in celebration of Barney hashing for 25 years, our hares Truly Scrumptious and Waldorf (aka the Stile Council) set what can only be described as a series of queuing opportunities punctuated with occasional jogs. This was not a hash for big dogs! Or indeed hashers!
Flamey Bearcat spilled the claret whilst negotiating a particularly aggressive stile, whereupon a collective-noun of torch-wearing heroes formed a circle to cast their combined light on the damaged phalange and offer muted tones of concern and encouragement. With no sign of our vet in residence, Crazy and Scribbler went all M.A.S.H like and deftly dressed the wound.
Our vet in residence did later utter sage words of wisdom by explaining that dogs are very much like sharks (really?) and would now be drawn by the blood to anyone hashing near Flamey Bearcat, so be very wary of the wild dogs our hares had forewarned us of.
Bridges too added to the general air of excitement along our route, especially for Sue who continued her winning streak of collecting hash injuries by managing to fall off one of them!! Well done Sue!
The wet running conditions saw a return to real hashing – no views, wet clothes and the veritable transmogrification of smart running shoes into deep sea diving boots. Bring it on!
Hurrah to Wing Commander (aka Zebedee) who was awarded in absentia, a well-dressed Magneto in recognition of diving in front of a police van at the last hash. Magneto, it has to be pointed out, is now adorned with a pair of purple knickers round its feet (not buying General Menace’s insistence that the dropped knickers are in fact crocks – sounds like a complete crock to me!!).
Finally, in a bid to squeeze in another stile-related pun, a big shout out to Scribbler for arranging our new and very stile-ish running shirts and arranging the rummage sale at the back of the pub to distribute them.
Thanks for the brownies (yum), the cookies (yum) and the flapjacks (yum). Who needs chips?