Twas the Hash before Christmas, when all through the town Not a creature was stirring, not even a hown’d. It was the sort of night when Noah was being sounded out for a sequel of his Waterworld 1, but, we were hashers, dressed to amaze and astound.
By god you should have seen us Our figurehead Was Matt in red And his crest A point’d pencil. He addressed the gather’d throng all robed in red apart from a golden winged traffic cone (now that is a sight at any time of the year). “Dearly belov’d, I have some bad news, some good news, then more bad news. (Aside: why say 10 words when you can get paid for 20). First the bad news. It has been raining (to state the obvious) and the trail has been washed away. The good news is, I am running with you (hurrah). The bad news? I have been drinking (waves empty gallon flagon to prove his point) and have forgotten where I set the trail.” “Oi. You’s got ee beer. Oi wants moi zider inzider” came a plaintive cry from the pack. “Nicola!”, retorted our hare, "I have got two things to say to you. Remember your P’s and Q’s. In polite society one says, I would like moi zider inzide I. Secondly, I am not your bar bitch” On that note, he pointed across the road and cried “On on”. Your GM dutifully painted an arrow on the ground for the inevitable late comers. Bad move, as we were only executing the v v v v short run (100m) around the tattoo parlour and nail bar. We emerged back at the Mad Squirrel where our hare re-engaged with his trail (north on Church Street). Your GM dutifully painted the correct arrow on top of the earlier wrong arrow. I was later told by Hawkeye (sharpest tracker in the pack) (latecomer) that this caused some confusion necessitating an early retirement to the bar to contemplate its meaning. Splash, splash. No splash. That was the underpass at the Premier Inn. Splash, splash, slip. That must mean I was (nearly) failing to navigate the climb up the path by Beeks, but, what’s that smell. Beer? Fisher’s Brewery. Too far. Opening times too variable. The steep became less steep. Houses. Garrett’s Way. Hughenden Avenue. Then the gem that I only ever visit when hashing, Disraeli’s monument. Hidden away in a green pocket behind Plomer’s Hill. On on down hill to Coates Lane where the hare wisely found a trail in the fields, otherwise we might have lost a few on the on in. Under the viaduct, where I remember commenting that there used to be 2 when I first moved to Wycombe, around the time that the gas street lights were being replaced by ‘lectric. No time to change. Up the stairs for drinkies. Pizzas galore and beer aplenty. What was there not to like? And a goodly turnout considering. Many thanks Mr Hare. Merry Xmas one and all. And it wouldn’t be Xmas unless you have something to groan about.
For Mia. Why was Santa's little helper depressed? Because she had low elf esteem.
What do you get when you cross a snowman with a vampire? Frostbite.