Hashes

1002

Micks 500th run!
Date : 02/02/10
Hare : Waldorf
Scribe : Benchbreaker
Venue : The Falcon
Hounds : dunno     Dogs : 0
Recorded distance : 0.00 km
Recorded time : 0.00 min
Uphillness : 0.00 ft

Having been warned off last week by Leslie Welsh, (he was the ‘The Memory Man’ for those of you under the age of 70), - a.k.a. the Landlady of the Pub, - whose recollection of a certain Tuesday evening’s innocent rendering of a few ‘Peter Paul and Mary’ folk songs by yours truly, when last the Hash visited her hostelry, - your scribe was aghast to find that he was regaled in the car park several times by the Hare by “I hope you haven’t brought your guitar, she still remembers you!”.

Clearly nobody recognizes true talent these days! But…more of that later!

Mick set us off very late, - even by normal Tuesday evening standards (usually waiting for Moose, or for Helen and Jo to arrive)..…. for one very good reason.

Dear Reader, (of course, that in itself makes an assumption that someone actually reads this drivel), why is it that every Tuesday without exception, certain female Hash members arrive in the car park early, - get out of their cars well before 7.45, - stretch,  - chat, - and then chat some more, - air kiss their friends, - ‘ Mwooh - Mwooh’, whom they haven’t seen for at least 7 days, - don their running shoes, - and, - chat a bit more, (this time, weather conditions, lipstick, hair styles, tips on reversing, nail cuticle applications, nappies, locating the handbrake and flower arranging), - then, - and only then, - as soon as the hare calls for order and the Hash is in the circle awaiting instructions, - decide it’s time to go to the loo?

As I don’t fancy being knee capped, I won’t mention the culprit………… but SHE KNOWS WHO SHE IS!

Anyway, off up the hill with Moose actually on time and Helen of course, nowhere to be seen.

‘Dog muck alley’ springs to mind to describe the uphill toxic waste area masquerading as a path. This odyssey paid tribute to the entire canine population of Wooburn Moor. Obviously “man’s best friends” utilize the Bronze Age highway to defecate not once, but several times a day. (Incidentally, ‘Twist’ added his contribution to the noxious toxicant cocktail, - after only 40 yards).

Upon reaching the road at Glory Mill Farm Helen duly appeared, and promptly passed most of us who were still gasping for breath and shot off to do another check.

It was everyone for themselves; - take your life in the hands and cross the main road, through the car park opposite, into the wood and then the first long\short split.

Over to our Long-running correspondent.  Well it is difficult to be comprehensive as I had arrived some 20 minutes late and had to catch up – eventually meeting the long cutters around 2¼ miles out from the pub, gasping for Oxygen and in no condition to recognize where we were or what was going on.  (Aside, brilliantly trail marked Mick, the clear arrows were a real and easy-to-follow boon) Checking the map later I think I caught up somewhere near Windsor Hill, after which we turned North and headed for Holtspur.  But in truth much of it is a blur.

I remember Whipping Boy’s comment that all eleven of the ten of us were here and I remember briefly meeting the short cutters before splitting again somewhere north of the A40.  I think we must have got close enough to Jane’s house so that it wouldn’t really be worth her while carrying on back to the pub.  But she carried on anyway – there must be something about hashing that makes normally intelligent people stupid! – but now let us short-cut back to the other run
 
Across fields without any sign of flour, (it was hard for Mick and his assistant Audrey), as torrential rain had washed out the markings, -but on we went in a flash. Holtspur, Holtspur Bottom, The Chiltern Line Bridge and a ‘who’s too fat to slide through that narrow gap competition’ for the shorts’ then down the hill past ‘The Raj Madoodoo Bangalore Torpedo Curry House’ and On In.

Back in the pub, after a short tribute to David Busby, Mick was awarded a suitable 500th Run present, - courtesy of Barney’s intricate and in depth research for the said article.

Was it to be another T shirt? we thought as Mick, with trembling fingers, opened the box, was it a crate of Sanatogen? maybe a Porton Resuscitator, or two, would help the poor old codger, we surmised.

No, Barney had indeed come up trumps, - it was indeed the most suitable present for our dear Hare Raiser… ever, - namely, an engraved hip flask to enable him to revive Audrey half way round each hash, - with her daily dose of Bailey’s.

Meanwhile, the 3 guitarists were having orgasms riffing and strumming away with instantly forgettable tunes (Ed’s aside, I remember them playing Hotel California) in the far corner, as we devoured the chips and, like everyone else in the pub, ignored them.

Well done Mick, the run was all the more surprising really, as all portents of a miserable night before us proved to be utterly wrong, - we had a cracking run over some interesting countryside - and at a fair clip too.
 
Well done to you and your Bailey’s infused assistant.

Bring back that salacious old codger though, with his repertoire of the dirty rugby songs, I say!