Over the hills & far too muddy.
Experienced hashers as we are, it makes a pretty poor start to the evening when one’s chauffeur doesn't even know the name of the pub we are going to & after a little prodding (Gerry don't even go there this is a family show afterall) admits to not being too sure about the location either. After a hasty little detour we were late and missed the massed start of suitably chilled hashers, mind you not half as late as that daft bugger Matt who concluded that hashing wasn't half hard enough & arrived by bike so chilled to the bone that he had to get Ros to help help him change – a thinly veiled plot if ever I saw one…
Hot to trot, we followed the seven tonnes of flour liberally spread about the mean streets of Holmer Green and soon caught up with the howling pack, some of which were gentlemanly enough to include us in an early on back & bring us under their wings sooner than we thought humanly possible. The hares were a little put out by us not knowing what we were doing and so dished out a good tongue lashing to Whipping Boy & I at the first regroup, after which the shorts headed off in disgust & the longs headed off into something so hideous I'm not sure if I have the gramatical ability to paint a picture to describe the horrors of what confronted us. For simplicity let's just call it the “Beamond End Project”…. to those that were there I salute you & hope that you are able to live long enough with such painful memories of icy water filled troughs of half rotting horse manure and pus. In short it was the shiggy from hell and after a few well attempted avoidance tactics (sidling along the edge of the path, whining for piggy backs etc) the bulk of the pack realised there was no hope & “went over the top”, remarkably we all came through alive although definitely not unscathed.
To warm our much cooled lower limbs, the hares then quite unwittingly directed us downhill for a good stretch and pace towards Little Missenden, where the second mud test saw us raised in stature and weight as the sticky stuff stuck to our runners like glue to such an extent that I'm sure a second lap of the field would have allowed even the shortest of our members (sorry too much Roger’s Profanisaurus I know) to see over the hedge where Ken's world came to an abrupt end and Lenore threw herself at Roger's feet, let me explain. Ken being the knowledgeable hasher that he is and desperate to add another couple of verses to his acclaimed hit song, thought that he could see “Ade's house through there” so attempted to force his way through the centre of a hedge, perhaps he thought he now had super human powers after surviving the Beamond End Project? Anyway suffice to say he hadn't & the resultant score was Hedge 1 Ken 0, although it could see him hanging onto the Tosca for yet another month. Meanwhile, just t'other side of said impenetrable hedge, Lenore had realised that the sands of time were running thin (with her deportation back to the colonies being imminent an all that) so with the torch she held for Roger getting ever dimmer, she took her destiny into her own hands and launched herself at his feet, only to land sideways up and add a huge chunk of South Bucks to her buxom backside. Never mind love it'll all come out in the wash.
Heading up into Little Boys Heath, the hare’s best laid plans, were in fact laid completely bare by Ade's no show (blinking heck, he even gets a mention for not turning up). So a rousing chorus of “you can see my horse from here” turned out to be a little subdued, but hay, full marks for effort I say and I'm sure it cheered Charlie up no end. On from here we were again hastily directed by the hares to follow a certain path as all willingness to adhere to the usual hashing routine of actually checking it out had vapourised. Down a wee dip and then up an ankle wrecking flinty path towards Holmer Green we headed. Once in the fore mention conurbation Roger, basking in the glory of his earlier pulling success, waltzed off to show Sarah his etchings… and there was me thinking she had some sense, what with her bringing both a torch and a change of shoes on only her second hash. Ne'r mind she seemed relatively unscathed at the bar later, although I did think that ordering a pint with two double vodka chasers might have been excessive for a Tuesday night.
So hares there is a question for you to consider: Did the quantity & quality of the chips out weigh the depth and stench of the shiggy, or should you be expecting some harsh treatment for some time to come?