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Hash Trash Hash Number 676 - 30 August 09- King’s Cliffe 

Scribe:Nudge Nudge 


Whilst the Hash Nash in Perth caught the attention of the adventurous hasher, 12 of our number assembled in the village of King’s Cliffe in Northamptonshire. Our hares, Swollen Bits and Fresh As, talked at length about the delights to come and relished at the thought of water crossings and stingy things. Notwithstanding the steep incline behind them winking at the pack, the “On” saw us descending into the village following pink, blue and purple chalk marks. Walkie Talkie insisted that she was brought up not to follow red crosses as the pack twisted itself though the alleyways of the Ye Olde stone buildings in the village. Careless boasted of local knowledge only to find himself rebounding from “false trails.” At one stage there was utter confusion and disarray when the pack lost the scent of the trail with Swollen Bits getting himself confused with the hash signs, “oh help us” could be heard emanating from the pack. The hares were soon back in control and dispatched the pack down a very narrow passageway and the hounds responded to a “back arrow” by a bonding session with the hounds hugging each other.. The local undulating countryside then beckoned with Bloodhound reliving his youth, and being refreshed from his trip to Romania, leapt like an antelope into the sunset, closely followed by Careless. Lofty’s Lapdog brought up the rear dreaming of his sky dive the day before whilst a false calls by guilty looking VIP and Stephanie sent the pack on brief detours. Back on the trail, Scotty with her “Flowerpot Man hat” took a tumble claiming that she had fell on her diaphragm but Nudge was not distracted by his duty as scribe and ensured that all was recorded whilst Fresh As tended to Scotty; Nudge was sure that he could hear the words “flibadobs” and “flobadobs”, or was it “Waddle oo tikoo dops” from the direction of Scotty as she rubbed her thighs. Later, Walkie Talkie had clearly not had breakfast as she consumed blackberries by the handful ably assisted by Fresh As. Swollen Bits did not miss an opportunity as he leap frogged over Her Fault who was tying her shoe laces whilst talking to Pammy (WHO!!!) about the finer points of the evening before. Back at base, Fresh As provided the usual fayre of beer, lemonade, crisps and nuts. Bloodhound stepped forward as sheriff and duly fined Swollen Bits for wearing his transvestite shorts but nothing was said about the red little number that Walkie Talkie was wearing! 

Hash Trash Hash Number 673 Sun 9th August 09 Long Bennington 

Scribe:F N L 


Welcome to Long Bennington, a beautiful little village (apparently with TWO pubs!). The first bit of good news was that the sun was shining. The second was that Bummer had nominated this as a free hash. Well, while the cat’s away….
A group of about 20 converged just outside the Royal Oak. Two virgins stood amongst us and started to look a bit worried when Bummer mooched over to a car, leaned in and then proceeded to chuck various articles of clothing out of the door. Thankfully, it was not his clothing, but that of young Jamie – or, more recently, ‘Misdemeanour’. It seemed that he thought he could spend the morning sat in a vehicle. He has been to enough hashes to know that we would never allow that to happen. Think of all the fun he would miss! With Misdemeanour and Tide Mark now part of the pack, Nudge Nudge, as dutiful hare, began to make his opening speech. Suddenly, however, a roar of a motorbike could be heard in the distance. We all waited, eagerly, to see the handsome man emerging from underneath the crash helmet….Oh, it’s only Diarrhoea. Never mind! With virgins present, Nudgers began the chalk-talk and then, somewhat prematurely, announced the on out. What he had failed to do, though, was welcome us all out, tell us a bit of history, allow the newcomers to step forward and introduce themselves. You think he would know the routine by now!
Once this error had been rectified, we were finally off. We went through little alleyways, up and down, in and out, huff puff, huff puff, check….Hang on – we had ended up just a few yards from the RV. At this point, Swag Bag remembered one of those rules about being able to go back if the cars were in view. Nudgers was having none of it, though, and sent us off checking again. So off we went a second time, through little alleyways, up and down, in and out, huff puff, huff puff, check.....Wait a minute! Here we were again only a couple more yards down the road. I think Nudge Nudge just wanted us to see the type of houses that one can purchase when one becomes a lawyer.
Once we had safely crossed the road (two-by-two, hand in hand) we eventually moved out of the residential part and came into the more familiar hash territory – the field. Then, on joining the road, we saw the most-welcome site of a little silver car parked neatly in the corner. Cautiously we edged towards it….yes, it was on on, a couple more steps and, yay, the beer stop! By now the sun was beating down and we were tired of swimming in Swollen’s sweat. Unfortunately, however, Laughing Boy thought that he had done his hour, and treated this stop like the circle. Eventually, FNL, growing ever more impatient, grabbed the drinking vessel from his hands and told him, in no uncertain terms, to stop talking about the war.
So off we went again, into another field, then another, then another. We had, by this time, become well acquainted with the cows, and they even began doing back arrows with us. It was only when they started to spread out and head in a different direction (namely towards us) that our gracious hare stepped in and calmly did a Dr Dolittle trick, leaving them sitting, waving, and even doing cartwheels at his command. “He does it all the time” announced Dolly proudly, clearly seeing her father as a knight in shining armour for keeping those heifers away from her.
The rest of the hash took us over little bridges, across more fields, and back again into the housing area. The residents there really were most kind. A petite blonde informed the front of the pack that there was a little alleyway just at the corner. Excellent! So, while all the DFLs went checking along the road, FNL and Mutant 1 went round the back of the cars to what looked like a dead-end. Squeals of delight could be heard as they saw the white stuff in front of them, taking them down an almost hidden path. Swollen Bits had also taken note of the blonde’s words (amongst other things, no doubt!) and he, too, went skipping off with Mutant towards the On Inn.
The circle was conducted by Laughing Boy, and everyone was given the chance to comment upon the hash. Surprisingly, only good things were said. Even Dogplop, who had shown real attitude throughout the trail, could not fault it. It really had been good, with perfect laying. As well as the hash being very good, the hares themselves had apparently also been on their best behaviour. Swag Bag, as sheriff, could do little more than fine Doggers and Bummer for teasing her about wearing sunglasses (or were they goggles, ready for her next swim?). Bummer hadn’t been out of the circle long before being called back in again. For what reason, you may ask? Well, today was the Big Man’s birthday. Not just any birthday. Today was Bummer’s 50th birthday. Yes, that’s right, 50th!! Laughing Boy, however, was the one showing signs of senility. There was Bummer, in the middle because it was his birthday, and the Laughing One wants to know what song we should sing to him. Erm…? Bless! Anyway, the birthday boy’s cup was filled (with, of course, the obligatory slice of cake) and, while he poured what looked like the remnants of a Greek toilet down his neck, SB and LRO sprayed him with the good stuff (well, actually it wasn’t champagne, just cheap lager, but it’s the thought that counts!). Happy Birthday Big Man! On on.



Hash Trash Hash Number 672 Sun 2nd August 09 Thornhaugh 

Scribe:Bummer 


A warm August am and the good of Rutland Hash gathered in Thornhaugh, the rest were well not worthy of print, Even Pammy was on her feet, hell of a honeymoon eleven months! We filled the best kept village, a shame theirs no room for anyone to visit, no wonder its well kept. We set off through the farm and out into the fields past a local dog walker" Christ outsiders”. check one was soon happening, did I mention I had walked this trail, one in the bank for emergencies. Despite parental briefing Happy wasn’t going any further than required and strided off the checks with confidence and most of us wise hounds. A few back arrows up the side of the wood round the top a few more back arrows we emerged pasted the old motor museum older members smiled as they thought of all the mischief they had been up too many years before in those old wrecks, some had messed about in old cars as well!
Now past the chicken sheds and on on to the beer stop, those of us that knew where we were hoped in was on inn down the road, wrong that was only for the short cutters, we should of known better it was a Mr and Mrs On Pres lay and despite his dodgy knees he still likes to take in the entire district. Across the A47 and on to Cooks hole which back in the winter was full of s, h, one, t about knee deep with a squealing Bugs and lots of Heffers in the mix. How disappointing today a gentle stream a little cowclap and no effers,just a little effing as Mudders through a couple of well aimed stones into the mire creating a splash or two. Back across the A47 a couple of fields and it was all over we thought? Farmer Giles was on the warpath as his combine harvesters were on the move which caused havoc in the narrow street much re-ajustment and shuffling of hashers cars. Peace at last circle oh no not a chance Mr Giles gets another toy out big sprayer and some hashers did another length of Thornhaugh to move the car again, get off my trail farmer Giles and stick to your land, he wanted it all. Circle Beer Crisps Nuts jolly good job all round not a bloody combine harvester in sight, went home, depressed next Hash I would be fifty!!!! Can’t be right they must have missed some years. on on Bummer 

Hash Trash Hash Number 671 Sun 26th July 09 Thorpe Meadow 

Scribe:Mudplug 


Welcome back Mutant and Reargunner! A small but perfectly formed group gathered for Hash 671, our first time at Thorpe Meadows. Bloodhound was in charge and it was appropriate that on this, his 107th outing as hare, that we were in one of his favourite locations. But where was his orange t-shirt, we all wondered? Also in attendance was Gilbert, who we hadn’t seen for many weeks. Not only was he on time, he was in fact early. This was most odd. Along with the returners we had a virgin, Stephanie, who has elected to try hashing as part of her new lifestyle. Be warned: the other stuff may seem dull in comparison and, before you know it, you’ll be bitten by the hash bug. It has bitten all of us, and some of us are still scratching. Off we went. We had been warned that there would be long legs, but the long legs were medium sized and the normal legs were short. Not as short as Mutant’s, you understand, but short all the same. We trotted along about half of the length of the rowing course before turning left to the river. On its banks was laying a strange thing. It was a concrete boat and Mutant and Laughing Boy reminisced about the wisdom of them. Both had sailed upon concrete boats as lads. Steam-driven concrete boats, apparently, and boats made of papyrus, and marble, and bronze, probably. We followed the river to a bridge and, in the traditional manner, crossed it when we came to it. There were paths, there were forested tracks, and there were splendid avenues through grassy fields. There was a check at the edge of an enormous sports field. I got quite excited because the first blob was on and we had to spread out to find it like explorers, or great white hunters. It was quite thrilling, but only for a second or so because it was quickly spotted. Darn it. On we went, past the second star to the right and straight on till morning. Only fifty minutes after we had set off we found ourselves crossing a second bridge and there, like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow (only not buried) was the Boathouse pub and, just beyond it, the On Inn. At the circle, it all went a bit weird. Family Nudge, who had been to Blackpool even though they have money, may have bought some drugs whilst there. Scotty criticized the hash for its obstacles, even though there were none. Dolly complemented the hash for its artefacts, whatever they were. A typical batch of fines followed, awarded by Bummer the sheriff. These included such stalwarts as Mutant, Swinger and Fresh As, accused of shortcutting. As if. Finally, Scotty had some birthday cake (for her birthday) drizzled into her lager. She didn’t really want to drink it that way, though, and so Swinger who, foolishly stood behind her, got showered with it instead. His eyes went wide as he was splattered in beer, chocolate and cake. Then he stood there for a moment, all open-mouthed as bits of food slowly dripped off him. “You’ve never done that before”, he mumbled, with a bit of a wobbly lip. A lesson for us all there then. On on. 

Hash Trash Hash Number 670 Sun 19th July 09 Fotheringhay 

Scribe:Mudplug 


We arrived in the beautiful village of Fotheringhay – the first time that any of us had visited. Or so we thought. We were informed by our glamorous hare that Fotheringhay was where Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded. It turns out that Laughing Boy was there, in short trousers, to witness the event. Swollen Bob arrived in a funny little vehicle again. He seems to be at the back of the queue every Friday when the salesmen choose their free cars for the weekend. Nonetheless, FNL happily jumped in it later, since she’s always up for a ride with Bob. What a lovely place Fotheringhay looked, but we weren’t going to see much of it. We would spend the next three hours out in them there fields. Sure enough, we were off. Soon, the naughty schoolboys came out to play. Doggers and the Swollen One had brought their own chalk! Snigger! And so extra back arrows cropped up all over the place, for Bloodhound, for everyone, and even for FNL, our solo and somewhat surprised hare. “Oi diven’t remember laying thaaat” she was heard to say. Because we had a teacher in charge, precise, perfectly circular checks followed. The hash was also made to line up and hold hands and then marshalled carefully across roads. It felt like we were out on a school trip – a long, hot, dry, exhausting school trip of the sort that Bloodhound used to go on between the wars. We found and enjoyed a short bit of nikky-nakky-noo into another field and ended up at a checkback which disappointed Squeakers so much that she swore loudly, spoiling her whiter-than-white image. The route went across a river, and it was as if she wanted to plunge headlong into it. Little did she know that her chance would come. We emerged from the obligatory sewage farm and found ourselves in Woodnewton. Some burly chaps were busy mending a fence (which is what country folk do) and they tugged their forelocks at us as we ran past and into the beerstop. We all had a nice drink from the back of FNL’s car – all except Fresh As, that is. Where was Fresh As, we wondered? “Oh look”, someone said, “she’s spotted the burly menfolk with their broad shoulders and with their big tools out”. It sounded like Fresh As was discussing how to get her bush fixed. Meanwhile, the kids came out to play again. Doggers and Bloodhound were off into the playground and fighting like teenagers on the swings. Canary had had enough of these shenanigans: “Where’s that Fotheringhay church?” he said. “I want to be back at the church”. Perhaps he’d come over all religious? “That’s where the beer is”, he added, so perhaps not. Sometime later, we approached a stile and we were warned that the route beyond was covered in brambles. The hare (because she is a caring sort of hare) apologized for not cutting the worst of it back. We all thought it, but only Swollen Bob found it necessary to say it: “Haven’t you trimmed your bush?” he asked, predictably. Chortle. “Where’s that church?” asked Canary Boy. “I need to see the church”. I’m sure his bottom lip quivered a bit as he said this. One of many short cuts was announced, and Happy Feet and Laughing Boy skipped off along it whilst the rest of us mooched off around another dozen acres of field. Between the two groups a combine harvester chuntered along doing threshing or somesuch thing. When we met again, Happy Feet was a bit down, and said that the Laughing One had entertained her with tales of crop rotation techniques from the 19th Century. “I don’t want to do any more short cuts”, she said. “Where’s that church?” asked Canary Boy, again. Instead of a church, we found a check. The first blob was on and was spotted on the riverbank. The second blob was plainly in view on the far side. Between the two was a deep, wide, raging torrent of water (well, sort of). Some brave souls linked arms, took off all their clothes, inflated them like lifejackets and set off into the fierce wall of water. Others - and they know who they are - trip-trapped over the bridge like big girls. The troll wasn’t even at home, probably having been swept away in the flood. Step forward Swag Bag. Never one to do things by halves, she attempted to tread carefully into the choppy waters. Instead, she tripped on a blade of grass and showed us a near-perfect swallow dive, in that she dived into the swollen river and then tried to swallow it. Having sat in the water for a while looking sorry for herself, she trudged back to the On Inn with very wet pants. Normally it’s only me that does that. “Where’s that church?” I heard Canary Boy ask, yet again. The circle was held in a cabbage patch. Blakey was sheriff, and she handed out fines to Bummer for his traditional short-cutting, to the pseudo-hares, to Bloodhound and Doggers for playing in the play area, to Fresh As for talking (a little harsh, perhaps) and to Swag for trying to swim the hash. Her Fault, meanwhile, had remained quiet throughout. She may have had a late night. Having had a sniff of Stella, a big smile appeared, she peeled her eyes open, and she was back amongst friends. It had been Swollen Bob’s birthday, so he drank beer, cake and nuts from the peanut pot. As a late birthday present, I let him do this with his hand up my pipe. This made us all smile. “Where on earth is that church?” I heard Canary Boy mutter as he wandered off. On on. 

Hash Trash Hash Number 669 Sun 12th July 09 South Witham 

Scribe:Mudplug 


First to arrive was Dave the virgin. What was going through his mind as he sat alone, amongst the aftermath of yesterday’s wedding at the Village Hall? Was this some elaborate con-trick? Were we all round his house rifling through his jewellery or, worse still, were we watching him from behind a fence, giggling? Fear not. As 10am approached, the motley crew that is the Rutland Hash began to arrive, as did our wonderful hares – all five of them. This promised to be some hash. Oldest Swinger was last hare to arrive, which would be a recurring theme throughout. Also making an appearance were Hash Harlot, Giggles and her totty, Ben, Knickerdorfe, Manuel, and the small clangers. None of these had been seen for some time and so were in line for a free drink. Twenty-four of us were there at this point, and Soup Dragon stepped up to brief us. Swinger was having to be quite careful. With the virgin briefed and introduced, we set off around the sports field that always features in a South Witham hash. We always expect to leave it at the opposite corner but somehow we always do a complete circuit before escaping over the river. Around another huge field we went and then found ourselves cleverly back at one corner of the sports field. It was here that we met our twenty-fifth hasher and latecomer in the shape of Walkie Talkie, who hadn’t been seen for a year or so. Squeakers ruined her spotless reputation by ignoring a walking check and then pretending to be deaf and blind. We stopped at a check outside Dragon’s house – being the home of three of the hares - but there was no drink stop. Apparently every beer seller in the land was shut by the time the idea of a beerstop emerged. Hmmm. We went past Bummer’s house too - still no beer - and into a field of cows and bulls. One animal managed to sneak up on Bugs, who let out the most girly scream ever heard. We were being surrounded by frisky, very inquisitive bulls. We had just about got to safety when Squeakers continued to blot her record by misidentifying three blobs of cow dung as a false trail, and in so doing she made us run back into the fat, mad animals. The cows and bulls were there, too. Once we’d escaped the mad beef, we set off around the biggest field in Eastern England. I’m not saying that it was a flog, but we were tempted to throw ourselves under vehicles when we reached the A1. We did three sides of what Laughing Boy (an ex-farmer, possibly) estimated to be twenty acres, but what I reckon was nearer a billion. It was at this point that Swinger began to go quiet and then mooched off on his own, down the trail. Was he okay, FNL wondered? Was he gay, we all thought? It turns out he was suffering from the run or, rather, the runs. How we chuckled at the thought of him being many yards (in fact a billion acres) from home, with unexpected issues to take care of. Anyhow, the end of the field extravaganza was the route home, and we happily pottered back through town to the On Inn and the circle. The circle was held in Swinger’s garden, close to his toilet. Last time we were there the police turned up accusing us of breach of the peace. That was when we used to sing. There would be no such drama today. The darker comments about the hash included “too dry”, “unimaginative”, a drag”, and, tellingly, “sedate”. Happy Feet criticized it for not having a beer stop which, for a seven-year old, is quite perceptive. Dave liked it though, declaring it “jolly good fun”. I liked it too, but then I am a simpleton. Laughing Boy was sheriff, but I’ll spare you the details. Suffice to say that by the time we got round to fining anyone, I’d lost the will to breath and most others were asleep. Beer was drunk by Manuel who is now a professor or somesuch thing, by VIP and the Harlot who had birthdays, by Giggles and Ben for heavy petting in the circle, by me, Diarrhoea and some other people for trumped-up charges and, finally, by Walkie Talkie for missing 52 hashes. Amongst those had been one or two good ones. Well, one at least. Actually, on second thoughts, maybe not. On on. 

Hash Trash Hash Number 667 Sun 28th June 09 Bottesford 

Scribe:Mudplug 


Family Nudge are hares amongst hares, you know. Not only had Nudgers provided clear instructions to the RV, but there he was, this warm and bright Sunday morning, standing on the corner of the road, either providing last minute guidance to drivers, or soliciting. Who knows? I think this was the first time that Rutland had visited Bottesford, but what a fine and interesting location it is. The hash had been researched to within an inch of its life, as we were later to discover. Meanwhile, we gathered in the car park of what appeared to be the local mental asylum. People in dubious dress wandered around, muttering to themselves. I saw one man open his garage, don gardening gloves and wellington boots (in June, remember) and get out an enormous rake. With great ceremony and lots of huffing and puffing, and with his wife talking him onto it, he then swept up one leaf from his front garden, before putting all the kit away again. One leaf! This was the same man who, snappily dressed in plastic tracksuit trousers and a Notts Forest shirt, had shouted at Jamie and Adam for sitting on the community’s wall. He did this from a great distance, by the way, causing widespread alarm. Apparently they don’t like that sort of rebellious behaviour around there. Having gathered the hashers, we took the group photo whilst standing, sitting, lying and generally cavorting around on the same wall. Let’s hope Mr Busybody doesn’t look at this website, or else my name will be Muds. Oh, it already is. Anyway, we were off on our journey, and what an interesting journey it was. We visited the railway station and the town centre. We tootled around housing estates and along interesting footpaths. We crossed fields and we encountered flora (I couldn’t believe it wasn’t butter) and fauna. One footpath was so overgrown with pollen dispensing plants, it actually made people cry and sneeze and nearly die, probably. I lost my way completely. I thought I had it at one point, but this was just an enormous checkback thingy. How we love those. As far as I was concerned, we went miles and miles in one direction, never turning and having no hope of getting back, ever. How wrong I was. Thank goodness I’m not paid lots of money for my sense of direction. Oh, sorry, I am. About halfway we had a very welcome beerstop served with a plumb from the boot of one of the Nudge Nudge fleet of cars. This was one of those complex hashes where we are obliged to run almost up our own exhaust pipes, apparently going miles but never venturing more than four feet from where we began. There were plenty of short cuts on offer, with the glamorous Scotty willing to accompany those taking them. Dolly skipped along merrily, seemingly not missing her potential fiancé at all. Who needs love when you can hash? We returned to the circle, but not before Fresh As and Dolly had gone that extra mile, to the Rutland Arms in fact, for a pee. Two pees, I suppose, although probably not in a pod. A cubicle, I guess. Two cubicles, probably. I digress. Back at circle we found Shorty who had spent the morning digging up plastic boxes of rubbish and adding to them. He had a new family-type car (he’d had fun fun fun until the Treasury took his T-Bird away) so we fined him. Numbnuts was a returner so we fined him. He was chosen to stick his hand up my pipe, and did very well at it. I certainly enjoyed it. It was Dolly’s birthday, sort of, so we had the traditional celebration of cake and beer. We had Pimm’s, I think. Lots of Pimm’s, in fact, and so the rest is a blur. We baptized Jamie and Adam, I recall, as Mr Meaner and Tidemark respectively. Jamie does lots of stuff wrong, and Adam’s mum sends him to school in short trousers. You had to be there. We finished up at the Tea Room in Muston. I wouldn’t normally mention post-hash activity, but it was all a bit odd. Dolly had to stand guard outside the toilet for her mum because there was no lock on the bog door (this was a door that led directly into the garden, by the way). However, no-one could find the light switch, and so the door couldn’t be closed because it got awfully dark inside. Hence, in a quaint English country tea garden, there was Scotty answering the call of nature, all sort of al fresco. I feel I know her better now. On on 

Hash Trash Hash Number 666 Sun 21st June 09 Easton On The Hill 

Scribe:Mudplug 


Hooray! Hash number 666 had arrived and were we in a mood for a party? Oh yes. Unfortunately, the Facilities Manager at the car park thingy was in no such mood. Nonetheless, some clever talking by our legal advisor and some eyelid-fluttering by our glamorous hares won him over. We were okay as long as we behaved ourselves and there was no riotous behaviour. Uh-oh. Luckily he doesn’t know that Squeakers spewed up behind one of his trees last year. The Family Nudge participation grew again as we welcomed a virgin, Jo-Tham (pronounced ‘Jo-Tham’) who happened to be Dolly’s other half. Perhaps we’ll have our first hash engagement? There was a welcome drink for Fresh As A (who was celebrating 150 hashes) and for Her Fault (who, as normal, was very late – in a hash sense, you understand, not in some cyclical sense). The drink was bright green. Shortly afterwards, so were those who had drunk it. We were briefed - there would be a water crossing, there would be cows, there would be sheep, but nothing unusual - and so off we went. In the middle of the village we found our first check. Mmmm. There was a combination of circles and crosses, lines and arrows, numbers and symbols, some hieroglyphics and some cave drawings. This was mighty confusing but we need not worry because here was the hare to explain: “Right then, Eagles are on the short route that way and Turkeys are on the long route that way. No, that’s wrong. Eagles are long and this way, and Turkeys are short that way. No, wait, Eagles this way, Turkeys are ... erm ... eagles ... short .... erm ... turkey ...erm .. oh dear”. Vidal gripped the situation and took the shortcutters off on a shortcut. Swag took the remainder on through the village. So, that’s fine then. We would all meet up very shortly afterwards, we heard. Being incredibly strong and fit, I went with Swag Bag. Over the road we went, then along a track to a gate in the woods. This is where the shortcutters were supposed to meet us, so we waited for a while. Then we waited for a while longer. Eventually we decided to go and look for them. So off we went, through the woods, along the other track, through another forest, across the road and through the fields, up hill and down dale, until there in the distance we could make out the shortcutters, thrashing their way through the crop fields, with no path in sight. They were all crying and wailing. Children were being carried. There was blood, sweat, tears, cursing, and foul language. It looked like a refugee column, or the last miles of a Nazi death march. Once we’d eventually reunited everybody, we’d done fourteen miles and an hour and a half. It was lucky that we had started an hour late. Oh, no, that’s right. It wasn’t. On we went, past the big ruined abbey thing and down towards the A1. We stopped at a sheep pen. “Ooh look,” someone exclaimed, “a note”. Now, I have no idea who Tom is, but I think he needs to work on his chat-up technique. In the note, Tom was advertising for a woman, aged 20 to 50, for outdoor fun, with no strings attached. Hmm. I think Tom needs to come hashing. He might find exactly what he is looking for. Comforted that there are sadder people in the world than us, we ran on, and then let out a collective sigh of despair as we went under the A1. The hare, proud of her four counties hash (for that is what it was) said that we were now in Cambridgeshire. “Oh no”, insisted Blakey, “this is Greater Peterborough”. Most of us had never heard of Greater Peterborough. “Cambridgeshire”, insisted Swag. “Greater Peterborough”, said Blakey, forcefully. On it went. “Cambridgeshire”, “Greater Peterborough”, “Cambridgeshire”, “Greater Peterborough” “Tis” “Tisn’t” “Tis” “Tisn’t”. Nobody gave way, and it all became very entertaining. We expected a fight to break out, and we made a circle like we used to in the playground. Eventually we concluded that we were on the border. We popped out in Stamford, many miles from our start point. We followed arrows over the river, directly to the window of an ice-cream van, from where a foreign gentleman with a dodgy moustache stared at us in a confused manner. Alas, he had parked on the trail and there was to be no mass purchase of 99s. We minced around on the meadows, we sloped along the streets, we pounded the pavements, and we ran by the river. Morale dropped, but then – behold, good old Nigel. He popped up in the nick of time with an extremely welcome beer stop. In the distance we could make out the tower of Easton church, where we had begun many hours earlier. A bit refreshed, we plodded on. Many miles later we struggled uphill back to the car park. The congratulations were for the hashers as well as the hares. Swag conservatively estimated the distance to be seven miles, beating previous marathon hashes laid by yours truly and, unforgettably, by Careless in the same area.

Gilbert had arrived – approximately two hours late. Long Runny One took up his customary position behind a flaming barbeque, people dived into the backs of their cars and produced wonderful food and drinks, and we cracked on with the circle.
Clothing, from the Rutland Collection, was presented to Dolly (for 50 hashes), to Happy Feet (for 100 hashes) and to VIP (for 150 hashes). We were very sorry, but the Hash Fairy hadn’t brought anything for Fresh As and her 150 hashes. Oh well. Fines were awarded to VIP, for her oozing wound, to FNL and yours truly for overachieving, to Swollen Bits and Doggers for rubbing each other off, or something, and to Bummer and Liam for shortcutting. Much scoffing of food followed, then LRO chased young girls around and the traditional game of comedy volleyball took place (thanks again, Nigel). I leave the final word to Lofty’s Lapdog. He said at the circle that the climb up the final hill had been made easier because he was watching my wife’s arse all the way up. Something of a shocked silence resulted. On on. 

Hash Trash Hash Number 663 Sun 31st May 09 Woolsthorpe By Colsterworth 

Scribe:Knickerdorf 


A brilliantly sunny day - The hash gathered at Woolsthorpe by Colsterworth famed for a famous resident with an apple fetish - Cox's perhaps ? Sir Issac Newton saw an apple fall from a tree in this very village and went on to ponder why and discover much much more. The hashers set off in two different directions as there was also a walking hash - very welcome on such a hot day. Budding apple trees were passed and the odd dead cat. There was a welcome pause for a beer stop before we set off again, through some corn fields en route home - most of us carefully sticking to the narrow footpath except for Vidal Babbers and FNL who shot off like bullets merrily trashing some crops on their way - (there must have been some Berrocca in the their beers). Some injuries were sustained by barbed wire draped over a stile so there was a trail of blood as well as flour for some to follow. We eventually spotted the 'On Inn' - just a few yards before the site of Newtons House - but this tourist spot was ignored by the Hare and we returned from whence we came without the history lesson. However it was noted by some - the big sulk that was Mutant and Oldest Swinger (or should I say whinger) at the site of the last back arrow - It was just too much for them, muttering like grannies in a bingo hall when the newcomer gets the jackpot. Once back we drank and snacked, snacked and drank and Bummer had to give Dolly an anatomy lesson (and I thought that the Biology Master at KGGS was supposed to be good) . Not a bad hash at all - Still next week it will rain again. Thats all folks - KDorfe. 

Hash Trash Hash Number 662 Sun 24th May 09 Barrowby 

Scribe:Mudplug 


Spring had arrived as we gathered on the village green at Barrowby. We had got off to a great start already because the meeting point was just over a mile from our house. In fact I would have cycled there had I not needed to shift fourteen crates of lager and a hundredweight of Walkers Crisps. Jolly well done, though, hares. Squeakers was able to stay in bed just that little bit longer and that makes all the difference. Aware that the British Legion don’t like visitors in their car park (“Who are you? I’ll have you all arrested and banned from the village”) we parked carefully and respectfully. Until, that was, Diarrhoea ruined the peace and quiet by riding into town on a two-wheeled mid-life crisis. We had returners! Diarrhoea himself had been out east but knew where the action was at. His fellow Quornite, Smutley, also showed up after a bit of an absence but, taking not only the biscuit for absenteeism, but the entire pack and the biscuit barrel itself, Liam showed up too. We hadn’t seen or heard of Liam since he was discovered in the bath with Canary Boy’s daughter, much to the amazement of her brother. There was so much to talk about, concerning, mainly, the best bath cleaner on the market, and which bubble bath provides most cover. We had a visitor, too. Floppy Sloppy Seconds was visiting from the Qatar hash in Qatarshire, Qatar and graced us with his presence. He was pleased to exchange the desert for a bit of village greenery. Rooster was there too, sporting what can only be described as a violent haircut. Looking like he had just done a ten-stretch in Strangeways, he maintained that he had just come from an Israeli arms dealer-themed fancy dress party. He even had the 1980s porn-star specs to match. Someone mentioned Mossad, and I’m sure I saw a bush twitch, but that may just have been the wind. Nonetheless, the sun shone and life was good as the village church began to strike ten. Kids in the playpark eyed Mutant up suspiciously as he stripped for action, and then we were off. Nudge Nudge and Scotty were hares and they watched with playful smiles as we missed all the clues and went sprinting off into the distance. Once we‘d recovered the plot, everything was doody. It was a damn fine lay, and a jolly good length which, I find, the ladies always find most agreeable. Nudge had been at his most cunning, using his knowledge of law and flour, his favourite dogging websites, and his pile of ancient maps of the local area. I suspect that we didn’t always have complete right of way, though, because Nudge would often kick out the chalky evidence in that way that lawyers do. It was Flourgate. God help any late comers who were trying to pick up the trail. All they would find would be tiny smears of chalk that made no sense at all. That sounds like one of my trails, in fact. It was warm - so warm that Laughing Boy had left his electrically-heated arctic sled-driving gloves in the car for once. Happy Feet had done some miles and so elected to return to the playpark. Bugs, bravely and at great personal sacrifice, took her back, making sure she had the keys to the chocolate and lager store before she went. Round the backside of Barrowby we went, until we were faced by horses. Now, I thought that Liam was afraid of horses in the same way that Harlot is scared of hamsters but he maintained he was okay with them. However, I’m sure I saw some nostril-flaring and fetlock-twitching as we went on our way. The horses got a bit worked up too. Past the church, and the pub, and Happy’s school, and the sweetie shop we went, then through the social housing back toward the village green. Ducking shots from the British Legion, we found the On Inn (or did we?) and collapsed, sweatily, onto the grass.

Hares were toasted using the holy water, as were sinners, returners, and visitors using the holy Stella. Comments about the hash included the words nice, shi’ite (a religious term) and the statement that there was too much rape. There was much rejoicing. VIP and FSS were fined for having extravagant new cars; Diarrhoea too, for his penis extension; Squelchy, Mutant and Mudplug for being great (probably), and Rooster for exposing himself to the kids on the swings (they were on the swings, not him). You can take the man out of prison...... Blakey copped one too for touting her daughter’s phone number to all and sundry as a potential Miss England. Laughing Boy asked if she would take her clothes off, or sing. I presume he meant Miss England, and not Blakey, but I don’t know. Regina, as reserved and as patient as ever, gave us one of those ‘crazy Brits’ looks. Fresh As, as sheriff, fined Shorty which, since he wasn’t there, we thought was a little harsh. No matter – he can have it next time we see him. Finally, it was discovered that FNL, having driven a million miles up the A1, had taken herself to the wrong bit of Casthorpe Road in Barrowby, missed the whole thing and got very angry with herself. Run rage, perhaps? On on.



Hash Trash Hash Number 660 Sun 10th May 09 Hanthorpe 

Scribe:Dogplop 


The Hares and Hounds gathered at Hanthorpe, a little village near Morton. The Hash feet symbols for this event turned into human form, of little Squelchy standing and acting as the marker for the hounds to gather.
The circle was starting to form, with the hounds arriving around ten o’clock, with the older folk arriving after ten o’clock even Gilbert was early for a change.
The Hares eventually took control at 10.15 hours and gave the circle brief, with no history apart from Bloodhound stating that he once lived here. On looking around the hounds, Swollen Bits had donned on his summer attire, with his new running shoes and his new running bottoms, which gave a new meaning to the camel toe and his hash name?
The Hash set off with morale being high, and the markings were clear at first and then became a bit confusing in parts. (the saw dust mode again). Mutant 1 being very keen to lead the pack , and go his way and not paying attention to the markings (false calling) with FNL leading as per norm. Half way through the hash we came across some confused heifers (male cows) which got separated from their herd and put a stop to the hash for 5-10 minutes, which gave Knickerdorf and Blakey time for more chatting. Our four legged friends, Rooney and Meg (LRO owner) & Vision in Pink, dog sitting again (Rooney I am scared of people) (I am a gun dog really?) found the styles not dog friendly and involved some manual handling over the styles.
The main pack was being well behaved and finding the hash enjoyable over the flat lands.
Towards the end of the Hash Mutant 1, added a new rule to the Hash (if you can see the cars and the beer the most direct route must be taken) and ignore the additional route supplied by the Hares, thus massive short cutting was seen from the main pack as they run an additional ½ mile or so, Mutant was followed by Gilbert, Oldest Swinger and Laughing Boy and few others
The packed formed the usual circle, hosted by Bloodhound, fines were dished out but this was short lived as there was massive shortage of beer and supplies

. 

Hash Trash Hash Number 658 Sun 26th April 09 Monks wood 

Scribe:F N L 


What a beautiful day for a hash! Some poor folk were trudging the streets of London, but the more select, elite group of runners met at Monk’s Wood. That being said, one hasher (don’t worry Squelchy, I won’t say it was you) decided to stay in bed when he found out it was a Mudplug hash. Indeed, Knickerbockerglory (what is her name, anyway??) only discovered this at the RV, but by then it was too late to turn back. Why would anyone not want to run a hash laid by Mudders and Squeakers? Surely they (or, more likely, he) remind us of the true meaning of On On…and on and on and on…….More of that later!
We all had to listen very carefully to the brief – not because there were lots of dangers, but because the hare was feeling very poorly and was only just audible. So, in a whisper, we were on out. The pack seemed to divide almost immediately, and the three front runners were clearly in a league of their own. Never before had they had to run so far on a back arrow to get to the DFLs. Only then did it become apparent that they had missed one of those lovely round things with a cross in it. Ooops!
Running past checks and missing blobs was par for the course on this hash, though. One wonders if Happy Feet actually laid it, whilst busily picking flowers and chasing butterflies. The signs really were well-hidden. Mind you, Oldest Swinger managed to find a blob after a check and merrily called ‘on one’. The unfortunate thing about this was that the hares had clearly said that it was first blob on for all checks. What makes this even more sad is the fact that Swinger made this call about fifteen minutes into the hash. Still, at least he was actually following the trail. That’s more than can be said for three grown men who should know better. It was only when running a back arrow that it was discovered that Bummer, Canary Boy and Mutant 1 were missing. Our concern for them was overpowered by our desire to discover more of these beautiful woods, so off we went regardless.

About five checks later, the dazzling white of CB’s shirt could be detected in the bushes further down the hill. Still they did not wish to join us, so off we went again without them. With Mudders so quiet and down-trodden, and Bummer and CB ‘doing their own thing’, another male hasher displayed new-found confidence and brought life to the rest of the hashers. He was shouting, singing, dancing, doing cartwheels…(okay, so the last one was a lie). There truly was manic depression in the hash today, with Nudge Nudge totally hyper and On-Pres lower than one of his own insults (and that really is low!).
We were eventually reunited and poor Mutant 1, still suffering from a chest infection, made the excuse that he had been looking for his lungs. The reunion was not enough for Bummer though, and no less than five minutes later he took off in another direction, never to be seen on the hash again. Meanwhile, the loyal hashers plodded on, and on, and on. Just when our legs could not take it any longer, a back arrow appeared; then another, then another…..To make matters worse, the person at the back was so far behind because she was busy photographing the lovely flora and fauna. Those pictures had better be good!
Hot, flagging, legs dragging we ran, we walked, we prayed for those beautiful, music-to-our-ears words. Even FNL and Mutant 1 longed to see the On Inn – and that must tell you something!

Finally, there it was – a most welcome sight (and I don’t mean Bummer sunning himself at the RV, either!). It truly had been a hash in the style of the London Marathon, only there were no liquid refreshments en-route (and I’m sure they had better markers). A circle was formed, the hash was slated and Dolly performed a wonder-woman trick by changing her clothes in a couple of spins. After offenders had been reprimanded in the usual way, all that remained was to join in chorus in celebration of Mutant 1’s and Mudders’ birthdays. Let’s hope they both feel better at the Stamford hash next week.



Hash Trash Hash Number 657 Sun 19th April 09 Glapthorn 

Scribes: Mutant 1 & rear Gunner 


Hashing in the deep south again, will nobody think of poor Goldie and Shorty having to take days off work to travel to a hash.
This was the first time for a couple of years that I have had to phone the hares to guide us in to the run-site, felt quite embarrassed about it, then Bloodhound was found driving around the countryside with a lost look on his face. Suddenly felt much better until Laughing boy piped up and said "it was all abundantly clear", he had found the RV straight away, that must be a first for him.
The pack set off at about 1015, straight into a very nice wood, good trails, lots of halts and checks, very scenic, with a single primrose in the middle.
At the first check, FNL announced "we forgot to put any first blobs are on checks", oh thank you I thought, should reduce the chances of a false call. How wrong can you be, at the next they cunningly disguised a Hash halt as a walking check which caught Oldest swinger and yours truly.
I have to say the hash was a really good one, everybody was really having a great time, "I haven't enjoyed such a good lay for ages", as the art mistress said to the gardener.
Then just when we were lulled into a false sense of security, thinking we were now going to turn for home, we turned out of the wood and started a marathon cross country (stampeding a herd of sheep in the process)
After this harrowing event, we were all ready for a beer and a sit down, but no, we then started the circuit of Glapthorn village.. It was at this point that Oldest swinger "got lost" (I use his words because getting lost meant he ran 2 miles less than us and got to the RV a good half an hour quicker
The Hares were duly punished in the circle, and many foul misdemeanours were fined, On On to Monks wood next sunday

Mutant 1 & Reargunner 



Hash Trash Hash Number 656 Sun 12th April 09 Apethorpe 

Scribe: Nudge Nudge 


As the pack assembled, Bloodhound appeared over the bridge from Apethorpe undertaking some pre-emptive running. The hares, Swagbag and VIP, dispatched 19 hounds and a pup (Rooney) onto the road and FNL was off like a whippet only to return in response to one of many back arrows.
The size of the hash symbols stood out in the distance for the willing hounds to mislead themselves into making false calls. The hashers were soon galloping across and around fields finding the soles of their running shoes collecting a heavy layer of clay. Mutant disappeared into the undergrowth to lighten his load with Rear Gunner explaining that he was somewhere “up the front”! A number of long legs lengthened the pack with the front runners gasping for breath as they responded to the numerous back arrows. Swollen Bits and Dogplop immersed themselves into an in depth conversation about bathroom fitments with Swollen Bits responding that “Showers and me don’t go together!” As the clouds threatened to open up, Oldest Swinger comforted the pack by saying that “If it aint raining it aint training!” A few drops of rain saw Scotty quickly cover her head with shouts of “Hoody; Hoody!”
A ford presented no obstacle to Mudplug, displaying his recently acquired sun tan, Canary Boy, FNL and Diarrhoea who relived their youth, whilst the rest of the pack opted for the adjoining bridge and the hash halt in the distance. Mutant’s false call led the pack into error and then back to a gate which was padlocked. Much confusion then descended on the pack when confronted with a padlocked gate but soon pick up the trail in the distance and the “On Inn.” 

After 1hr and 10mins the pack were back to the start and enjoyed the delights of “Easter cake” with some confusion about the holly and ivy on it, FNL’s Easter nests and Swagbag’s Easter eggs together with the usual nuts, crisps and beer. Canary Boy was presented with a very smart green rain jacket for his 150 runs and consumed his “down down” with pride. Then it was over to the Sheriff, Dogplop. Fines were distributed for several misdemeanors; much to the delight of Geoffrey Quiver who looked for more!



Hash Trash Hash Number 655 Sun 5th April 09 Brooke Hill School Oakham 

Scribe: Canary boy 


Brooke hill school was the R V for hash 655, you guessed it, and yes it was right at the bottom of a big steep hill. Bet we gotta run all the way up that, what a warm up that would be.
Dog Plop shouted the welcome bits and the brief and we were nearly off apart from the cars which were parked in the school car park, no, now that was not allowed so they had to be moved first.
On on is that way shouts dog plop! You guessed, pointing towards the big hill, co hare Bloodhound decided to stay put at a gateway leading to a footpath, Bummer said that will do for me and made his way through it and onto the trail. Bloodhound said that’s all the help you are getting from me. Thanks anyway we said and everybody followed, we still had to run upwards though. When we got to the top and found a well placed check it was almost worth it, the view was, well very nice, Oakham, fields and Burley house, not the Stamford one, we were not that high up!
We ran across the top down the hill onto a railway crossing then after that the Oakham bypass we then had to cross another busy road, this is getting a bit like last week. We all got over the road in one piece I think, heading for Egleton. Anyone want a short cut shouts Mr Hare, straight down that bypass he says a few takers but the rest of us hardened hashers decided to go for it. Through the village across a couple more fields and after a few more back arrows we met back up with the SCB’S.Back into Oakham almost there we knew where the cars were parked so we went that way. How stupid the trail went the opposite way, sod it said Bummer and C B we went back that way anyway, doesn’t matter we were both thirsty anyway..As we got back to the On in the rest of the pack caught up.

Time for the circle then, Bummer steps forward to call the hares in for their drink.
Sherriff was called for, Geoffrey Quiver steps up. Over achievers first Swag Bag, Squeaky Clean mind you somehow she got away with it, much to Swag Bags disgust. Soup Dragon he got done though. C B and Bummer for finishing to early! This ones a good one, the hares were called back in because it was leaked that half the trail was laid from Dog Plops car while one was driving and the passenger was laying flour! Lazy buggers!
More drink was drank and food was eaten then it was a small celebration, a milestone was reached, Laughing Boy had now completed 100 runs! Well done, time for the award of the 100 runs hoody and of course a beer to go with it. Not a bad little jaunt around Oakham thanks to Doggers and Bloodhound and On on to Apethorpe….



Hash Trash Hash Number 654 Sun 29th March 09 Warmington 

Scribe: Canary boy 


It was another good turn out for the hash at Harlot, Quiver and Giggles pad. What a lovely day. Geoffrey Quiver didn’t think so as he was up most of the night on the big white porcelain! Consequently he could not run with us this week due to that ill feeling.
It was also nice to welcome back Mutant 1 and Rear Gunner to the fold; they had been sunning themselves in Malaysia for the last 3 months, nice work if you can get it! We also had 3 virgins Charlie, Hanna and Ben, Ben he happened to be Giggles other half, well done for dragging him out of his pit for a nice run in the country. So after a quick brief we were on our way, out of the housing estate into the village, arriving at the first check we had to wait for one of the hares. Apparently Rooster had turned up so we waited for him to catch up. Don’t worry it had been a while maybe he forgot what time we started! Just as he caught us up someone shouts is that Laughing Boy in that car over there! Sure was, now he had no excuse! That was well late never mind best he runs hard to work up a good thirst for later.

We finally got going out of the village down to the mill across a lock the area was very picturesque (blimey thank god for spell check!) Through the fields and up some hills, had a nice view of Elton Hall from above. We then ran down into Elton village which was very nice...We were at a check in Elton and we saw 3 blobs of flour spaced out only 3 feet from each other. On 1 on 2 on on! Was the shout. NO NO shouts Hash Harlot that was when Giggles spilt the flour! Knew she would get the blame. Out of Elton through the back end of the village across more fields to the main A605 which we had to cross now that was good fun for about 27 of us! We all got across safely thank god. After the road we went back to Warmington and saw the on in, wow we made it!

Ok then onto the circle, Bummer was the M C, the hares had a drink, the sheriff was called forward ( Fresh as A ) Late comers’ Rooster, Sporty and Stella. Not forgetting Laughing Boy. C B for shortcutting I think Bummer aswell, I can’t remember but it normally is isn’t it. Returners, Rooster, Stella Sporty Spice, and not forgetting Mutant 1 and Rear Gunner.

Just one thing left to say... Thanks to Hash Harlot and co for the lovely sausage baps, they went down a treat and thanks for putting up with a load of us in your back garden again!

On on to Oakham then.



Hash Trash Hash Number 652 Sun 15th March 09 Laxton 

Scribe: Canary boy 


Look for the memorial they said, you can’t miss it. Correct, but they said nothing about the 3 foot verge we had to drive up to park…just ask Bloodhound a nice set of tyre marks he left behind. And who sent the big black dog, more like a horse than a dog though. He wandered around welcoming everybody to Laxton then a nice farmer gentleman drove past looking for him and missed him the first drive pass, how could you miss that monster? On the second attempt he was safely packed away onto the 4wd and we all waved him goodbye. Interesting start I suppose.

Laughing Boy and Lofty’s Lapdog our hares just about to start the brief as it was a 10.00 hash and it was now 10.15…Wait a minute one more to come, Oldest Swinger holding everybody up! Never mind it won’t be forgotten at circle I’m sure. So on with the brief nice bit of elf and safety a bit of the old history and the on is that way shouted laughing boy, so off we went.

Down the road we ran, then we past our cars on that verge in the clouds, it was all looking good for a nice bit of road running, wait, it’s a check back straight onto an old airfield / old quarry. Comments were made about the B&Q runway lights then that was it, everybody was running round in circles lost the trail help! On on shouts Lofty just to put us right and we were back on track. Down the side of a field through a small wood onto another check, there, we saw a small house in the middle of no where and a nice lady said to us, ‘are you looking for the footpath?’ ‘Well ere yes but quickly before that man over there catches up (Lofty) because we are supposed to find the way ourselves.’ So she told us where to go and off we went again, through a hen field that’s not the old motorbike! (For the more senior people.)We also hit a bit of shiggy right near a stile, so what comes after a wade through the shiggy? yes a back arrow so we can do it all over again. After that it seemed like a 15 mile drag back to the on in or did the hares run out of flour G Q mentioned maybe they saved it for the Yorkshires at the Sunday roast. So straight in with no more checks, you should have seen all those red faces from that last bit, Jesus!

Ok so now time for the circle, well we saw Lofty taking his car apart, back parcel shelf magically turned into a table, what a good bit of kit! You should see what he managed to fit on it too. Fricks, sausage rolls, cakes you name it, it was lovely thanks for that you hares, now maybe we will forgive you for that long run in after all. Best for them to enter the circle for there well earned drinks; we then called for the sheriff, v. i. p. Stepped forward and duly find Dogplop, OldestSwinger, FNL, Canary Boy and Hash Harlot. The Lazy returners were Geoffrey Quiver, mind you he had a good excuse, He had been to Ross Kemp country. Also giggles and Buggs, they didn’t go, just stayed in bed I guess.

Almost finished but just one more thing, lets welcome Bethan and Anna back to the hash, especially as she is wearing nice new shoes, well noted LRO, so in she came for a little drink! Well done Anna, we haven’t frightened her off yet she will be present next week, well I hope so because she said she will pick me up!

On on to Ketton folks….



Hash Trash Hash Number 651 Sun 8th March 09 Stapleford Woods 

Scribe: Nudge Nudge 


Squeakers welcomed 17 hounds to the hash; No, 19 hounds, with the late arrival of Numbnuts and Games Mistress. Into the memory bank of the sheriff! Chernobyl and Fallout were also welcomed back to the Hash. Squeaker’s oration was short and to the point: you have heard it all before, she said, and, in the background Mudders raised and lowered his hand to indicate small trees and large trees; presumably referring to the ancient woodland and newly planted trees in the wood. Goldilicks reminded us all that it was International Women’s Day. We all wondered how this would figure in the male and female symbols which would form part of the trail.

Off the pack went toward the road whilst Short Straw, still limping along with the effects of recent gymnastics, sought inspiration in his GPS and headed towards the next geocache in the wood.

At the first check, those in the know, so they thought, followed Happy Feet down along an enticing straight, even and dry track only to hear the On called somewhere behind in the distance. Lesson learnt! The twisty turny trail took the pack through the undergrowth with the anticipated brambles and scratchy things. FNL led from the front only to be met by a stream down a steep bank. Running along the side of the bank felt strange since, surely, the hares had not missed an opportunity of getting the pack wet. Yes, a check back took the pack down the steep, slippery, bank onto a couple of fallen tree trunks over the stream. Canary Boy was ready with a helping hand; bearing in mind the significance of the day! Bummer, always the adventurous, decided to wade through the stream and ignored the shout of “back arrow!”; he found out the stream was deep and full of yuk!

Mudders thought it was time for a bit of education and told us about the Rhododendrons which are throughout the wood. Yes, we had to climb over and through them. Eventually the pack was back to civilization and a road only to be met with the trail taking the pack deeper into the wood. Swollen Bits, Bummer and Canary Boy played hide and seek with Nudge and did their own thing whilst the pack followed the trail.

Goldie commented that it seemed as if the blobs were a long distance apart. It eventually dawned on the pack that this was a bargain basement hash. Where was the trail? Where was the flour? A sign of the credit crunch; perhaps? Much confusion was caused as the pack searched for the way ahead with Squeakers vanishing for a few moments and was next to be seen holding a bottle of flour with some quantative easing of the trail no doubt having taken place.

As the heavens opened, the On Inn was called and the pack scampered back to the car park and the usual refreshments and fines!

So the circle was convened, drinks for the 3 hares, then it was time for the sheriff to step forward. Canary Boy had great pleasure in awarding fines for Bummer, Swollen bits, and Numbnuts for shortcutting, FRB’S, FNL and Happy Feet, oh and Mudders for showing us where the next check was. Returners were Chernobyl, Fall Out, Games Mistress and Numbnuts.
Also International Woman’s day was marked with down downs for all our lady hashers. 

On On to Laxton or thereabouts…



Hash Trash Hash Number 650 Sun 1st March 09 Bourne Woods 

Scribe: Mudplug 


Yakky da, or whatever. It was St Welshman’s Day, and our 650th hash. There was a faint whiff of celebration in the air, and 29 loyal Rutland Hashers had turned up to join in the fun. Sorry, make that 28 loyal types and a virgin, James, who got nervous at the prospect of introducing himself, and so ran off to hide in the woods. Don’t they teach social skills and backbone at schools these days? No matter – there would be more from James later. In the meantime, Bloodhound and Doggers were chomping at the bit, ready to be let loose to carry out a live hash. Who else was there? Well, there was Squeakers, Bummer, Canary, Swinger, VIP, Blakey, Runny One, Knickerdorfe, Laughing Boy, Happy and Squelchy, Nudgers, Shorty and Scotty, FNL, Goldie, Her Fault and Swag, Vidal, Anya and Natasha W+9, Stopout, the Dragon, and Emily and Sophie Clanger. Fun and frolics were likely with this bunch. Tash turned up in what looked suspiciously like new shoes. “No”, she protested, “I’ve hashed in these before”. “I don’t think you have”, said Mum, helpfully. This was noted for later.

Off went the hares, and the clock began to tick. We passed the time with some carefree banter, and then spotted the hares, no more than a hundred yards away. They’d been gone five minutes. Was there some inter-hare confusion, perhaps? In order to find out, and to exploit it, off we went in chase. However, we soon got knackered, and since the trail was as confusing as a conversation with Laughing Boy, we soon gave up that idea and had a pleasant stroll in the woods instead. The thing about live hashes is that there isn’t a hare to look after us and to tell us what to do. Being a nice democratic bunch, we milled around at checks wondering what to do next. We needed a leader, and FNL showed us the way. Desperate for some good hard mileage, she immediately set off to check at every hash halt whilst the rest of us got our breath back. Luckily she went the wrong way every time, so we didn’t lose her. The trail was a good one – introducing us to new and unrecognizable bits of Bourne Wood. Then again, it should have been good, because Bloodhound had been out every day for the past week scouting through the undergrowth. Was he getting under Gill’s feet at home? Did he claim to be ‘walking the dog’ every day? Much of the wood had been churned up by logging machinery, or possibly by a fat chav with a double-buggy. The mushrooms - Bloodhound’s favourite spot - were still recognizable, but that was about all. Anya W+9 and Vidal were full of running, having spent every Sunday morning for the past few months in bed. The Clangers appeared to have fun again, sprinting up hills, slopping through mud, and dashing up trees. Most jogged along quite happily. Shorty, I think, made some feeble excuse about a multiple compound fracture of the lower leg, and so went off to find plastic boxes full of junk. Squeakers did nothing wrong. We nearly caught the hares, but since one of them was Doggers, we decided not to, leaving Bloodhound to take all the anger instead. We were having so much fun but, like all good things, it had to come to an end.

We found a cunning On Inn, and were reunited with our hares and with Blakey, KnickerD and Happy who, some time back, had decided that enough was enough for one day, thank you very much. There was much rejoicing, and thanks given. At the circle, the table strained under the weight of all the fine scoff placed upon it. It was like the Harvest Festival at a school for fat kids. There was little celebratory gingerbread men, there was cake, Jaffa cakes (as recommended by sports nutritionists), soup (obviously), cheese and bikkies, sausage rolls, loads of other lovely stuff, and lashings of Stella, Belgium’s finest fighting juice. Whilst we gorged ourselves, we had a dig at the following: Canary Boy and his ‘partner’ Runny One, for cross-dressing, Anya for wearing her mother’s clothes, Nudgers and myself for attempting to intercept the hares directly from the bully-off, Runny One and Canary for shaking hands with the unemployed (that’s a euphemism, by the way), and Yours Truly, Squeakers (shocker!) and Swinger for overachieving. There may have been more but, hey, I can only recall so much. Next up were the filthy returners - Stopout, the W+9 twins, and Vidal – and then James the virgin. He did better and quaffed a lager like a real man. Tash W+9 then offered me her shoe to fill up with beer, and then quite cleverly drank the lot using a straw. Damn! If only I’d spat in it too.... Bearing in mind it was St Welshman’s Day, VIP got fined for having a Welshish name, as did Soup Dragon for providing Welshish food. Finally, Squeakers and Doggers had birthdays. All the nice cake went before I got any, though. You gannets. As a parting gesture, Goldie insisted on showing off her chest for some reason. Perhaps she’d been drinking? She offered her t-shirt for £10 but, in light of the credit crunch, I don’t think anyone took up her offer. Great marketing, though, Goldie. Keep it up. It keeps us old fellas warm in the winter. On on.



Hash Trash Hash Number 649 Sun 22th Feb 09 Dyke 

Scribe: Mudplug 


Here goes then ... Dyke. Ha ha ha. It sounds like a woman who bats for the other side. There, we’ve done that. Let’s move on. We gathered beside the village green and everything was fine until Doggers turned up. Perhaps he’d got out of bed the wrong side or something but he was in a foul mood and tried to run the On Pres and Laughing Boy over. That’s an interesting way to begin. Off he screamed in his car, raging at the lack of somewhere massive to park. We could hear him roaring through the otherwise quiet village, like something out of Police, Camera, Action. Back he came, and he noisily squealed to a halt. Stopping only momentarily to throw some abuse at an old lady on her way to church, he marched over and spat in our faces. Good morning to you too. So much entertainment, and we hadn’t started running yet. There were 21 of us, which is pretty damn good for the end of February. The usual suspects were there, including Hash Harlot who, when last seen, was necking Bailey’s straight from the bottle at breakfast time and then throwing up. She was looking a little bit better. Our hares today were Canary Boy and Squelchy. Squelchy was wearing a Ronaldo-like haircut, whilst Canary decided not to. Sporting a small beard, it looked like he had his head on upside-down. A sheepish looking returner returned in the form of Swag Bag who, I believe, had been slightly injured and not just loafing in her bed every Sunday morning for the last month. There were virgins aplenty too – three in fact, being Gemma, who was a mate and ex-squatter in Her Fault’s house, and sisters Emily and Sophie Soup Dragon. These last two could be termed Clangers, but probably won’t be. Jamie, Lofty’s, Swollen, FNL, Knickerdorfe, Swinger, Bummer, Squeakers and Bloodhound were also in attendance, possibly keen to get some good hard miles under their respective belts.

We began with a choice – was the On On this way, or that way, posed the hares. How we love these little teasers. Oddly enough, we all chose wrong and arrived back at the cars after a minute and a frustrating two hundred yards. Being on the edge of that flat dull bit of Lincolnshire that I think is called the Fens, the hash was based on largely flat and windswept open fenland. There was history, which was nice but entirely made up, and there were water crossings in large numbers. We went in a massive loop, bouncing off the next village up the A15, the name of which escapes me (largely flat, and windswept, with a church), eventually returning to the fields north of Dyke. First blob was On, we learned, and there it was, standing out like the proverbial dog’s parts in the field. No matter – Doggers was off in the opposite direction. Perhaps he still had some anger to get rid of. Swinger called the blob incorrectly and signed up for a nice lager. A large tree beckoned and someone who looked like me but definitely wasn’t me simply had to have a p-stop. That’s a sign of a good hash. We reached the edge of the fields and trotted down an alleyway to be confronted, to our mild surprise by the On Inn. Turning left out of the alley we made our way back to the cars and the circle. FNL hadn’t worked up a good manly sweat yet, and so she made up a personal back arrow and set off back over the fields, poo-pooing our lovely lager and crisps. 

At the debrief, everyone was happy. Everyone apart from FNL, that is, who blurted out that the hash was too short. Too short! Soup Dragon came up with the goods again (his soup tasted like pee, today, apparently). Jamie was fined for sitting, Doggers for going off in very random directions, Swinger for false calling, and FNL for overachieving. Knickerdorfe was presented with some fine haberdashery, and some finer lager, for achieving 100 hashes. Finally, we again welcomed our three virgins. Gemma introduced herself using traditional contemporary dance (we see a long, fruitful hashing career there) and Emily also did her bit very well. Sophie appeared a little shy. In fact, where was she? Oh, there, twenty feet up a tree. Perhaps not so shy then. On on.



Hash Trash Hash Number 648 Sun 15th Feb 09 Morkery Wood 

Scribe: Mudplug 


Here I sit in mid-March, trying to recall a hash from a month ago. Being an optimistic sort, though, I’ll assume that unless you were hare, you won’t remember much either. I’m also reassured that there doesn’t need to be much truth in here either. Since it is the unpleasant things that stick in the memory, I believe that a short hash trash equals a good hash - so that’s me off the hook.

Anyway, we were at Morkery, with Bummer at the helm and twenty hounds and pups with expectant looks on their faces. We were graced by the presence of two very welcome virgins – Anna and Bethan – who had been dragged out of their beds by the Long Runny One. They appeared to have half a mind to try hashing which, as we should all know, is all you need. What happened next? You decide! 

We ran off into the woods, or up the hill, or down the hill. Soon we left the clear paths behind and trudged through the mud and the brambles, probably using Bummer’s favourite short-cuts. On balance, I’d bet that we spent quite a bit of time off the beaten track. I’d wager that we visited some unusual paths and got right royally muddled. I’m willing to suggest that Dog Plop got all autocratic, and that the Runny One acted the arse from time to time. I seem to recall that at about ten past eleven, Laughing Boy looked at his watch and started to comment that he had done his time. I wouldn’t be surprised if Blakey, Knickerdorfe, and Fresh As had a very pleasant mooch along toward the rear of the pack, and I’d imagine that FNL would have kept up her near-perfect attendance record, and would possibly have spent most of her time out front, observing imaginary back-arrows in order to get a decent run for a change. Squeakers probably did nothing wrong. After a very pleasant and well-laid hash, presented by a very fine hare, we arrived back at the circle.
Ah yes, what I do remember now is that Laughing Boy had been nominated sheriff. He rambled a little bit and eventually got round to fining some people. Several days later he stopped rambling and we were able to persecute some other folk instead. Long Runny One had been ill, or injured, or lazy since mid-December, and so we wished him a very Merry Christmas. Lofty’s Lapdog, meanwhile, had returned after an unforgiveable absence of 14 weeks. So, happy Thanksgiving, Lofty’s. Newbie Gary once again brought a flask of warm, sloppy stuff and so, without further ado, was christened Soup Dragon. We don’t wish to pigeonhole people so he should not feel obliged to provide soup every week. Come the heat of August, I’ll pass on the Mulligatawny, thank you very much. Luckily there was some ice on the ground for him to sit on which meant he was able to remain focused throughout the ceremony, albeit with wet pants. Our virgins, Anna and Bethan, introduced themselves using the traditional medium of contemporary dance, which was nice. We hoped to see you both again but, using the power of hindsight, I know that we haven’t yet - so come on! Will that do?



Hash Trash Hash Number 647 Sun 8th Feb 09 Ashton 

Scribe: Mudplug 


Ashton is a new location for the Rutlandites, and what a pleasant little place it is. This was particularly true this morning as it lay under about a foot of fresh, deep snow. We were told that Ashton is the home of the world conker championships, held on the village green in front of the local pub. There were to be no roasted nuts today, that’s for sure, since it was a mite nippy. Once we’d overcome the struggle of parking, we were briefed on the flour of choice for today’s conditions (cast your mind back to a previous Swollen Bits outing, marked in paintballs and rabbit dung). On the menu this morning was grass seed and kitty litter (possibly used). The feline population of Ashton and Oundle must have thought all its birthdays had come at once since the hares had prepared a little catty toilet on almost every street corner. Our second hare, FNL, turned up fashionably late, no doubt having thrown down a few more back arrows. The poor misguided girl always feels that her hashes are too short. I rarely feel that way about mine. Anyway, duly briefed, we gingerly set off, slipping and sliding our way down to the first check. Hold on a cotton-picking moment, though. What’s this? What’s this clip-clop-clip-clop sound coming from Swollen’s foot area? Oh my word, he’s only wearing metal studs on his shoes, as if he’s off on an ice speedway. How poncey and professional. He was mocked, right royally. On the tarmac, of which there was some and there would be plenty more, he looked and sounded like a tap dancer. A rotund, middle-aged, balding tap dancer, though - a bit like Bonnie Langford, but without the ginger ringlets. We found the trail, eventually, marked in individual grass seeds, about a micromillinanometer in length. Cue accusations of Swollen having sown his seeds all over the county, and of having sown his wild oats up and down the A605. Cue me gagging on my breakfast at the mere thought of it. The first hour was splendid, spent happily jogging across snow-covered fields and across countless bridges and locks over various canals and rivers. Snowball fights often broke out and we got all rosy-cheeked and happy. Apart from Doggers, that is, who got all serious. You can take the man out of the Army....

The second hour was spent in a variety of very picturesque nature reserves and country parks. It was a joy to be alive. The trail was varied, challenging, scenic, and interesting, but marked in microscopic grains of rice, or somesuch thing. It didn’t taste good anyway. Some more snowball fights broke out. Doggers got even more serious and began to employ fire-and-move tactics. Happy Feet took to hiding behind Doggers in one such incident and took a pelting. Fresh As removed four of her sixteen layers of clothing. Diarrhoea ran off at every check like a man possessed, without fear of injury from slipping and falling. Perhaps he was suffering from the runs again? In light of his tendency to fall over, and of his brittle bones, Laughing Boy had elected to stay in, presumably with Mrs Boy. Let’s hope things didn’t go on for more than an hour. Gilbert sat down through sheer exhaustion, and a very extended loo break was carried out by Happy Feet, with Fresh As and FNL joining in, possibly in a show of solidarity, so to speak.

The third hour was spent back in the hidden secret that is Oundle. What a nice little old town it is. We happened across the chapel of Oundle School. This is no ordinary chapel. This is a chapel that outshines Westminster Abbey and rivals St Paul’s Cathedral for square footage, probably. FNL’s school was on the same road, so we peered in to see if there was any work being done. Oddly, there wasn’t. It must have been tea-break, or half-term or something. Next was a very skiddy path through the olde worlde cottagey bit. Grand. Past FNL’s house we apparently went. This was an ideal opportunity for a beer-stop, you might think, and you’d probably be right. Well, you’re wrong. On on. Enjoyment was cancelled until morale improved.

The fourth hour involved the recovery back to Ashton. Happy Feet used an ambulance, whilst the rest of us struggled through the snowdrifts. VIP was huffing and puffing by now and kicked out a back arrow in one of her hissy fits – you know the ones I mean.

To the circle. It wasn’t very good, I don’t think, because most were suffering from exhaustion, hypothermia and malnourishment by this point. The hounds couldn’t sing, or drink. Fresh As was sheriff, and she fined some people for being naughty and for doing badness. I do recall that Swollen use profanity to his fellow hare and so was Stella’d. That’ll teach him to wear girl’s dancing shoes. It was, in sum, a grand day out, in good company , in cold, dry weather, and in a great location. On on.



Hash Trash Hash Number 646 Sun 1st feb 09 Ancaster Railway Station 

Scribe:Mudplug 


Thirteen hounds, one pup (Squelchy) and two hares gathered at the railway station at Ancaster - not the busiest location in the world on this cold Sunday morning. Also attending (and therefore worthy of a mention) were Squeakers, Bummer, Oldest Swinger, Dog Plop, Canary, Fresh As A, Knickerdropper, Nudge and Scotty (obviously) Short Parts, Goldie (who said I was looking lean and mean so got a free hug), FNL, and Big Gazza. There was no sign of the loved-up Dolly. We noticed that we could see Gump and Rudolph’s house from the RV. There was no sign of Gump and Rudolph, though. Perhaps they peeked out through their curtains to watch us gathering and then retired under their warm, fluffy quilt. Hey, who’s having more fun, eh? Tell me that.

Off we went back downtown to be confronted by a check that wasn’t there when we drove in. How clever. Around town we merrily went. The only thing of note in Ancaster at this point was the overpowering stink. It seemed to follow us everywhere and get steadily worse. It was as if somebody had some Scouser on their shoes. We were getting quite concerned, and paranoid, but we were assured that it was caused by a nearby farm. What on earth are they growing? I think I’ll stick to getting my food from Tesco. Anyhow, we eventually emerged from the urban sprawl to find ourselves confronted by mile after mile of fields and barren, windswept footpaths. We would have run along them if we’d been legal, but Nudge showed his rebellious nature and we veered off right to the top of the Valley – a Roman racetrack for chariots. A sort of Brooklands for Boadicea, a Brand’s Hatch for Ben Hur, or a Silverstone for centurions, if you will. Grasping the historical theme, we breathed the sheer atmosphere of the place and tried to capture in our minds the drama, the passion, and the blood, sweat and tears that must have been shed there before we plodded off in search of the flour that Nudge and Scotty had thoughtfully scattered all over it.

From a check, I followed a group down some steps. Canary, Bummer, and FNL were amongst said group so I was following mainly out of curiosity. “On on”, they called, and then proceeded to turn round and walk back towards me. Boy, this was confusing. What was going on, I politely enquired? It was a back arrow, they explained, whilst calling me rude names. “Sticks and stones”, I began, just before I got hit with a big stick. What a great bunch they are. Eventually we plummeted down into the valley proper. This was where big rumbly chariots had raced up and down at the height of the chariot season (probably not quite as exciting as the Serie A stuff that you could watch in Rome, but pretty good in a British Sunday League kind of way). Today, the place was inhabited by sheeps and baby sheeps that shivered in the sleet and snow. Some of the sheeps were quite young – so young in fact that some juicy placenta was on display alongside the trail. Tempted though we were to feast on its nourishing meaty goodness (are you enjoying this, Dolly?), we pressed on. Oldest Swinger, however, decided to pat one of the baby sheeps on its head, and therefore instantly became its father. Baby sheep then attached itself to Swinger, despite Swinger’s best attempts to run away. Scared by this unexpected addition to the Swinger family, OS and Knickerdropper outran baby sheep, which was probably shunned by its mother and left to die. The rest of the sheepy flock took exception to this meddling and the big gnarly ones threw a hissy fit, chasing us down the path with their curly horns and their great big pointy teeth all bared and aimed at us. We were puffing as we reached the sanctuary of the A153. It was so reminiscent of Christians and big scary lions (except that they were big floppy sheep). We wondered what Paedophido would have made of it, and then decided not to think about it too much because it conjured up nasty images.

Nudge decided that we’d had enough fun for one day and so took us on a relatively gentle route back to the On Inn, using the smallest checkpoint symbols ever seen. Shorty went geocaching and unearthed some valuable treasure by way of an expired rail ticket, a button, an empty fag packet and a used condom. There’s gold in them thar hills.

Oddly, there was a bus shelter at the railway station so we took refuge and drank lager in it like town-centre hoodies. We feasted on Thai hot and sour and pea soup, and the circle was swiftly executed. There were compliments regarding the quality of the Jurassic limestone on the trail, and the obvious historical connections, but the rest was deemed rubbish. Fines were awarded to Yours Truly for some trumped-up charge, to FNL, Bummer, and some other people for some other things, to Big Gazza for going equipped (with GPS - Satan’s instrument), and to Oldest Swinger for sheep-bothering. Finally, Canary was invited to doff his new Millet’s trainers so they could be tested for lager storage. They passed with flying colours. He didn’t. On on.



Hash Trash hash Number 645 Sun 25th Jan 09 Wakerley Woods 

Scribe: FNL 


On the drive to Wakerley, it seemed that we were really going to be in for it. The heavens had opened. Somehow, the magic switch was turned to ‘off’ just as we started to convene at the RV. “Should I wear this?”, “Should I wear that?” could be heard amongst many of the (most notably, female) hashers looking up at the sky to see whether or not it would stay dry for the next hour (and a half). One wouldn’t want to get a little bit wet now, would one? Mudders and Hash Harlot, however, were looking for lubrication of a different kind, and had a cosy little pre-hash drink together. How sweet! And then we were on out. No! Stop! It’s a latecomer. Who could it be? Her Fault had arrived on the dot of 10.00 so it wasn’t her. No, of course, it was Gilbert, who managed to park up between FNL and VIP with only millimetres to spare. Well, they do say that men are no good at gauging size!

Then we really were on out. Off we trotted into the woods, looking forward to a nice, girly hash. We felt safe and secure in the knowledge that we had three fine female hares in the form of VIP, Hash Harlot and Fresh As. Oh, how wrong could we be?! The hash was more like a ‘splash’ with the amount of mud and water underfoot (and overfoot, ankle, calf…). Some chose to meander carefully around anything vaguely resembling a bit of shiggy, while others decided to take the bull by the horns and just go headfirst in. Unfortunately, neither option was safe, and people began to slip and slide all over the place. Scottie, although taking it steady, still felt the need for a little sit down (twice!), while Squeakers, conversely, ran herself into the ground – quite literally! The shiggy clearly had a mind of its own as, like quicksand, it sucked what it fancied into it; be that hashers, shoes, whatever. Despite this, the trail had been laid tremendously well (aren’t women brilliant?!). It was just a pity that some people still wanted to confuse the obviously clear symbols with their false calls (aren’t men stupid?!). We were muddy, we were wet, there were back arrows, there were checkbacks but nobody moaned (well, apart from On Pres, who said that he couldn’t hear any calling. Maybe if he’d chosen to go the right way he would have known what was going on!).

And so onto drier paths, a hill, another back arrow (for those who were still doing them by this time) and there it was, the On Inn. Such a welcome site for many, but particularly for those who were looking for relief in a more sophisticated place than behind a tree. Oh what a shame the facilities were locked!

Once we were back on dry ground, the food and drink was flowing aplenty. There was soup (highly recommended), mulled wine, sausage rolls, muffins…and, fortunately, plenty of beer. It was one of those hashes where there were more people actually being fined than those there to sing. Bloodhound clearly had a sharp eye as sheriff, and let nothing pass. There was Scottie, Squeakers, Her Fault, Jamie and, and, and…for laying down on a hash; Canary Boy and Swollen Bits for having new cars (if you can call a white decorating van with someone else’s name on a new car!); Nudge Nudge for being too clean; Adam, Giggles, DSO and Gilbert for returning, Adam and Gilbert for having a birthday; Gilbert for being a latecomer; Gilbert for_________ (insert any offence)…oh, and VIP for selectively distributing calendars of naked men. Admit it, Mudders, you’re just jealous!

And that was that for a hash, it seems, of some significance. Was this the first time that the circle lasted just as long as the hash? (“I’ve done my hour!”). Was this the first time that Squeakers was called, not once, but twice into the circle? Was this the first time that Scottie had used ‘teen-talk’? What exactly did she mean by “wickedly gross” anyway? Personally, I thought it was gr8!



Hash Trash hash Number 644 Sun 18th Jan 09 Honnington 

Scribe: Mudplug 


It didn’t look good when Nudge turned up to start laying to find somebody at it already. There, in his chosen parking spot was a large black car with large blacked-out windows, rocking gently, and probably not due to the chill breeze blowing. This wasn’t an early hasher. Nudge may have reminded the occupants that this was a public place and that, in accordance with local county bylaws, they should jolly well move on. He may have scared them with his steely gaze, or with his bright orange shirt. In any event, the car did indeed move and the hash could commence. The mudbath that was left was all ours, and we were to wallow around in it like elephants used to do on Blue Peter in the 1970s.
The crows gathered expectantly. Eventually, the other hares, Dolly and Scotty, climbed out of their nearly-new car and started to carry out a deception plan. “Oh no”, they said, lying. “We’re definitely not running up that huge and near-vertical cliff-face to the windswept Iron Age fort at the top. Definitely not. We’re going on a much more interesting hash in the green and pleasant valley over there”. I’m sure I noticed their noses getting bigger as they spoke.
Moments later, and courtesy of one of those ridiculous checkback things, there we were on our way up the cliff to the windswept Iron Age fort at the top. How we chuckled as we spotted the back arrow. How we laughed as we slid back down only to have to turn and struggle back up again, our lungs bursting out of our chests. None of us could speak as we reached the top. We just stood and glared at the hares, panting heavily like dogs, except without that drippy tongue thing that they do. “Having captured the high ground”, they taught me at war school, “one should always maintain it”. We didn’t. Up and down we went, our hearts going boom-diddy-boom-diddy-boom-boom-boom on the way up and our feet slipping and sliding all over the place on the way down. Happy Feet giggled a lot on the downhill bits. FNL squealed like a six-year old. Nobody said much at all going upwards. Squeakers must have much better tread on her shoes, because she went past at speed. Bloodhound gave one of his wry smiles. He’d seen this all before.
Eventually we found ourselves at the bottom, waiting patiently for Laughing Boy and Dog Plop to catch up again. Fresh As A reverted to teacher type and saw us safely across, looking both ways as we went. This irritated Squeakers because she used to be member of the Tufty Club and wanted to do it. It also irritated Nudge because we found the trail again. Into the village of Honington we went, across a field where Bugs was startled by a large dog which she insisted was a ferocious horse, to a cheeky little footpath and check. Up the pleasant little footpath we went, hoping for the hares’ sakes that at last we had found a trail of interest. It was not to be. Along the road we trotted and to our last check. We could reach out and touch the cars. Alas, there was a trail and an On Inn to find first. This was last-minute ad-hoc laying at its best. Having found a small grassy island, we convened a circle. The hares necked their water having been critiqued on their efforts (“too long, too short, too muddy, not muddy enough, too windy, too sunny, too dry, too wet” – the usual helpful comments) and then it was the turn of the sheriffs – Rooster and his well-behaved dog, Hector. Fines were awarded for general naughtiness to Fresh As A, Bloodhound, Dog Plop, and Canary Boy. Dolly and Rooster were done as returners (“one hare in the circle...”), the hares were fined again for bringing us to a doggy site, and finally Canary Boy was awarded a Stella for lost property and for having had a birthday. It’s odd, but we seem to do this every year about now. In lieu of a cake, he had three chocolate truffles in his lager, which tasted a lot better than they looked, I believe. All in all, it was a jolly good morning out in the sun. On on to Wakerley!





Hash Trash Hash Number 643 Sun 11th Jan 09 Witham On The Hill 

Scribe: Mudplug 


There was a chill wind blowing as we gathered on the village green. We hadn’t been to Witham on t’hill before. It looks a nice place. Nice people gathered for the church service, whilst we congregated on the other side of the wall, looking like a scarecrow convention. It was a good turnout, mind you, for the middle of January – 24 people and two dogs (neither of them particularly mad) turned up. Included in this merry band were three virgins – Jude (hey, Jude) and Sam who are mates of ASB, and Lottie, who had gone to Vidal’s expecting a nice, relaxing, warm and dry girly sleepover. It was good to see Gary, ASB and Hash Puppy again so soon. We like virgins who come back. Meanwhile, Diarrhoea turned up in knee-length pink hash socks. Anyway, with the virgins, briefed, off we went.
One checkback later, back we came again. Across the field we ran, through the gate and into the next field. Then we stumbled about like fools until we were guided down the hill and through another gate. The flour dried up. Back through the gate we went and there was the trail. By now we’d been mooching about for about fifteen minutes and had moved about a hundred yards from the cars. Two checks later, and out in the wilderness, Geoffrey’s eyes fell upon an abandoned sofa. How tempting it looked. His knobbly knees quivered in their quest for a rest. Sadly, the trail went elsewhere, and Geoffrey was left to reflect on the hard day’s furniture shopping ahead. That would not be the last sofa he’d see that day. The run, meanwhile, was like one of those optical illusions whereby all the paths lead upwards in a never-ending spiral, never reaching their destination and certainly never coming down. We climbed up and up. We must have been, ooh, a million feet in the air. I’m sure I saw some mountain goats (or someone mountain a goat, perhaps?), and an airliner flew past at one point. Laughing Boy was short of oxygen. Hash Puppy, being used to rarefied atmospheres, sprinted on regardless. Nudge, typically, wittered on about the legality of the paths. Perhaps we were so high up we were in God’s back garden? Lottie, having seen enough back arrows to begin to grasp the principles, asked Vidal if they could just turn round and head back, there and then, having spotted one in the distance. Good thinking, but no. In order to liven up proceedings a bit, they chose to roll along one leg instead of running it. This may catch on. Until it does, have a beer for lying down. Next - back arrows for two, for Dog Plop, for three, for ‘SQ’ (Squeaky Queen?), for four, for FNL (which, curiously, is what she said when she saw it), and back arrows for all. Things then got ugly - the next check was marked with a large ‘S’. Could it mean Stella, or Sausages? Shampagne, perhaps? Oh no - this was a check for Singlies. Used to being out on their own, they went off in six different directions. They were a little grumpy, but seemed strangely resigned to a period of solitude. Would they come back, we wondered, or would they go off buying meals for one, or ending up in the library, or perhaps noting down train numbers in a small book, with a pencil? Perhaps they would sit down, quietly weeping? Fear not - our singlies are made of stronger stuff than that! On on we went, over the rail bridge and along a very long and windswept track. I could just make out Witham’s church spire in the far distance. On went the long march, marked by back arrow, after back arrow, after back arrow – a new record may have been set for consecutive back arrows. Fresh As was desperately looking for a wood by this point, in order to act like a bear. We saw no trees, though, and so she ran the rest of the trail with her knees locked firmly together. Next - up the slippery path. Gary fell over. Worst still, he admitted as much to the On Pres, which resulted in the award of a fine. Oddly enough there was a back arrow near the top, hence we went back down the slippery path and, having found Nudgers and Laughing Boy strolling along in full knitting circle mode, we went back up the slippery path once more, past the village green stocks and On Inn to the circle.

ASB was congratulated for provided lovely scoff, which went well with some scrummy gluhwein (everything does, though, frankly). Fresh As was sheriff. With her legs now tightly crossed, she fined lots of people for being naughty, for lying down, for overachieving, and for telling fibs. Three virgins and four returners copped some lager too. Blakey was presented with her 100th hash hoody, having run her 100th hash back in May. Finally Giggles had had her 16th birthday. Not surprisingly, some soggy birthday cake resulted. On on to Honington! 



Hash Trash Hash Number 642 Sun 4th Jan 09 Culverthorpe Lakes 

Scribe: Bummer 


Crisp, I think describes the day as we gathered at Culverthorpe Lakes, last time here with the family Nudge it was the monsoon season and we all got a little moist to the skiddies I recall. Nearly new and brand new blood arrived, only one Perrin returned from last week, we greeted virgin Gary from South Witham welcome, two dicks turned up, sorry Willies, Long cock visitor from Giggistan hash and I believe an old mate of his who now resides somewhere around these parts. Hashers from overseas who added their experience to the circle cheers to both hopefully you will return someday.
To the brief it was muddy when sussed and maybe frozen and rutted now, correct bloody hard under foot. Nudge was smiling as he knew every turn to make from his previous haring of the area. We were on out on the Nudgers on into Christ it was two hours last time ,ever hopeful this way round would be quicker somehow! On on to Sheppard’s pie!!!!!Paedo fits through sheep wire! But luckily sheep don’t fit in Paedos mouth, She gave it a go but only managed a mouthful of wool. Now poor PP was looking sheepish! Paedo was in disgrace and on the lead, grounded!!

These things happen no harm done learning curve and all that, up and over a hill turn right shorter than before was now on the cards. Up another hill past a dead hasher  funny as we left him im sure I heard "ive done my hour"! NB was spotted Christ the biting wind stirred Numbnuts went passed he was bloody flying, you could see the beer, well the yellow peril parked up sorry Numbnuts the rotten hares laid a back arrow still it gave them time to crack a few tops off. Welcome refreshments taken, on in round one of the lakes, udders and Squeakers nowhere near two hours well done Good circle FNL 50 runs much singing with dancing as requested by our visitors,dont think they had the Bum titty song in mind but both Willies gave it a go.

on on to Witham on the hill

Hash Trash Hash Number 693 The Vocal Hash, Sun 27th December 09 Morkery Wood 

Scribe:Mudplug 


“It is neither good form nor particularly funny to write your own hash trash”, so said Oscar Wilde at the turn of the last century. So I won’t. I will just recall one comment that was made during our jog around a slushy Morkery Wood. Pete (aka Dumplug) had been listening to FNL whilst she squeaked and squealed and giggled and gasped and grunted her way round. “Does this thing make any other noises?” he asked. Oh yes, Pete, this thing does. If a noise can be made, FNL is sure to make it at some point on a hash. 



Hash Trash Hash Number 692 The Ho Ho Ho Hash, Sun 20th December 09 Langham 

Scribe:Mudplug 


“Meet us at the Rutland Polo Club on the Ashwell Road”, said the hares. There isn’t one, and we ended up driving round and round Langham before we asked a passer-by where we should go. “Ah”, he said, “you’re the seventh person to ask me that. Is it another one of Dogplop’s mystery hashes?” He was right – it was. Eventually we gathered in the snow and the sunshine on the Burley Road. It was a cold, but really bright and sunny morning. Our hares were wearing matching Santa suits. Dogplop’s fitted him – just. Each side of Adam’s was struggling to meet its opposite number. The Santas passed the time waiting for us by smoking tabs. It was a very Christmassy scene. We were told that the hash was laid in flour, in chalk, and in snow sculptures. Hmm. We were off, and we spent the next 20 minutes mooching around the village before setting off into the winter wonderland. There were back arrows aplenty, some numbered, some named, some for all to enjoy. Our shoes were getting a good wash in the snow, getting cleaner and cleaner as the hash progressed. Her Fault’s condition improved with time, too. She could almost speak at the end. Without our normal legal cover we were steered up a private drive – very risqué. Walkie Talkie wasn’t really happy with the conditions since she’s used to running up and down sand dunes. She had left her snow shoes at home. Swollen Bits hadn’t, though, and was nice to hear the metallic sound of SB’s tap shoes on their first outing of the year. In turn, we all felt a little underdressed when we met some local folk out for a walk. They were wearing twenty-six layers of clothing, plus hats, scarves, gloves, snowgoggles, snowboots and crampons. We were dressed in thongs and vests and silly expressions. Despite carrying all this equipment, the walkers kept up with us for the next two miles or so. The snow sculptures were there – vast checkpoint symbols carved in blocks of ice and snow using garden spades – along with multi-coloured chalk crosses placed on everything that didn’t move, and on some things that did. We went out into the country and ran a huge loop to the north before re-appearing in the village. With less than a minute to go before our allotted hour ended, we passed the On Inn and ran back to the cars. At the circle, there was lashings of lovely gluhwein, pork sausages, sausage rolls and jaffa cakes. There were also fines for the hares, fines for returners, fines for those not wearing Santa hats, fines for those who didn’t run enough back arrows, and fines for the one person not wearing hash attire: our hare, Adam. One hare in the circle..... On on 



Hash Trash Hash Number 691 The On Inn From Hell, Sun 13th December 09 Easton On The Hill 

Scribe:Mudplug 


Swag Bag and Vidal Baboon were in charge. It was a live hash, sort of. We met, we waited, and we stripped ready for action. Mutant stripped more than most of us. The hares, however, had to finish laying the trail, and so we stood and shivered for ten minutes while they sprinted off with their bags of self-raising. Mutant put several layers of clothing back on. Eventually we tired of all this and gave chase. We trawled around the streets of Easton and then.... Look! Over there! There were the hares. We caught them, and this was turning out to be no fun at all. Oh, actually, this wasn’t a live hash after all. It was just an unfinished hash. On we went. Only in Easton would you happen across a pheasant plucker. We did. “Get orrff moi land”, he probably said, before he wandered off clutching his freshly-shot lunch. There followed a very pleasant hash taking the form of an enormous but pleasant loop south of Easton along pleasant footpaths and through pleasant woods. We stumbled onto the road near the end to be met by one of the locals. “Get orff moi land with them there dogs”, he advised, “or Oi’ll have ‘em shot”. We wished him good day and carried on regardless. A shortcut was announced at this point but most of us foolishly set off toward the A1. We went miles and miles and miles and miles, covering entire previous hashes in an attempt to get back to the cars before it got dark. There were no interruptions and most of us needed oxygen when we got back. To the circle. Ah, yes, the circle. We all remembered how to have a good chinwag, but we all forgot how to sing. And how to have a drink. Our hares and our returners (Runny One and Vidal) were toasted, sort of. There were fines but no-one was really bothered. So be it – it was that sort of day. On on. 



Hash Trash Hash Number 690 The Muck and Brass Hash, Sun 6th December 09 Bainton 

Scribe:Mudplug 


We were off to Bainton for the first time and we found a doody little car park littered with footpaths from where to start. It wasn’t a big space and so we cleverly slotted all the cars in so that no more could enter and no-one could exit without following a precise order and without use of a password. We were all set for the off when one final car drew up. It was Stopout, one of today’s hares. “Ay oop”, he said. “How’s tha bin? This int t’right spot for us cars, like, any road up”, or something. I thought I could hear a brass band playing in the distance. Squeakers translated what had been said into English, and it turned out that we were in the wrong place. No problem, though. The proper parking place was only 200 yards down the road. Some drove on, whilst Vision in Pink and Mudders elected to jog there. Four miles later we arrived and, having got our breath back, we listened to the brief given by our joint hares: Her Fault (“I want no part of this – it’s nothing to do with me”) and Stopout (“It’s reet muddeh and there’s probably ferrets and pigeons. And sheep”). Mystified, we set off. We merrily trotted around the fields and the woods, up hill and down dale, eighteen of us, all grinning like fools. There was shiggy aplenty – enough for everyone. We happened across a big ditch and Squeakers decided to arse-aid her way down into it. She then moaned for the rest of the trail that she had wet pants. What a big girl. It was a grand trail and over all too soon. We emerged onto the road and were confronted by the long trail back to the On Inn – some of us had run it before and knew what a trauma it was. None of us expected the back arrow that had appeared, though, and so double trauma resulted. To the circle! There were fines for the hares, for the shortcutters (Swollen Bits, Laughing Boy and Mudplug), for the overachievers (Dogplop and Bloodhound – really?), and for the wearers of outrageous socks (Her Fault, Dirty Stopout and VIP). Squeakers, when asked for her comments, said that there hadn’t been enough mud. I obliged by kicking some more over her. She didn’t really appreciate this (apparently she was being sarcastic) and retaliated by soaking me in beer. What fun we had. But wait. Where was Pete? Surely he was at this hash? Ah. Here’s Pete. Not content with the length of the hash he had sprinted back to his car and returned with bags and bags of cookies. Good old Pete! Here’s a fine for missing the circle. On on. 



Hash Trash Hash Number 689 The Mud and Mince Pie Hash, Sun 29th November 09 Cawthorpe 

Scribe:Mudplug 


It didn’t bode well. It was raining cats and dogs when we set off from home. However, things improved as we approached Cawthorpe. True to form, there was a very happy Bloodhound mooching about in the sun. He’d just returned from laying his trail a second time, the first set of markings having been washed out in the downpour. The trail itself was predictably slippery and slidy underfoot but the hash god smiled upon us and it stayed dry for the duration. Staying with the meteorological theme for a moment, it was quite warm during the circle. More of that later, though. In the meantime there was a hash to run. There were 17 of us in attendance, including Well Hung Over in a bright pink floppy hat, and Adam in some very gay trousers. Cawthorpe was as nice as ever and Bloodhound treated us to a very entertaining and well-laid hash. A sizeable part was spent in the northern extremities of Bourne Woods, one of Bloodhound’s favourite hunting grounds. Maybe it was me being a duffer, but not much was recognizable. Bummer was familiar with one junction of paths, though. It was here that he had switched all the direction markers round during the All-England Cross-Country Championships, possibly throwing the event into disarray. Squeakers and Mutant thought they recognized the paths, too. Off they went, only to be stopped by Squeakers’ shriek of “FALSE TRAIL!”. On went Mutant, muttering about how mistaken this newcomer was. Sure enough, Squeakers had blown it, and had called a false trail on a symmetrical pattern of bird crap. Back to the circle and, even though it was still November, there were scrummy mince pies on the menu. Her Fault was fined for being slow, although I didn’t know that was a crime. Stopout and Mudders copped a fine for over-achieving - surely some mistake? The last word went to our returners, Adam and Well Hung Over, who were invited into the circle to pay for their prolonged absences. Adam did the right thing by quaffing his ale swiftly. Well Hung Over shared hers, selflessly, with Stopout, who was covered liberally in Stella and bits of pie, and who stood there shivering and dripping, whilst his bottom lip quivered noticeably. On on. 



Hash Trash Hash Number 688 The Muffin Man Hash, Sun 22nd November 09 Sibson 

Scribe:Mudplug 


... or was it Hash Number 686? Yes, I was wrong, but at that point my mind was elsewhere and my heart, for the moment, was not entirely in it. If you don’t know why, I’ll explain some time. Geoffrey Quiver and Hash Harlot welcomed 23 of us to Sibson for the first time ever. GQ gave the first of many interesting historical vignettes and then boosted morale by stating that this would be a ‘long hash’. Surely not, we thought, since Hash Harlot had been involved in the plan? There was, however, more detail: there would be soft, fluffy short cuts led by HH, whilst GQ would take the hardcore hashers on a trail to remember. Oh, goody. Off we went down the obvious and road-safe trail only to be brought back by the check-back to face the music, and the traffic, on the main road. Everything would have been fine, but a number of us were nearly mowed down by Swag Bag who turned up, somewhat predictably, late. The markings had suffered a little in the overnight showers, and we flogged along the road getting increasingly concerned by the lack of obvious flour. More rain was forecast and so it didn’t bode well for future markings or, indeed, for us poor souls. We said farewell to the road and mooched downhill to a check. Here GQ went into tour-guide mode again and gave us another five minutes on local highlights. Included amongst them were the half-million pound houses that the owners were obliged to vacate for two weeks each year. Wierd. We stood atop the listed tunnel that serves the Nene Railway. If, by accident or intent, anyone was to step onto the tracks, they would risk being turned into red jam by a speeding Thomas the Tank Engine, but only on the three Sundays immediately before Christmas. We breathed a collective sigh of relief and plodded on to our next check and point of interest, Hallet’s Halt on the same railway line. Here, GQ showed us the nets beside the track that were used for the collection and despatch of third-class passengers back in the 1970s. The poor folk of Peterborough would grunt at the guard as their chosen caravan site approached, and they would be thrown bodily from the speeding train into the waiting nets, thereby avoiding the need to slow the train. Food for thought there, I think. We passed some sad people who were fishing and who had been there, fishing, all night. Don’t they know that you can buy fish in the shops? They were, we were told, fishing for Carp, because some of the locals like a Carp at Christmas. I suspect that, instead, they waited until we were out of sight and then carried on strangling swans. Onward we went into the camping and caravan site for temporarily displaced rich homeowners. Pausing briefly at a very impressive set of lock gates (for this was a very interesting hash), we then followed the Nene Way instead of flour. It was, after all, slightly easier to spot. FNL led the way, somewhat impatiently. She finds that the hash halts interrupt her running. I find that the running is an inconvenience between hash halts. Mutant 1 uses hash halts as public inconveniences. Each to his, or her, own. Uphill to Mill Lane next, where we were told some tenuous tale about a bloke who used to live there who looked a bit like Dick Whittington, or perhaps it was his cat? I don’t really remember, and it just seemed to me like an excuse to stop for a while. FNL tapped her foot very noticeably, so off we went again, back into the fields. There were cows here. ‘If confronted by a mad cow’, the sign said, ‘let your dog off the leash’. I got quite worried. Not only was I surrounded by mad cows, I didn’t even have a dog. I was probably doomed. I was, literally, in the sh*t, but there was, luckily, enough for everyone to slip and slide around in. There then followed that period that occurs in every hash, where we run around a lot, along the edges of fields, chuckling as we encounter back arrows, and searching for elusive blobs of flour. I can’t remember much of it. I do recall a bridge that we crossed twice (for this was also a very clever hash) and a set of stepping stones that were denied to us by the fast-flowing river. They’d been out of action for five years but GQ took us there on the off-chance that we could tiptoe across them. Oddly enough (in light of nationwide flooding) we couldn’t, and so we were subjected to a million-mile run to the nearest bridge and then another million-mile run back to the same place on the far bank. We were challenged like the people of Cockermouth and their attempts to go to the pub. I also recall Rambo coming over all rural on us, by stating that he could “smell foxes”. Is he part-chicken? The cold rain began to lash down. Soon, we decided that we could see the On Inn, but it was simply a mirage. It was further than we thought – definitely out of reach, and so we flogged on round dozens more fields until, seeing our heads drop, GQ took pity on us and steered us back to the cars. Rambo and Aggie had to dash, but not before they declared the hash ‘very enjoyable’. Are they mad? In the circle, and in addition to the hares, Diarrhoea was fined for having talking pants, Fresh As and Natasha were fined for returning, Stopout, Swollen Bits and Canary Boy were fined for making fundamental mistakes, and Bummer, Scotty, Fresh As, Reargunner, Happy Feet and Stopout were fined for being wimps. Canary (bless him) supplied mountains of muffins. They were just the ticket, even those that had had the tops mysteriously nibbled off. You know who you are. On on. 



Hash Trash Hash Number 687 The Wet Noses and Shiny Coats Hash, Sun 15th November 09 Folksworth 

Scribe:Mudplug 


Mary, Mary was quite contrary. Her garden grew nicer because Canary Boy drooled all over it, as well as all over her. Cryptic enough for you? We were in the very pleasant hamlet of Folksworth, where it was dry, quite sunny and reasonably warm. Pre-hash drinks were served to Mutant 1, who was about to hash for the 500th time, to Rambo (and Aggie, again) for their hash engagement, and to Geoffrey for claiming to have hashed last week despite turning up at Ketton, late and in jeans and slippers. Two of our members, who should have known better by now, turned up without hash attire. Seizing the theme, Geoffrey carried out an inspection to see if FNL was properly dressed. He concentrated on her pant area, did it four times, and used only his hands. Is he old enough to be a sex pest? Anyway, all seemed to be in order. FNL ended up with a smile on her face whilst everybody else showed a look of concern, and of pity. Here was the cock-and-bull brief: apparently Folksworth is where the Magna Carta was signed, where the Queen was born, where man landed on the moon, and where the 2004 Winter Olympics were held – or something of that nature. The hash was going to be four miles long (hardly worth getting your shoes on for) but had taken two hours to lay. Did they crawl round? It was laid in discarded hamster-cage sawdust and so the whole trail smelled of rodent wee. In addition, it was said to be liberally covered in sheep poo. Oh joy. Unable to contain my excitement a moment longer, and thinking it was time we left, I asked Aggie what time it was. “Just nearly before”, came the answer. None the wiser, we were off – across the road, up the path (farewell, fair gardener), through the gate and into the fields. The hash then went off on a big loop of fields, across bridges, down ditches, over steep stiles, and into the woods. We ended up in a deep, wide ditch at one point. This was a special request from Squelchy, one of the hares. To regain the trail, we had to climb out. Some did it by grasping branches. Some did it on all fours. Hash Harlot was hauled out using ropes and a pulley. This was, though, the end of Reargunner. Faced by the ditch, she threw in the towel and headed back to the sanctuary of the cars. Swag Bag turned up as a latecomer, having (probably) had a night on the lash. Some time later, there was a special named back arrow – for FNL, because FNL is the hare’s special friend. We spoiled the party a bit by running it too - anything for a free drink. At every junction we were met by dog-walkers. Each had a dog, or dogs, with them. Bizarrely, they were all Jack Russells. What was going on, we thought? Is there a puppy factory nearby? One ran by at a check, quite close and quickly, and the owner apologized for it. “Don’t worry”, we replied, “we have someone like that”. We meant FNL. FNL was a bit like the dog, we all suddenly thought. “She runs at the front”, someone said. “Very quickly”, someone else added. “But her legs are longer”, somebody pointed out. There was a pause whilst we all thought a little bit. “She runs with her tongue out”, contributed Pete. “And she does have a wet nose”, added someone else. “And nice smooth fur”, someone at the back pointed out. We all thought a little bit more. “But she doesn’t sniff other hasher’s bottoms”, we concluded. And with that, we were on on again. We went into the wood, and traded one pile of brown sticky stuff for another – sticks, this time. We like the woods, but spotting the hamster sawdust became a challenge. Nonetheless, we safely emerged and made our way back via the On Inn to the circle. Bummer was sheriff, and he doesn’t miss anything. The hares were fined, as were the returners (GQ, Hash Harlot, and Squelchy), the sinners (GQ and FNL), the latecomer (Swag), the shortcutters (Stopout and Bummer) the hash attire abusers (Mudplug) and the overachievers (Mudplug, again, and Pete who are, apparently, clones). Mutant 1 was presented with a jacket to mark his 500th hash. He and Reargunner had provided lovely food and even lovelier gluhwein, so we ate and drank like lords for a while. The gluhwein flowed quite nicely, and FNL got all giggly. Sensing that we all had to drive home, we had to call it a day. The gardener, and a pack of Jack Russells, watched us as we left. On on. 



Hash Trash Hash Number 686 A Bridge Too Far, Sun 8th November 09 Ketton 

Scribe:Mudplug 


I’m using the run list to help write this hash trash. That’s the piece of paper that you sign in on, and on which I make notes during the circle. It’s difficult to see what’s been written, though, because the paper seems to have been soaked in beer, and covered in bits of cake, nuts and vomit. Indications, therefore, are of a successful hash, or at least a successful circle. I will try to record it accurately for you. We were at Ketton. Not at the geological car park as normal, but at the scout hut. Twenty-four of us gathered there, including returners in the form of Dolly (who had spent seven weeks in Jotham City), Manuel (who had missed 16 hashes for some rubbishy reason), and Big Dave – the latter having been on a summer holiday to Afghanistan for the past four months. It was good to see BD back fit and well and, having been subject to Shariah Law for a while, he was presented with a welcome-back beer to help loosen his joints. Joining him for a quick sharpener was Aggie. Aggie was looking her normal colourful, coordinated and pristine self but was also carrying extra baggage in the form of a massive diamond sparkly thing on her finger. Yes – a hash engagement. It seemed to me that she had only met Rambo at the Oundle Hash some weeks earlier, but apparently they were childhood sweethearts too. The engagement has resulted in a change of priorities – Aggie and Rambo have decided that a romantic candlelit dinner for the two of them and all Rambo’s business colleagues is a better night out than our Chrizzy Dinner at the White Horse. Have a word, someone. Rambo had loaned Aggie his car this morning. It’s a shame that she had hit a water buffalo on the way there. That’ll learn him. Also killing things in their rush to go hashing was the South Witham gang. Mutant pulled bits of roast pigeon from the front of his car and laughed. The only thing that would have made him happier was if it was the hooded tracksuit of a chav. It was November, I admit, and it was a little chilly, but was there really any need for Manuel’s massive furry earmuffs? Perhaps there was an IPod in there too? In any event, she couldn’t hear what was being said, so went off in the wrong direction, and wasn’t seen again. Later, I’m told, the weight of her furry headgear threw her off-balance and she stumbled to the ground which made her elbow hurt and blood come out of her bottom. Quite some injury there, then. Not as bad as her dad’s, though, but perhaps that’s because I wasn’t involved. Anyway, we were off, up the road, through the gate and along the path. In due course, we found ourselves presented with an enormous quarry which was to be the dominant feature for the next hour. We stood on Pegasus Bridge and there was some discussion amongst the clever people about what sort of rock was quarried there. Meanwhile, the rest of us got our breath back. Later, Swollen Bits took the opportunity to goose a female. The female, understandably, shrieked in horror. “Ooh”, said the Swollen One, “you squeal like a little girl”, which didn’t help his cause much. We crossed a stile and FNL managed to kick someone in the face as she did so. An FRB option presented itself, and the gallant ones set off around three sides of the quarry. They had almost completed their trek when they were confronted by a back arrow. Off they went to find the knitting circle, starring Nudge Nudge and Laughing Boy, in full swing at the back. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth resulted. The two-minute silence allowed us to get our breath back, again. There was a gate to cross; somehow FNL once again managed to put her foot into the side of someone’s head. At this point Bummer re-emerged having been posted missing some hours before. There were some splendid forest tracks to negotiate next, and all was good in the world. We emerged at the top of a long slope down into town and plummeted earthwards, Laughing Boy and Happy Feet bringing up the rear, giggling like kids all the way. Our reward came in the form of chocolate, handed out by the oompa-loompas of Ketton as a late trick-or-treat snack. Back into the woods we went. There were more stiles, and more people kicked in the face by FNL. The latest latecomer ever presented himself – there was Geoffrey Quiver waiting close to the On Inn. It seemed at this point that we had all had enough – FNL kicked out the last of several hundred back arrows in an attempt to make the pain stop. Finally, we were back at the circle. Birthdays - specifically those of Swag, Knickerdorfe, and Laughing Boy - were punished. So too were the hares and the sinners. VIP was fined for ignoring every back arrow, and there had been many. Shortcutters and latecomers copped fines too. We had a huge down-down pot on the go, filled with beer, cake, muffins and nuts. Diarrhoea showed us how to do it. He’s nails. On on. 



Hash Trash Hash Number 684 The Bright & Breezy Hash, Sun 25th October 09 Woodnewton 

Scribe:Mudplug 


It was a grand old morning at Woodnewton. The sun shone and the hashers were happy. Not all as happy as one of our hares, though. Swollen Bits declared (for some reason) that he wanted to be gay today, and possibly forever. I’m no expert in these matters but I don’t think you can turn being gay on and off on a daily basis. Anyway, I wouldn’t give two hoots if he was, although the good lady folk of Oundle may have other views. They may be quite pleased. Our hares, the Swollen One and FNL, had gathered us in the village hall car park where, during a previous hash, FNL had served drinks from the back of her car. This was becoming a popular location for the hash having, as it does, a play area in which Doggers and Canary could burn off some energy. Sure enough, off they went to play on the swings before we had to set off. Bloodhound wandered over to keep an eye on the youngsters but, before we knew it, he was whizzing up and down the death slide like a six-year old. Before we left we had to express a hearty welcome back to our returners. There was an entire family of them in the guise of Rooster, Becks, Sporty and Stella and they had, between them, missed a total of 108 hashes. Luckily, they were about to build up a thirst. Becks was there for her first hash as a hasher, if you get my meaning. She played into my hands by claiming to be a virgin. Did we have enough lager for all these revelations, I wondered? We were just about to leave when there was a squeal of tyres and a cloud of dust as Dirty Stopout and Her Fault screeched into the car park. It may have been a late night in Stamford the night before. Both grinned a lot, but said little. Only one managed to make it round the whole route. Both wore very dark glasses, and one was in a stetson. I’m sure you get the picture. Now, I’d like to tell you all about a variety of major events that occurred over the course of the next hour or so, but there weren’t any. I’d like to tell you about the people that fell in the river, or who climbed trees, or who got chased by tigers, but none of this happened. It was, all in all, a splendid hash, cleverly laid and well-marshalled by our increasingly capable hares. There was a moment, though, where one of us foolishly followed the countless blobs that led away from a check along the edge of a field to a hash halt. To the untrained eye this may have looked like the trail, but no, apparently it wasn’t. Anyway, this particular hasher stood at the check for a few minutes, resolutely refusing to move anywhere until it became obvious that this was futile. He (or she) jogged humbly back to the pack – as if the error was his (or hers). Oh, the joy of being the hare. You can mess with people’s minds if you have your hands on the flour. It got increasingly windy but remained a splendid morning, without a cloud in the sky. We pootled around the fields and bounced briefly off Apethorpe, the scene of another hash from way back when. On some slightly raised ground we stood to take in the glorious scene around us and Canary Boy perked up noticeably as he spotted Fotheringhay Church – his holy grail from a previous outing. He was happy now. Next, and without legal back-up (Nudgers still being in bed), we had to dash unlawfully across two fields. We kept our eyes peeled for Mr Giles, but no threat was observed. The bird scaring gas cannon that went off, though, made us run just that little bit faster. It all helps to get us back to the circle. Talking of which, we emerged from a doody little forested path back into the hashers play area and to the circle. The usual suspects were fined – the hares, the sinners, the returners, the sitters, the latecomers, the virgin, the peacemakers, and the meek. There was a hatful of Family Rooster birthdays that had gone unpunished – Rooster himself, Sporty and, most recently, Stella. In fact, Stella had been a hasher for some time now, and so it came to pass that she was named. When we last saw her she was small and called Stella. Hence, step forward Half Pint. She’s not so small now but, hey, it’ll do. Nobody said that names had to be accurate. On on. 



Hash Trash Hash Number 682 No Dogs Mellors,Sun 11th October 09 Duddington 

Scribe:Pete B 


The met forecast for today's hash was high winds and heavy rain. So no-one was surprised by an azure blue sky and little breeze. Our doe had brought her long absent leverets Tash & Emily to assist in laying the trail through the winding hills, forests, rubbish dumps and gas venting stations of Duddington. We were informed that while laying the trail they had run into the gamekeeper ("not the one with the big beer belly", apparently). However, we were not informed if he had induced any "moments" in our intrepid trio.
An initial hill climb was clearly designed to kill the weaker hashers amongst us, but all made it to the top, eventually. The trail cleverly veered away from the footpath into the woods and instead took us for a scenic tour past the rubbish dump, soon to be a nuclear waste repository. Apparently the government has decided that an increase in mutations can only improve the area. Rear Gunner retired at this point, perhaps fearful of fallout.
It was here that it was first noticed Steph had elected to run in a shiny new pair of Nikes, however, strangely she has yet to imbibe from them. Perhaps because by the end of the run they were anything but shiny or new. As we plunged into the forest what had passed for a trail petered out, becoming as overgrown as David Bellamy's beard. Our hashers bravely ploughed on through the brambles and over the log-strewn wasteland. The woods claimed its first casualty when Doug went head over feet into the mud. Truly impressive quantities of blood were seen to run down his arm, while elsewhere truly impressive quantities of mud were running up others' legs.
After a few brief interludes in the woods, with the hashers forming a beating line in a desperate attempt to pick up the trail, we returned to firmer ground (although not before some of us had become seriously enmeshed). Bummer decided to go his own way at this point, leading a small intrepid party in an attempt to convince the gamekeeper there were but twenty of us, as promised.
FNL attempted to have her wicked way with Long Runny One, but he bravely resisted her advances, upending her in the bush.
After a brief photo-call, with all of us naturally looking our mud-splattered best, it was onwards through the forest. The overnight rain had done nothing to assist in the clarity of the symbols, leading to a number of the FRBs missing back arrows, for which they were duly punished.
A lengthy metalled section tested the stamina and speed of our motley crew, but fortunately by this point our hares had learnt to combine back arrows with numbers, mercifully saving those at the rear from retracing their steps. Worryingly our route did take us past what was clearly a German PoW camp guard tower. Have our hares never seen the Great Escape? We were lucky not be machine-gunned by a bored extra vith a poor German accent. We were also lucky that the weather held, the few spots of rain rapidly running out of steam, the only water flying around being mostly generated by over-heated hashers.
And so it was we once more climbed the hill to reach the circle. In something of a departure, the sheriff declared that people were to come forward and admit to their own sins. Clearly evidence of the growing police state, it will be guilty until proven innocent next! Sadly, Oldest Swinger was unable to recollect his sin so admitted to a random collection of other people's instead. Steph and Giorgio Armani (at least according to his T-Shirt) stepped in to receive their hash handles; Aggie and Rambo being chosen although the order of allocation is left to the reader's imagination. 
There was some debate as to the appropriate handles for VIP's two returnees, LSG (aka Lazy Sponging git) eventually being chosen for Tash, while Anya will just have to come back to be bestowed with her title. We imagine we will have come up with something by 2010, which is about as long as her previous gap between hashes.

On On! 



Hash Trash Hash Number 679 Confused.com, Sun 20th September 09 Stamford 

Scribe:Mudplug 


It’s a simple principle, really. Have a look at the website and see what symbols we use, then try to use the same. Or, alternatively, run 77 hashes between you and pick up what we do. Take advice, even, but please don’t fox us all by drawing massive street art murals and expect us to understand what’s going on. We’re only simple folk, you see. When we put running shoes on, we are even simpler. So, there we were in Stamford. It was a great morning and the Meadows looked very inviting. The church bells rang out to welcome the hash. All was good in the world until the brief, given primarily for the benefit of Doughnut Slut - a visitor from Scarborough Hash - but, as it happened, an education for us all. Banksy, in the form of Vidal, drew an enormous shape on the ground in chalk. There were arrows, heads, tails, vast swirls, and numbers in it. It looked like an elaborate crop circle, only in chalk. Believing it to be some sort of religious symbol, we asked what it was. “That’s a check” came the answer, “I think”. These hares had confused us before (on 21 June, at about five past ten, and every few minutes afterwards) and today looked to be no different. The trail was laid in multicoloured chalk and the symbols seemed to be designed by someone who had eaten too many additives. Anyway, off we went around the meadows, heading off toward Easton-on-the-Very-Big-Hill. This was quite worrying in itself, because we could see Easton Church about three counties away. Surely not, we thought, not again. The trail seemed to go in that direction, but this was just a cock-up by the hares (which I forgot to fine them for – darn it!). Instead we doubled back and went into town, eventually arriving at the grave of the famous fat bloke of Stamford. The trail went that way, and so did we, right up to the dead end (in a cemetery – geddit?!). Out we came again, and we all had a little dig at the hares. This was not the first such dig – there were confused looks on many faces, and Doggers was beginning to have one of his ‘moments’. Things looked up as we entered Burghley Park. The blobs were on posts, but there was about a million miles between posts. We soldiered on. Happily, the walkers found it easy to keep up, since we spent a lot of time milling about, asking questions, and staring at strange markings on the ground. The park was nice and we got to see The Big House before throwing in a u-turn and retracing our steps toward town. Ooh look, there were the outbound symbols, still no clearer from the other side. A bit of steering by the hares brought us back to a long path toward the exit. Suddenly the hares rediscovered back arrows, and three lay in wait for us, including one for the first 20 hashers. 20! Ha! At the park gates we discovered Swag’s little car, groaning under the weight of beer within it. A pleasant beer stop (with a smattering of impatience – you know who you are) was followed by a steady jog over the bridge to the chavvy part of town, where LRO gave us the history of the place, year by year, since the time the Domesday Book was in hardback. We plodded happily through Stamford’s wonderfully historic streets, up and down alleyways, and back to the On Inn. The Meadows looked even more inviting and the circle was convened on the grass. The hares were ridiculed, the sinners were punished, and we were sung to by the trio of Swag, Her Fault and Well Hung Over, in the style of a Bananarama tribute band, only a bit more pissed. Regina said that she had been confused. She actually said that she is often confused, but that today she went beyond confusion into bewilderment. So did we, Fraulein Regina. You were not alone. Returners were chastised, including Anna and Bethan, Swinger and Knickerbocker, and we all enjoyed sitting in the sun for a wee while. Gilbert spoiled the party a bit, though, by pointing out that it has been illegal to drink on the Meadows since 1245. Since it was now nearly one o’clock, we drank up and left. On on. 



Hash Trash Hash Number 678 The Green Hash, Sun 13th September 09 Pickworth Great Wood 

Scribe:Mudplug 


Mutant 1 and Reargunner were the hares looking after our interests this morning. Pickworth hadn’t changed much: there were still problems in parking, the prospect of a massive climb up into the woods to start, and a long and chaotic descent out of them again to finish. Our hares were experts, this being the 850th hash they had laid between them (or thereabouts), but despite this both the On Out and the On Inn would no doubt be littered with back arrows. Family Nudge were there en masse, Bugs re-appeared (strangely un-pregnant), Regina popped in again and beyond that it was the usual bunch who have nothing better to do on a Sunday morning. Sebastian was there as a virgin in the company of Auntie Jane. He seemed concerned and withdrawn, perhaps worried about what he had let himself in for. Most of the hashers looked the same, to be fair. Anyway, we were off and, oddly enough we were running up that hill, Kate Bush style, before encountering a check back. Did we laugh?! Frankly, no we didn’t. We went into the woods, and what followed was the slowest few hundred yards progress since the battle of the Somme. In and out, up and down, there and back we went, searching for the trail and being guided inch by inch by the hares (so to speak). The trail went through masses and masses of brambles and our legs suffered. Lumps of flesh littered the trail and blood flowed freely. It was gory but, as the old sayings go (the ones I’ve just made up): no slashing, no hashing or, alternatively, no ifs, no buts, real men love cuts. Things improved dramatically when we reached the safety at the top of the hill. We then enjoyed about an hour of very fine trail and very fine hashing. Everyone laughed and smiled. The sun came out, the grass was green, there was a cool breeze, and I can’t for the life of me remember exactly what happened. Luckily, neither can you. The hares had done exceptionally well, and everything was doody. It was particularly doody when Mutant stopped us and pulled a bag of beer from the undergrowth that he had had his good lady carry into the forest under cover of darkness. Well done, hares! Satisfied with a drink we set off again, this time lugging bags of empties and rubbish and the leftover beer. We looked like a bunch of scousers who had nicked a load of booze from the local off-license. Having had his beer, Bummer set about introducing a new recruit to the dark world of short-cutting by luring Squelchy off the path with a bag of sweets. Don’t give into it, Squelchers! The rest of us, including a very fast and now much happier Sebastian, plodded on to the end. The end, not particularly surprisingly, featured that long downhill bit. A fine trail was somewhat spoiled when we happened across the checkback from the On Out. Confusion resulted, but eventually someone realized that the cars and the beer were in touching distance, so they stopped moaning and went On Inn. A fine circle followed, with a celebration fine for Nudgers and his 100th hash, and birthday beers for Fresh As, Happy Feet and Nudgers (again). There was plenty of cake and we needed it to soak up the gallons of beer that were consumed. I didn’t want to put it back in the car, so thanks for helping getting shot of it. Other fines? Yes, there were a few, but then again to few to mention. All I recall is being somewhat hammered and soaked in beer. It all seemed very successful! On on. 



Hash Trash Hash Number 677 The Fruity Hash, Sun 6th September 09 Oundle 

Scribe:Mudplug 


What a lovely place Oundle is. Ten hounds, one pup, one hare and a virgin gathered there in the early morning sun, many still nursing the odd ache and pain from Nash Hash 09, or from a long moonlit hash in Lincoln carried out less than two days previously. FNL had kindly agreed to lay the first hash of the new season, and had bravely undertaken the effort solo. Squeezed in, as it was, at the beginning of term, research had probably been carried out during playtimes. Swollen Bits jogged up to the pack as if he’d run all the way from home, but we know he’d parked around the corner than had a fag before joining us. Doug, our virgin, arrived in the company of Steph, who was becoming something of an expert, and who has begun to inflict hashing upon her friends. Doug was briefed well enough, but Madam Hare had to overcome her shyness before telling the rest of us that there would be ‘sheepsies and cowsies’ on trail. Despite this simple attitude, her pupils will probably end up with A stars in Zoology. We forced our creaking limbs into action and crossed the bridge towards Oundle’s fair city, but we were to go no nearer. Off we went to the rugby pitches where, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Swag made use of the facilities. Mudders raced her to a successful conclusion but she won hands down. She may have developed incredible speed as a result of several late-night ‘bucket’ events outside her tent in Perth. Some Oundle schoolchildren spotted ‘Miss’ in an out-of-school moment, and may have wondered why she was hanging around outside the toilets in a bright orange t-shirt. It will give the little darlings something to discuss at break time. The sight of dozens of muscular rugby players made Reargunner decide to call it a day and she went back to have a long sit down (or so she claimed). Onward we went to the woods where the trail met a narrow, meandering, but really quite deep river. Sure enough, there were the blobs, before and beyond the water. Clearly the hare had crossed the river and meant us to do so too. So, on on went the brave hashers (the Oundle Three, in fact) up to their necks in cold water, mud and sludge. Those who took the dry option to the next check were required to hang their heads a little bit, in shame, while the Oundle Three slopped about for the next hour in soggy pants. In the woods, Madam Hare claimed that there was evidence of her presence at every corner. Intrigued, we kept our eyes on the ground and watched where we put our feet. But we were wrong - instead, there were lots of fallen trees and, in a throwback to NH, Madam Hare was suggesting that they had fallen in the same way that a mighty fir had toppled close to her at Perth, when she had allegedly farted* very loudly in the woods. All was now clear. During the next mile, Swollen Bits got his breath back and began to talk, and talk, and talk. Steph, normally such a reserved hasher, lost it a bit. “Don’t you ever bloody shut up?” she screamed at him (probably). Actually Steph, no, he doesn’t. As if to prove it, on and on and on he went. The opportunity for him and Mudders to engage in a bit of double entendre action soon presented itself. Emerging from a field many, many miles from Oundle we spotted some very dark male chicken things in an enclosure. It was inevitable: “Look at those big black cocks!” came the comment. The harriette’s heads whipped round so quickly some subsequently claimed for whiplash. Swag’s went the quickest. On to the beerstop we went. We were so pleased to see Madam Hare’s little blue car with its little blue NH sticker peeking through the window. We all dived into the boot and everyone grabbed a welcome drink. Canary Boy had nearly finished his second beer and was feeling very pleased with his efforts when we noticed a slumped and bedraggled figure walking slowly towards us. It was Squelchy, clearly second to Stella in his dad’s priority list. It’s one thing to drag your children to the hash, but to forget about them once there? You won’t find me doing that, much. A chap drove towards us. “Oh”, most of us thought, “he hasn’t realised that it is a dead end, and he will have to turn around”. Swollen Bits was the exception. “He’s off to park up in a quiet spot with his favourite gentlemen’s top-shelf magazine”, said the Swollen One, tarring the poor chap with completely the wrong brush. What you do on your days off is up to you, Bits, but not everyone does it. To make things worse, at that point Laughing Boy finished his drink and flicked the remnants of the foamy head all over the floor and all over our legs, conjuring up a hideous image of old chaps in secluded spots. There was a long pause whilst everyone tried to cleanse their minds. What happened next smacked of democracy, which we will not tolerate. A Turkey-Eagle splitty thing was coming up. Should we scrap the Eagle idea because we’d been out nearly four-and-a-half hours, asked the hare? Of course, said those who had had enough, or enough Stella, or both. No, countered the sensible ones. If the Hare has laid an Eagle route, it’s rude not to observe it. Besides, none of us had anything better to do. So off we went, and four brave souls set off on the Eagle route (Operation Certain Death). It went for many, many more miles, along roads, across fields, and into ditches. We ran past huge bushes laden with blackberries, but had no time to taste them. It was like the Krypton Factor assault course, but for grown-ups. Nonetheless, we coped and, reunited with the Turkeys, we managed the last mile or so, past millions of tempting, tasty, and free strawberries, to the On Inn. We had been out for over two hours, with only one hare! Canary Boy was sheriff for the day. Fines were given to Madam Hare for her fantastic efforts, to the filthy sinners, and to teachers for not conforming to the new Code of Reasonable Behaviour. Swollen Bits, for a variety of misdemeanours, was never out of the circle. Squeakers was called in because, at Nash Hash, she had been given a pot to pee in and, once again, she had peed in it. Our n ew Bad Parent copped a fine, too. Doug, our virgin, was given the chance to tell us something about himself. Perhaps he summed up how we all felt. “I’m knackered”, was all he said. On on. 

*Of course FNL hadn’t really farted. She doesn’t do that because she’s a lady and we all know that ladies never fart. I’m happy to put the record straight.



Hash Trash Hash Number 676 - 30 August 09- King’s Cliffe 

Scribe:Nudge Nudge 


Whilst the Hash Nash in Perth caught the attention of the adventurous hasher, 12 of our number assembled in the village of King’s Cliffe in Northamptonshire. Our hares, Swollen Bits and Fresh As, talked at length about the delights to come and relished at the thought of water crossings and stingy things. Notwithstanding the steep incline behind them winking at the pack, the “On” saw us descending into the village following pink, blue and purple chalk marks. Walkie Talkie insisted that she was brought up not to follow red crosses as the pack twisted itself though the alleyways of the Ye Olde stone buildings in the village. Careless boasted of local knowledge only to find himself rebounding from “false trails.” At one stage there was utter confusion and disarray when the pack lost the scent of the trail with Swollen Bits getting himself confused with the hash signs, “oh help us” could be heard emanating from the pack. The hares were soon back in control and dispatched the pack down a very narrow passageway and the hounds responded to a “back arrow” by a bonding session with the hounds hugging each other.. The local undulating countryside then beckoned with Bloodhound reliving his youth, and being refreshed from his trip to Romania, leapt like an antelope into the sunset, closely followed by Careless. Lofty’s Lapdog brought up the rear dreaming of his sky dive the day before whilst a false calls by guilty looking VIP and Stephanie sent the pack on brief detours. Back on the trail, Scotty with her “Flowerpot Man hat” took a tumble claiming that she had fell on her diaphragm but Nudge was not distracted by his duty as scribe and ensured that all was recorded whilst Fresh As tended to Scotty; Nudge was sure that he could hear the words “flibadobs” and “flobadobs”, or was it “Waddle oo tikoo dops” from the direction of Scotty as she rubbed her thighs. Later, Walkie Talkie had clearly not had breakfast as she consumed blackberries by the handful ably assisted by Fresh As. Swollen Bits did not miss an opportunity as he leap frogged over Her Fault who was tying her shoe laces whilst talking to Pammy (WHO!!!) about the finer points of the evening before. Back at base, Fresh As provided the usual fayre of beer, lemonade, crisps and nuts. Bloodhound stepped forward as sheriff and duly fined Swollen Bits for wearing his transvestite shorts but nothing was said about the red little number that Walkie Talkie was wearing! 

Hash Trash Hash Number 673 Sun 9th August 09 Long Bennington 

Scribe:F N L 


Welcome to Long Bennington, a beautiful little village (apparently with TWO pubs!). The first bit of good news was that the sun was shining. The second was that Bummer had nominated this as a free hash. Well, while the cat’s away….
A group of about 20 converged just outside the Royal Oak. Two virgins stood amongst us and started to look a bit worried when Bummer mooched over to a car, leaned in and then proceeded to chuck various articles of clothing out of the door. Thankfully, it was not his clothing, but that of young Jamie – or, more recently, ‘Misdemeanour’. It seemed that he thought he could spend the morning sat in a vehicle. He has been to enough hashes to know that we would never allow that to happen. Think of all the fun he would miss! With Misdemeanour and Tide Mark now part of the pack, Nudge Nudge, as dutiful hare, began to make his opening speech. Suddenly, however, a roar of a motorbike could be heard in the distance. We all waited, eagerly, to see the handsome man emerging from underneath the crash helmet….Oh, it’s only Diarrhoea. Never mind! With virgins present, Nudgers began the chalk-talk and then, somewhat prematurely, announced the on out. What he had failed to do, though, was welcome us all out, tell us a bit of history, allow the newcomers to step forward and introduce themselves. You think he would know the routine by now!
Once this error had been rectified, we were finally off. We went through little alleyways, up and down, in and out, huff puff, huff puff, check….Hang on – we had ended up just a few yards from the RV. At this point, Swag Bag remembered one of those rules about being able to go back if the cars were in view. Nudgers was having none of it, though, and sent us off checking again. So off we went a second time, through little alleyways, up and down, in and out, huff puff, huff puff, check.....Wait a minute! Here we were again only a couple more yards down the road. I think Nudge Nudge just wanted us to see the type of houses that one can purchase when one becomes a lawyer.
Once we had safely crossed the road (two-by-two, hand in hand) we eventually moved out of the residential part and came into the more familiar hash territory – the field. Then, on joining the road, we saw the most-welcome site of a little silver car parked neatly in the corner. Cautiously we edged towards it….yes, it was on on, a couple more steps and, yay, the beer stop! By now the sun was beating down and we were tired of swimming in Swollen’s sweat. Unfortunately, however, Laughing Boy thought that he had done his hour, and treated this stop like the circle. Eventually, FNL, growing ever more impatient, grabbed the drinking vessel from his hands and told him, in no uncertain terms, to stop talking about the war.
So off we went again, into another field, then another, then another. We had, by this time, become well acquainted with the cows, and they even began doing back arrows with us. It was only when they started to spread out and head in a different direction (namely towards us) that our gracious hare stepped in and calmly did a Dr Dolittle trick, leaving them sitting, waving, and even doing cartwheels at his command. “He does it all the time” announced Dolly proudly, clearly seeing her father as a knight in shining armour for keeping those heifers away from her.
The rest of the hash took us over little bridges, across more fields, and back again into the housing area. The residents there really were most kind. A petite blonde informed the front of the pack that there was a little alleyway just at the corner. Excellent! So, while all the DFLs went checking along the road, FNL and Mutant 1 went round the back of the cars to what looked like a dead-end. Squeals of delight could be heard as they saw the white stuff in front of them, taking them down an almost hidden path. Swollen Bits had also taken note of the blonde’s words (amongst other things, no doubt!) and he, too, went skipping off with Mutant towards the On Inn.
The circle was conducted by Laughing Boy, and everyone was given the chance to comment upon the hash. Surprisingly, only good things were said. Even Dogplop, who had shown real attitude throughout the trail, could not fault it. It really had been good, with perfect laying. As well as the hash being very good, the hares themselves had apparently also been on their best behaviour. Swag Bag, as sheriff, could do little more than fine Doggers and Bummer for teasing her about wearing sunglasses (or were they goggles, ready for her next swim?). Bummer hadn’t been out of the circle long before being called back in again. For what reason, you may ask? Well, today was the Big Man’s birthday. Not just any birthday. Today was Bummer’s 50th birthday. Yes, that’s right, 50th!! Laughing Boy, however, was the one showing signs of senility. There was Bummer, in the middle because it was his birthday, and the Laughing One wants to know what song we should sing to him. Erm…? Bless! Anyway, the birthday boy’s cup was filled (with, of course, the obligatory slice of cake) and, while he poured what looked like the remnants of a Greek toilet down his neck, SB and LRO sprayed him with the good stuff (well, actually it wasn’t champagne, just cheap lager, but it’s the thought that counts!). Happy Birthday Big Man! On on.



Hash Trash Hash Number 672 Sun 2nd August 09 Thornhaugh 

Scribe:Bummer 


A warm August am and the good of Rutland Hash gathered in Thornhaugh, the rest were well not worthy of print, Even Pammy was on her feet, hell of a honeymoon eleven months! We filled the best kept village, a shame theirs no room for anyone to visit, no wonder its well kept. We set off through the farm and out into the fields past a local dog walker" Christ outsiders”. check one was soon happening, did I mention I had walked this trail, one in the bank for emergencies. Despite parental briefing Happy wasn’t going any further than required and strided off the checks with confidence and most of us wise hounds. A few back arrows up the side of the wood round the top a few more back arrows we emerged pasted the old motor museum older members smiled as they thought of all the mischief they had been up too many years before in those old wrecks, some had messed about in old cars as well!
Now past the chicken sheds and on on to the beer stop, those of us that knew where we were hoped in was on inn down the road, wrong that was only for the short cutters, we should of known better it was a Mr and Mrs On Pres lay and despite his dodgy knees he still likes to take in the entire district. Across the A47 and on to Cooks hole which back in the winter was full of s, h, one, t about knee deep with a squealing Bugs and lots of Heffers in the mix. How disappointing today a gentle stream a little cowclap and no effers,just a little effing as Mudders through a couple of well aimed stones into the mire creating a splash or two. Back across the A47 a couple of fields and it was all over we thought? Farmer Giles was on the warpath as his combine harvesters were on the move which caused havoc in the narrow street much re-ajustment and shuffling of hashers cars. Peace at last circle oh no not a chance Mr Giles gets another toy out big sprayer and some hashers did another length of Thornhaugh to move the car again, get off my trail farmer Giles and stick to your land, he wanted it all. Circle Beer Crisps Nuts jolly good job all round not a bloody combine harvester in sight, went home, depressed next Hash I would be fifty!!!! Can’t be right they must have missed some years. on on Bummer 

Hash Trash Hash Number 671 Sun 26th July 09 Thorpe Meadow 

Scribe:Mudplug 


Welcome back Mutant and Reargunner! A small but perfectly formed group gathered for Hash 671, our first time at Thorpe Meadows. Bloodhound was in charge and it was appropriate that on this, his 107th outing as hare, that we were in one of his favourite locations. But where was his orange t-shirt, we all wondered? Also in attendance was Gilbert, who we hadn’t seen for many weeks. Not only was he on time, he was in fact early. This was most odd. Along with the returners we had a virgin, Stephanie, who has elected to try hashing as part of her new lifestyle. Be warned: the other stuff may seem dull in comparison and, before you know it, you’ll be bitten by the hash bug. It has bitten all of us, and some of us are still scratching. Off we went. We had been warned that there would be long legs, but the long legs were medium sized and the normal legs were short. Not as short as Mutant’s, you understand, but short all the same. We trotted along about half of the length of the rowing course before turning left to the river. On its banks was laying a strange thing. It was a concrete boat and Mutant and Laughing Boy reminisced about the wisdom of them. Both had sailed upon concrete boats as lads. Steam-driven concrete boats, apparently, and boats made of papyrus, and marble, and bronze, probably. We followed the river to a bridge and, in the traditional manner, crossed it when we came to it. There were paths, there were forested tracks, and there were splendid avenues through grassy fields. There was a check at the edge of an enormous sports field. I got quite excited because the first blob was on and we had to spread out to find it like explorers, or great white hunters. It was quite thrilling, but only for a second or so because it was quickly spotted. Darn it. On we went, past the second star to the right and straight on till morning. Only fifty minutes after we had set off we found ourselves crossing a second bridge and there, like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow (only not buried) was the Boathouse pub and, just beyond it, the On Inn. At the circle, it all went a bit weird. Family Nudge, who had been to Blackpool even though they have money, may have bought some drugs whilst there. Scotty criticized the hash for its obstacles, even though there were none. Dolly complemented the hash for its artefacts, whatever they were. A typical batch of fines followed, awarded by Bummer the sheriff. These included such stalwarts as Mutant, Swinger and Fresh As, accused of shortcutting. As if. Finally, Scotty had some birthday cake (for her birthday) drizzled into her lager. She didn’t really want to drink it that way, though, and so Swinger who, foolishly stood behind her, got showered with it instead. His eyes went wide as he was splattered in beer, chocolate and cake. Then he stood there for a moment, all open-mouthed as bits of food slowly dripped off him. “You’ve never done that before”, he mumbled, with a bit of a wobbly lip. A lesson for us all there then. On on. 

Hash Trash Hash Number 670 Sun 19th July 09 Fotheringhay 

Scribe:Mudplug 


We arrived in the beautiful village of Fotheringhay – the first time that any of us had visited. Or so we thought. We were informed by our glamorous hare that Fotheringhay was where Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded. It turns out that Laughing Boy was there, in short trousers, to witness the event. Swollen Bob arrived in a funny little vehicle again. He seems to be at the back of the queue every Friday when the salesmen choose their free cars for the weekend. Nonetheless, FNL happily jumped in it later, since she’s always up for a ride with Bob. What a lovely place Fotheringhay looked, but we weren’t going to see much of it. We would spend the next three hours out in them there fields. Sure enough, we were off. Soon, the naughty schoolboys came out to play. Doggers and the Swollen One had brought their own chalk! Snigger! And so extra back arrows cropped up all over the place, for Bloodhound, for everyone, and even for FNL, our solo and somewhat surprised hare. “Oi diven’t remember laying thaaat” she was heard to say. Because we had a teacher in charge, precise, perfectly circular checks followed. The hash was also made to line up and hold hands and then marshalled carefully across roads. It felt like we were out on a school trip – a long, hot, dry, exhausting school trip of the sort that Bloodhound used to go on between the wars. We found and enjoyed a short bit of nikky-nakky-noo into another field and ended up at a checkback which disappointed Squeakers so much that she swore loudly, spoiling her whiter-than-white image. The route went across a river, and it was as if she wanted to plunge headlong into it. Little did she know that her chance would come. We emerged from the obligatory sewage farm and found ourselves in Woodnewton. Some burly chaps were busy mending a fence (which is what country folk do) and they tugged their forelocks at us as we ran past and into the beerstop. We all had a nice drink from the back of FNL’s car – all except Fresh As, that is. Where was Fresh As, we wondered? “Oh look”, someone said, “she’s spotted the burly menfolk with their broad shoulders and with their big tools out”. It sounded like Fresh As was discussing how to get her bush fixed. Meanwhile, the kids came out to play again. Doggers and Bloodhound were off into the playground and fighting like teenagers on the swings. Canary had had enough of these shenanigans: “Where’s that Fotheringhay church?” he said. “I want to be back at the church”. Perhaps he’d come over all religious? “That’s where the beer is”, he added, so perhaps not. Sometime later, we approached a stile and we were warned that the route beyond was covered in brambles. The hare (because she is a caring sort of hare) apologized for not cutting the worst of it back. We all thought it, but only Swollen Bob found it necessary to say it: “Haven’t you trimmed your bush?” he asked, predictably. Chortle. “Where’s that church?” asked Canary Boy. “I need to see the church”. I’m sure his bottom lip quivered a bit as he said this. One of many short cuts was announced, and Happy Feet and Laughing Boy skipped off along it whilst the rest of us mooched off around another dozen acres of field. Between the two groups a combine harvester chuntered along doing threshing or somesuch thing. When we met again, Happy Feet was a bit down, and said that the Laughing One had entertained her with tales of crop rotation techniques from the 19th Century. “I don’t want to do any more short cuts”, she said. “Where’s that church?” asked Canary Boy, again. Instead of a church, we found a check. The first blob was on and was spotted on the riverbank. The second blob was plainly in view on the far side. Between the two was a deep, wide, raging torrent of water (well, sort of). Some brave souls linked arms, took off all their clothes, inflated them like lifejackets and set off into the fierce wall of water. Others - and they know who they are - trip-trapped over the bridge like big girls. The troll wasn’t even at home, probably having been swept away in the flood. Step forward Swag Bag. Never one to do things by halves, she attempted to tread carefully into the choppy waters. Instead, she tripped on a blade of grass and showed us a near-perfect swallow dive, in that she dived into the swollen river and then tried to swallow it. Having sat in the water for a while looking sorry for herself, she trudged back to the On Inn with very wet pants. Normally it’s only me that does that. “Where’s that church?” I heard Canary Boy ask, yet again. The circle was held in a cabbage patch. Blakey was sheriff, and she handed out fines to Bummer for his traditional short-cutting, to the pseudo-hares, to Bloodhound and Doggers for playing in the play area, to Fresh As for talking (a little harsh, perhaps) and to Swag for trying to swim the hash. Her Fault, meanwhile, had remained quiet throughout. She may have had a late night. Having had a sniff of Stella, a big smile appeared, she peeled her eyes open, and she was back amongst friends. It had been Swollen Bob’s birthday, so he drank beer, cake and nuts from the peanut pot. As a late birthday present, I let him do this with his hand up my pipe. This made us all smile. “Where on earth is that church?” I heard Canary Boy mutter as he wandered off. On on. 

Hash Trash Hash Number 669 Sun 12th July 09 South Witham 

Scribe:Mudplug 


First to arrive was Dave the virgin. What was going through his mind as he sat alone, amongst the aftermath of yesterday’s wedding at the Village Hall? Was this some elaborate con-trick? Were we all round his house rifling through his jewellery or, worse still, were we watching him from behind a fence, giggling? Fear not. As 10am approached, the motley crew that is the Rutland Hash began to arrive, as did our wonderful hares – all five of them. This promised to be some hash. Oldest Swinger was last hare to arrive, which would be a recurring theme throughout. Also making an appearance were Hash Harlot, Giggles and her totty, Ben, Knickerdorfe, Manuel, and the small clangers. None of these had been seen for some time and so were in line for a free drink. Twenty-four of us were there at this point, and Soup Dragon stepped up to brief us. Swinger was having to be quite careful. With the virgin briefed and introduced, we set off around the sports field that always features in a South Witham hash. We always expect to leave it at the opposite corner but somehow we always do a complete circuit before escaping over the river. Around another huge field we went and then found ourselves cleverly back at one corner of the sports field. It was here that we met our twenty-fifth hasher and latecomer in the shape of Walkie Talkie, who hadn’t been seen for a year or so. Squeakers ruined her spotless reputation by ignoring a walking check and then pretending to be deaf and blind. We stopped at a check outside Dragon’s house – being the home of three of the hares - but there was no drink stop. Apparently every beer seller in the land was shut by the time the idea of a beerstop emerged. Hmmm. We went past Bummer’s house too - still no beer - and into a field of cows and bulls. One animal managed to sneak up on Bugs, who let out the most girly scream ever heard. We were being surrounded by frisky, very inquisitive bulls. We had just about got to safety when Squeakers continued to blot her record by misidentifying three blobs of cow dung as a false trail, and in so doing she made us run back into the fat, mad animals. The cows and bulls were there, too. Once we’d escaped the mad beef, we set off around the biggest field in Eastern England. I’m not saying that it was a flog, but we were tempted to throw ourselves under vehicles when we reached the A1. We did three sides of what Laughing Boy (an ex-farmer, possibly) estimated to be twenty acres, but what I reckon was nearer a billion. It was at this point that Swinger began to go quiet and then mooched off on his own, down the trail. Was he okay, FNL wondered? Was he gay, we all thought? It turns out he was suffering from the run or, rather, the runs. How we chuckled at the thought of him being many yards (in fact a billion acres) from home, with unexpected issues to take care of. Anyhow, the end of the field extravaganza was the route home, and we happily pottered back through town to the On Inn and the circle. The circle was held in Swinger’s garden, close to his toilet. Last time we were there the police turned up accusing us of breach of the peace. That was when we used to sing. There would be no such drama today. The darker comments about the hash included “too dry”, “unimaginative”, a drag”, and, tellingly, “sedate”. Happy Feet criticized it for not having a beer stop which, for a seven-year old, is quite perceptive. Dave liked it though, declaring it “jolly good fun”. I liked it too, but then I am a simpleton. Laughing Boy was sheriff, but I’ll spare you the details. Suffice to say that by the time we got round to fining anyone, I’d lost the will to breath and most others were asleep. Beer was drunk by Manuel who is now a professor or somesuch thing, by VIP and the Harlot who had birthdays, by Giggles and Ben for heavy petting in the circle, by me, Diarrhoea and some other people for trumped-up charges and, finally, by Walkie Talkie for missing 52 hashes. Amongst those had been one or two good ones. Well, one at least. Actually, on second thoughts, maybe not. On on.

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