Laying the trail was a doddle, who cares about gale force winds and barely being able to stay on your feet, and having to get on your knees to place the flour carefully to make sure it was in one pile exactly where you wanted it to be. Piece o' cake.

Sunday turned out to be exactly the same, nice sunny start, winds blowing a gale, lovely pub set nice and high; it did nothing to help the lads trying to get their frocks on, nor some who sported designer sarongs or my feather boa, come to that. The sea of red frocks was so beautiful that locals you had parked up to go for their Sunday stroll, stopped and beheld with wonder, and they did.

It was a pleasure to stay back in the car park to watch the red rabble run off in all directions, missing the longest false trail which went by the fabulous ruin of John Bunyan's chimney (I jest not), but they did take an amazingly long time to find the right trail at the back of the pub. Ringkisser and Screamer spent quite some time around the camp fire they found back there before the rabble arrived; and even then there was a bit of a melee before sharp eyed Donut found the footpath and off they all went. A short sprint through the wood and into open meadows where the redness spread out all over the place. Ski injured Cap'n Haddock had been told the correct trail and had to hold back whilst the pack diligently took every false trail and more, before he was safe to go the right way. More confusion at the next check and much check hovering, but they found the right trail and trotted off through the farm. It was about this point that G-String discovered that wearing a tight red jersey dress does nothing to separate one's balls from each other or one's legs, and was beginning to chaff a little. A little chaffing became a lot of chaffing and so spent the rest of the run with said balls wrapped in the stretchy dress for us all to enjoy.

All went well until we came into the village of Wheathampstead. Smiffo, Penetrator, F*k Duck, FRBs et al rushed around the village in search of flour, having a great time with their frocks on, but to no avail, we were all going up the hill on the correct trail because time was getting tight, suppose I should have told them. Then disaster as the walking bunch became detached from the super swift, namely Shagpile and Cap't Haddock (he did miss the village routine), who raced off onto Nomansland. At the other side of the woods and common land we managed to gather together to complete a bitch of a long run in. On Inn and thank God.

Despite howling winds, a disoriented pack and sore balls, the RA still managed to hand out more than two dozen down downs. Not surprisingly there was a lot of w*nking going on in the circle. F*k Duck, Screamer, Ringkisser, Paintball and Gorjoyce for being/looking like mothers on Mother's Day. Pooper for losing his tankard, Wiggly for stalwart checking, Lozenge and Skidmark for turning up in the same dress. Smiffo the hashit because he returned the bog seat which Cardiac had been holding onto for months. Penetrator the bog seat for turning up late, Florence for littering the circle, Shagpile for his mobile going off in the circle and loads of w*nkers.

ON ON Good Crack and Dead Meat