The RA hadn't hared since Run 554. Full of optimism (an acceptable ism) he rose bright and early on Saturday morning to lay the run. Skidmark had promised not 10 hours earlier to assist, but at 6.30 on Saturday morning, she couldn't be roused from her gin-induced coma. Ah well, time to find the map, dig out the floor and head off into the glorious sunny morn. Sod it! Can't find the map. B*gger! Who's been eating the flour? Earlier optimism was by now evaporating like the light morning mist. As a last desparate act, the RA printed off a few pages from the Ordnance Survey web site and gunned the Vomit Mobile down to Nortonbury. Nortonbury? Where the hell is The Fox? That's right faithful hashers, the geographically challenged RA had confused Willian with a completely different part of Hertfordshire. Oh well, it would have been a cracking run if only I could have laid it in Norton.

Arriving at The Fox at precisely the same time as the woman who had come to empty the fruit machines, the RA was dismayed (though not unduly surprised given his general countenance) to find that the woman was in no way interested in giving him directions around Willian. In fact, she was barely interested in winding down her car window. Still an 18-stone baldy lurching at you in a flour encrusted t-shirt, speaking Geordie and with the faint waft of the Vomit Mobile following behind is enough to scare the willies out of anyone.

To cut a long sermon, sorry, story short, the RA harassed several other poor unsuspecting souls whilst laying the run. Indeed, he was somewhat fortunate not to have felt the long arm of the law after stopping the same young woman out walking her dog twice to ask directions in two different streets. In a desparate bid to steal the thunder of the two imbeciles who recently travelled to Sydney, Canada, the RA succeeded in getting himself hopelessly lost and hoped that, come the following day, hashers would not notice the frequency with which the same landmarks appeared along the trail.

Ah well, what left to complete Saturday's bliss but to run out of flour. Various catch phrases from Father Ted stirred the anglers, and the carp, in Willian pond.

Sunday then. What could be written about Sunday? Quite possibly whole volumes could be penned on the events of Sunday morning, afternoon (and for the dedicated hardcore) evening. However, to volunteer such information as an accurate recollection would be wholly false. You see, hashers, the RA did royally indulge in the On-On-On on Sunday afternoon and, thanks to the good people at Potton Brewery, is less than able to piece life's jigsaw together again. All who followed the (ahem) trail did so with such good grace that the hare felt a little humbled, (to be honest, it was more the fact that he managed to lose half the hash plus ALL of the horrors and all in the space of 45 minutes).

Down downs were awarded to G-STRING for laying a trail detrimental to the health and well being of the hash, SASQUATCH for lost property and... please fill in as your memory of the day details.

Some good did come of the day. Apart from an absolutely corking afternoon in the sunshine, NATHAN established himself as the Hash's Barman of Choice, EBONY did not wreck the RA's garden for a change, the HORRORS got an early supply of conkers in and the RA got drunk enough to sign himself up for Posh Nosh. Hurrah!

On on.
G String