Run No. 623 28th July 2003

The Crown, Northill

Runners:  22
Mutts:  -
Ankle Biters:  -
Knitting Circle:  -
Apres:  -
Newies/Returnees:  -

The hare from the last run just managed to get the Words sent in before the books closed. Here they are. Note G-String's very poor defence of his c**p haring that rambles on and on. He mentions experienced hashers during his rant but clearly does not qualify as one himself. Still I'm not one to criticise as long as he learns from his mistakes, that's the main thing - don't you agree? No doubt he'll have looked at 'How to' page on the web site before he lays his next run - Ed.

When I volunteered to lay a run from Northill, (sorry, forgotten the name of the pub already) I did so having never actually visited the place. However, on the assurance that the aforementioned forgotten pub serves cracking ale, I agreed to take on the weighty responsibility. Fast forward a few weeks to a couple of days before the run and I had, as yet, done nothing to prepare for the run, including ascertaining the location of Northill. Step in my knight in a shining Mondeo. SHAGGY comes charging to my aid once more with a pre-planned route and a handy toolkit in his car for when the window in the Land Rover fell out.

When it came to the actual laying of the run, I was something of a fifth wheel, nursing a bit of a minger from BELL END's shin-dig the night before, (invitation only - can't have the prols in can we?). I'm sure the idea of two hares is to halve the workload but instead I followed Shaggy around like a lap dog Shrek with a bad head. I was, however, able to observe a fine flour-laying technique.

Right, on on to Monday evening. A surprise visit from MOULDY AULD SHITE, (not in an alcoholic coma for the first time in 48 hours) was the only thing out of the ordinary other than that G-STRING got there on time thanks to a lift from BELL END. No birthdays or anniversaries that I can recall, however, there was an impending birthday announcement from WARD 10 and DONUT who are soon to be proud parents/grandparents/great grandparents (delete as appropriate).

On out of the pub car park and the pack bought all the falsies culminating in a series of Ts. Experienced hashers will be aware that this means they are to return to the last check (in this case also the first check outside the pub) and continue to check it out. To my reckoning this means that you haven't found the trail yet so you can't claim to have been led back past the pub. Well, to cut a long story short, Shagpile finally finished bleating about poor haring and shoddy knowledge of the rules (what rules?) about 30 minutes later. He really ought to write to his MP, it's just disgusting what these young hares get away with these days, etc, etc.

More falsies, more astute FRBs finding the real trail. Unfortunately, as I've only ever heard rumours of the mystic 'front of the pack', I can't elucidate further. A quick once round the village green where the spotty dog (forgotten her hash name) left a googly on the cricket pitch. On out into the fields and it was just all too much for most to take with the hour bell ready to toll. At an hour and ten minutes, SHAGGY put down an On-Inn teaser indicating that the real On-Inn was still a quarter of a mile away but by that stage, there was only a handful of the knitting circle left to pass through.

Back to the nameless pub where the Greene King Summer Ale was outstanding. Down downs were awarded to the hares, to G-STRING for port theft, to MOULDY AULD SHITE for spawning G-STRING, to RINGKISSER for something, for RINGKISSER for notching up a stunning 250 runs!, and there must have been a few other (un)lucky souls but as I retired to the Engineer's Arms with MOULDY on the way home, I have no chance of recollecting details.

As a post script, for all those hashers who had to rise early the next morning for anything unmentionable, think on with envy at MOULDY who had, as has previously been alluded to, slept/passed out for much of the previous 48 hours. MOULDY didn't rise until 12:30 the next day having promised his good lady wife that he would be in Durham (230 miles north) at midday. Ouch!

On on.