(Next run is from Watton-at-Stone)

Let's start with the important stuff: a very hashy birthday to Skidmark and Sasquatch, both of whom apparently turned 27 this week. Also, many congratulations to No Knickers on completing the London Marathon in fine, squat-free style.

The pack arrived in good time to find the lawn mown, the poop scooped and the fire a-roaring. The sun was beating down and all looked in place for a fine hash and BBQ. Even Captain Haddock and Nik Nak arrived in time for the opening circle. Everything was in place!

The lone hare, G-String, provided the pack with the usual warnings: roads, rabbit warrens, numbered and lady checks, and, for this particular event, a juvenile and a birthday check.

On out and, for once, there was no messing around in front of the house - it was on on in the direction of the war memorial where the first of the numbered checks awaited. Smiffo, in stallion form once more, fair tore off down the high street on the real trail. Fortunately, this is one of the few occasions where G-String actually went to the end of his own false trail and laid a bar otherwise Smiffo could possibly have made it all the way to Ickfield before being called back. It must have been the short shorts. Next week, I suggest we all wear thongs in the hope of finding Smiffoesque speed.

Swiftly up the hill to another numbered check which, fortunately for Smiffo, was only a "7" otherwise he may just have exceeded the marathon distance by only the 4th check.

Around this point, a fine figure of a hasher came literally charging into view. Knobber, having run all the way from Stotfold (roughly three miles to this point) was charging up the hill as though he was fresh out of the blocks!

There was only one trail laid out of this check, no falsies to be found anywhere. Airscrew set off in fine fettle and soon found the real trail off across the fields toward Stotfold. Intrepid explorer, Shagpile, meanwhile could be found wandering around in circles triangulating our position in the eventuality that, should we be marooned and unable to find the on, we'd know where we were whilst eating each others legs. It would have seemed a responsible and adult response to a difficult and precariously balanced situation if Airscrew wasn't already half way to Stotfold on the real trail.

A further ladies' check en route (death to the French!) did not perturb Screamer who carried on the real trail and over the bypass to the next held check. Underlay took the honours for checking out the lone falsie. Somewhere on or around this time, Iron Maiden and Munchkin engaged in their own little Coe/Ovett tussle at the back, earning themselves down downs later in the circle.

Airscrew, Sludge and Pooper all found the falsie out of the check and made for the India Lodge, presumably to be refunded some of the surplus funds paid by the Hash on the last visit. Smiffo (once again) ignored the on completely, convinced that he was on the real trail, which of course he was.

On On via the first of the rabbit warrens, past the Arlesey and District Cross-Country Scramble Bike Society and on to a held Juvenile check for tea and buns, (well shaken bucks fizz actually, but it seemed equally well received).

A brief kangaroo court determined that, both on the balance of probabilities and beyond all reasonable doubt, the hash qualifies as juvenile. The hash therefore checked it out with Airscrew losing faith in the real trail and electing instead to turn round and head up a falsey. F'ck a Duck valiantly set off in the polar opposite direction to Arlesey whilst most of the pack sauntered up towards Etonbury School.

On through the trees, over the rabbit warren and on to a birthday check. The number of hashers celebrating a birthday this week had been reduced by one leaving Skidmark to find the trail by herself and head for home. Smiffo and a few other FRBs who were too far distant to be recognizable to the naked eye charged past and were giving it good licks in the direction of BEER. You can imagine the hares joy at the knowledge they were attacking one of the longer barred falsies of the day.

This led to a brief trot around the most fetid stretch of water in the western hemisphere. It was probably passed unnoticed by most of the hash as on the left there was the Hiz brook and the village pond whilst what was on the left appeared to be a badly filled in cess pool. Fortunately, the hounds missed the attractions of the bog (normally a "must do" for Mac) and, trust me, our noses are all the more grateful for it.

This little stretch of trail, straddling the arête of the Hiz and an ancient iron age settlement, was picturesque for those insane enough to take their eyes off the ground. The choice was simple, run on the trail and risk ankle torture, or run on the edge of the field and grow two inches by the next check. The devilish trail allowed Captain Fantastic to surge through from parental duties at the back.

On on to the penultimate check where Sludge, having found a falsie tried to make good by short-cutting his way back to the trail. Not this time Sludge, not unless you brought your bathing costume.

Led off by Airscrew, Mark, Pooper (what do his parent's feed him and is it available to buy over the counter?) and F'ck a Duck the pack was on to the last leg of the journey and the On Inn.

Secret RA Underlay awarded down downs to Munchkin and Iron Maiden for competitivism, to Pooper and Nik Nak for something or other and to one or two others (apologies, it was the Bike wot robbed my memory).

There was a fine display of tag-team dog wrestling. Ebony and Lilly taking the event with two falls, a bitten eye and a forceful intervention from Shagpile and F'ck a Duck. Ebony seemed mystified that when she tagged Shagpile he didn't pick up where she left off but instead packed her off with a flea in her ear. Harmonious silence returned to the garden and the impending ASBO was mercifully lifted.

Now for the highlight of this week's show. Hashers and Harrietes, the moment you've all been waiting for... the Private Eye Screamerballs:

Commenting on the outdoor facilities at Chez G-String and the benefits of foliage in securing one's modesty, "I like a big bush!" Don't we all dear.

Perhaps to be considered in connection with the above, "My lips are sore!" You should have purchased a more comfortable saddle!

And finally, no doubt as a means of ensuring that the above soreness is alleviated, "I like a soft one between each hard one!" Baffled!

Recovered Lost Property includes sweatshirts, shorts (Underlay) and bicycles so check your cupboards to see if any of the above are missing.

For the Committee, On On to Count Roadkill and Lady P's. For the hash, On On to the George and Dragon at Watton-at-Stone for a rip roaring, patriotic, chest thumping hash courtesy of F'ck a Duck and Shagpile.