Run No 783

Sunday 3rd September 2006

The King's Arms, Sandy

Hares: Flo & Overflo







My dear lady co-hare and myself were worried that there may be a low turnout for run No. 783. We waited in the capacious car park of the King's Head at Sandy and as 10.50 rolled by there were a sparse 7 hashers milling about trying to look like a crowd.

However, we needn't have worried, within a few more minutes a veritable cornucopia of hashing talent appeared as if from nowhere, well, 8 more people arrived anyway. One of these was White Rabbit who entertained us all by behaving totally out of character and parking tidily, prettily and with great aplomb. Our beloved RA, Shagpile and his hugely efficient hare razor wife, the redoutable Underlay, looked menacing and very cool in the circle with their dark shades on. This behaviour is always a trifle worrying in an RA as it is difficult to tell who he is looking at. I had the feeling that this might have been an attempt at disguise in which case it failed miserably or they may have been trying to convince us that they were secret service operatives in which case they failed miserably (no MI5 man would be seen out in shorts like that Shagpile).

Florence informed the assembled multitude that dust may be in short supply on the run as the re-run of hurricane Katrina that had presumably been thoughtfully laid on by those nice people at the met office for our benefit (possibly on the request of the RA?) had ensured that the diffuse cloud of white powder that the Bedfordshire drugs squad had been investigating as a very regretable but highly entertaining accident involving the entire cocaine supply of the notorious Sandy drugs cartel, smuggling ring and Chinese takeaway was actually the means wherby H5 were going to navigate (in the loosest sense of the term) around the surrounding countryside. Undaunted, the intrepid band that is H5 lurched uncertainly toward an unsuspecting (and, I suspect, uncaring) Sandy. One small child was heard to ask if we were marathon runners, a number of hasher in paroxyms of hopeless laughter had to be assisted away from the scene.

As was her wont Skidmark came hurtling past the pack at one point, arms akimbo with frantic cries of something sounding remarkably like panic that was thankfully lost within the roaring tempest but may have been something to do with the crazed rampaging canine that was somewhat unadvisedly attached to her person by a disconcertingly robust leather lead. We left the throbbing metropolis that is Sandy and entered the tranquil surrounding haven. Le soleil brit et les oiseaux chantant dans les arbres, at least they would have been if they had not been hanging on for grim death due to the cyclone whistling around them.

In a departure from normal hash practice we assembled at Shaggy's house and terrified the neighbours with an impromtu rendition of Happy Birthday. He appeared at the door moments later in a vain attempt to terminate the horrendous cacophany holding what appeared to be an enormous dildo. Looking somewhat sheepish he explained that he was having his breakfast (whatever floats your boat baby)???

The hash manfully struggled with some hefty "up" and BOF was offered a seat at the top of the hill by a little old lady which doesn't seem to be right to me but hey, what do I know, being just a hare. Back into town and Airscrew decided enough was enough and disappeared with indecent haste toward the pub ignoring what little dust was left in his frenetic dash for amber nectar. This left the rest of the hash trailing disconsolately about the back streets of Sandy pretending that they were interested in what was going on. Not so of course, everyone chose their own shortest path back to the pub.

Back at base Crispy emerged from somewhere with an impressive looking horn (?) which he had found in his attic (??) and kindly donated it to the hash (???).
In the circle our beloved Cap'n F recited a missive in praise of the male member and seemed to intimate that his was seven inches long which is somewhat at odds with what his dear wife told me last time we spoke.

OverFlo was given a down down of diet coke (for some reason the pint of Vodka that he requested was not forthcoming) and disgraced himself thoroughly by being well beaten by Florence on orange juice. In his defence the Coke was full of lumps and freezing.

A jolly good time was had by all including newie Kevin Ward, apparently, who, despite having attended two runs and being introduced to the hash twice for some obscure reason, vowed to return after his holiday. Perhaps he is an underground member of the Sandy drugs squad investigating spurious and wholly unsubstantiated claims concerning groups of lunatics careering around the countryside carrying huge bags of cocaine uttering strange and largely incomprehensible cries such as "on on".

On on

Hugs, Flo & Overflo