Run 906

The Red Lion, Breachwood Green

Sunday, 7 December 2008

Hare: Count Roadkill

HASHERS: 11  ANKLE BITERS: 3

Weatherwise, a smashing hashing day - clearly the still new RA is beginning to find his form. But not many hashers found Breachwood Green and some of those that did struggled. Pussies travelled almost as far to get there from Flitwick as Private Parts did from Florida, so what's that all about? Someone cruelly said harriets and maps and someone else said aeroplanes. Certainly the power of those mighty beasts - planes not women - was evident as they swooped out of the skies to Luton Airport just over the hill.

The hash struggled also to find the right trail out of the village - not helped by the hare who had omitted to lay dust on a perfectly good footpath and the FRBs followed the lack of trail anyway. Eventually the pack was coaxed away from the Green only to return to view a nicely converted windmill home where someone, perhaps the owner, was - rather unwisely we thought - filling in holes in the roadway with concrete. Concrete which now carries the print of Capt F's gay footwear: worth a fortune in years to come.

At the windmill, a jelly baby check - both of which by the way hash flash failed to record for posterity. Or rather a check at which the jelly babies eventually arrived. They being carried, along with a very nasty cough, by Lady Pee shod in very inappropriate wellies and well behind the pace. Anyway they were seized upon - the jelly babies not the wellies - by a very grateful brace of Peckerettes.

Back toward the village and here - after some 40 minutes of aimless wanderings - the real hash started. The men, so to speak, were separated from the boys as Shagpile took his shrapnel-wracked body and band of fellow short cutters back to the pub and 5 real hashers (sorry Shagpile I am going to milk this) set off across heathland, through a shiggy wood, down one steep slope and up another. And then we realised we were not alone. From the top of one hill we could see Pecker, Twiglet and Splinter chasing after us down the other. Fantastic effort lads and great to see you back. The slog up a very slippery lane to the On inn was a tough one too but we all made it back ..... at about the time that Pussies turned up, bravely pretending to have been on the run.

The at last triumphant RA sprinkled down-downs around in the bright winter sunshine without a single mention of Team RA or their mission statement hopefully consigned to the floor of a spittoonless pub. He drew attention to widespread map abuse - Pussies, of course, for misuse of one, Airscrew for over-use. White Rabbit took a chianti down-down for a reason so clever it has failed to survive in my mind: remind me Rapid and you will have full credit. Finally Private Parts took his medicine for training American insects to bite his legs such that joining the bite marks produced his initials. As it goes

[Line(s) missing: Archive Ed]