Dawdle No 9243

Some pub in Gamlingay not The Hardwicke Arms

Sunday, 22 March 2009

Hares: Airscrew, Donut & Flo

HASHERS: a few, no mutts or newees or ankle biters

This one went pear shaped early on and then lost it's lovely pear shape because confusion over who was going to hare was followed by a closed pub and confusion over where, and we couldn't remember what number the run was or where we're running next week, and nobody seemed capable of running anyway but Donut and White Rabbit said they did, and it was Mother's Day but we had no mothers in the nicest possible way and Hash Flash let his batteries run out, the ones in his body as well as his camera, but the phone snaps aren't toooo bad, and White Rabbit had to close her brothel in Offley but the landlady was nice and told us how to foil armed robbers if you know who's robbing you, and at least those two really nice hariettes Deb and Laura came back, although I feared they wouldn't after the comment under the pic in 921, so it wasn't too bad as it was a very nice day and we had a good walk and chat, and two of us had a lovely ice cream, and it was spiffing of the hares to step in at the last even if they didn't have to and Forking DickChair wore the cremated remains of his deck chair shorts in a bag round his neck and then gave them to Private Parts, and Underlay was given the FRB award, but Shuffle Cock forgot the Plunger of Lurve and Donut said he couldn't do any Words and someone else said they would but I did them anyway cos I couldn't remember that it was Overflobawallahbollox but I did get the name of the pub from the run sheet it was The Wheatsheaf.

Does that give you some sort of idea of the smooth, tight-assed operation we're running here in H5?

ON-ON Scribe
... and then, at the last, Overwallahflobabollox (and where does he fit into the haring food chain you may well ask) came up with some proper Wurdz, Gawd Bless Him.

Airscrew being unable to discharge his lagomorphic responsibilities for some reason possibly associated with national security, the political stability of Europe, global warming or the fate of the known universe had mysteriously disappeared from human ken.

Imagine then my surprise when I spied him sitting coolly in his big black car in the tiny front car park of the Hardwicke Arms where the run was supposed to be starting from. His raffish 007 image was merely enhanced when he pointed cryptically up the street away from the pub. Not wishing to upset an MI6 operative in the course of his duty I merely nodded in what I thought was a knowing sort of way and drove up the road to the car park of the next pub up, the Cock, where there was, precisely - nothing. I had to return to my friend the secret agent who informed me that the run was actually at the pub opposite the church, the name of which, it seems, no one can remember (at least neither Count Roadkill nor myself can anyway).

The turnout was fashionably modest enough for a minute circle but it was gratifying to see relative newies Deb and Laura who, probably despite advice to the contrary, decided to join us for a second time. They were obviously unconvinced as to our sporting credentials (let's face it, who wouldn't be?) as they turned up in gear more appropriate for a leisurely amble in the countryside rather than the athletic thrash that we invariably associate with H5 runs; or did I just dream that?

The packette spewed in true hash fashion all over the roads around the pub and the church much to the amusement of passing parishioners who appeared somewhat bemused by our rather chaotic ambulatory antics. As we proceeded by a more or less direct route (well, less actually) toward that landmark and renowned beauty spot that we all associate with Gamlingay - the industrial estate - I felt the familiar gnawing pangs associated with a lack of breakfast on Sunday morning. As the day was sublime an ice cream seemed in order so a Magnum was duly purchased for my good lady and me. Surprisingly I was roundly ribbed and condemned for this entirely reasonable behaviour, not least of which by my good wife. I offered to return the comestible to the emporium from which it had been so recently purchased at which point she shut up and tore into it before I could take it back.

One of the more curious aspects of this run was the circumnavigation of a local park undertaken, apparently because we couldn't get out except by the way in which begs the question - why did we go in at all? Such is harey philosophy that no answer to that question has yet been forthcoming.

Forking Dickchair was seen to be scribbling away frantically at various points which suggested to me that he may have been undertaking duties as RA, subsequently borne out as we shall see.

Considering the unseemly haste with which the run was laid it came as a considerable surprise to me and, I guess, to many others when we found our way back to the pub. The landlady, whose name sadly escapes me, was obviously a good egg as she had laid on a fine array of up market cheeses and possibly brand new cream crackers. Predictably, these did not last long as H5 descended upon the feast like a biblical plague quite out of proportion to its meagre numbers. This appeared not to concern the good woman at all as she cheerfully served us jugs of foaming ale and kept us amused with jolly stories about something or other. At one point in the proceedings Forking was observed scratching his head ruefully. When asked why he wryly observed that he had more down downs than hashers; a neat trick but a trifle worrying. Perhaps he wasn't in school when they did numbers.

As we began to think about circling up a number of us became uneasy -something appeared to be wrong. The bar seemed somehow too crowded until Count Roadkill pointed out that in addition to H5 there was another customer in the room. That sorted out we filed out to the fabulously appointed beer garden, tastefully decorated with carefully placed fag ends. Hares received their comeuppance as is traditional and yours truly copped the words to do without the benefit of so much as a down down to ease the pain. Ho hum, such is the lot of the author. I did however cop one for the temerity that I showed in daring to purchase two Magnums whilst on the run.

For some reason, best known to themselves, Deb and Laura decided that H5 were not boisterous enough and vowed to join the Milton Keynes mob. I'll 'phone them up and tell them two trouble makers are on the way over.

Lots of other stuff happened but I can't be arsed writing about it, even if I could remember it.

On on to wherever the hell the run is next week.

Love and kisses, Overwallahflobollox