Run No 985

Monday 24 May 2010

Live & Let Live, Pegsdon

Hares: Kisses Anytime & The Fat Controller

HASHERS: 24  MUTTS: 4

The Grand Ol' Fat Controller
He had four and twenty Hashers
He cajoled them up to the top of the hills
And he chased 'em down again
As they went up they spread out
And as they went down they fell down
And when they were only halfway there
A beer stop was Down-down'd

I've just read the mismanagement committee page on the website only to see that Count Roadkill is the nominated scribe, so why did he willingly let me volunteer to scribe my own trail? [you're off on a dodgy trail there FC my old china ....Ed] Importantly, and more to the point, why didn't our esteemed GM Private Parts, with all his testosterone inflamed potency, correct the situation? Or was it because he is emasculated due to losing the GM's Willy?

A gibbous moon hung in the evening sky as the pack assembled at the 'Live and Let Live' whose pub sign shows a hawk perched next to its usual prey a pigeon (similar to a Hare and Hound, but friendlier). And so your new Co-hare and Hare were presented by Hash Master Shagpile to the Hounds.

With trepidation, Kisses Anytime and I entered the 'Circle'. "Tonight the trail will be flat —." Before I could elucidate more, shouts of: "Liar, there's bloody great big hills up there. We ain't stupid you know!" rang out from the pack as they pointed to the poor excuses for hills on the extreme edge of the Chilterns behind us. "Yes, we did go up there but only to survey all this flat land to the north of us" I quipped. "Likely story!" came the snorted replies: "Don't forget he's the bloody hare and bound to be lying!" Me? Anyway, back to the plot. I continued by saying that there was a Beer Stop, and a 'knitting circle trail' under the stewardship of Kisses who was sporting a rucksack with cups and a chilled bottle of white wine in (intended for a quick Knitting Circle soirée at the Beautiful View stop whilst waiting for the main pack), and her favourite silly coloured hash hat. Meanwhile, 'Hash Master's Nark' Forking (strangely resembling a spastic version of Douglas Quaid after having his total recall memory erased), stood with pencil and paper in hand ready to note down all the misdemeanours en-trail.

Next I described the meaning of the examples of trail marks I use, but to my surprise, you are either all rather intelligent or very gullible, no stupid questions were asked. And so I bawled: "ON - ON!". On trail, the pack headed (who said head?) to the first Check on the Shillington road where a falsie leading to Hexton was quickly found, then on hearing Underlay shouting "On - On" up by the main road, the milling pack struck on to cross the main road and follow Underlay on up the gently sloping trail towards Lilley. On Check at the bottom of Telegraph Hill, two falsies heading up hill were checked, but on the third falsie most of the pack (still convinced the trail was flat) headed west into the sunset, this time ignoring Underlay's cries of: "On - On", as she was towed rapidly uphill by her tethered hound.

Having taken a steep short cut just prior to the last lot of crap I've written about, Kisses was waiting for us at the holding check at the top of the hill. We all gathered sweatily but had to hold for the now straggling stragglers, Pongo, Pussies Galore and Nik Nak to appear. Again I mentioned that Kisses was taking the Knitting trail, and that perhaps it would be a good idea for the stragglers to go with her. But afraid of being on their own, they decided to slow down the main pack, so Kisses, non-plussed, handed over the rucksack which was duly given to Pongo as punishment. The stragglers were told to keep up, but did they? Did they fork!

It was whilst on trail passing the very expensive Elizabethan manor at Little Offley that Count Roadkill had the rare chance to take a photo of me in 'full flight', and then Gorjoyce sidled up to me and said: "I know this place, but I don't know where I am" "We've just passed Little Offley, and just past the Beer Stop is a place called Wellbury House." I stuttered, out of breath from 'full flight mode'. "Oh? Yes, I think I know where I am now? We've not used these footpaths before. How did you find them?" she replied still confused, and then muttered on about kids and a previous life ——. I went into 'full flight mode' again, as even I was getting confused. When another voice cut my concentration. "Now, about this Beer Stop?" It was Roadkill! "Yes, it's down there where the pack are assembled." I replied, noting that perhaps this lot were not as bright as I first thought. They were all standing around gassing instead of searching for my cunningly hidden cache of beers. Grinning from ear to ear Roadkill thought he had me, as I got the pack searching on the edge of the wood. "Give us a clue, Fat Controller." Came a desperate cry. It's in a small green rucksack by a tree." I helpfully replied. "Well? That's a lot of bloody good! Everything's green around here." Eventually, Forking found the cache, and the grin on Road kill's face vanished as the beer, water and sweets were devoured.

Question: Where were the Pongo stragglers? Answer: Off trail! Arriving just as the beer was being finished; the rucksack was duly opened to reveal to the non-believers the bottle of white wine! Then, "On ? On!" was called, and in true hash tradition, the chivalrous hash males left Pussies Galore to carry the empties. Wellbury Hall beckoned, the inquisitive Gorjoyce with heavily laden Pussies Galore in tow were seen duck down the unkempt driveway. Later she told of her disappointment at finding the subject of her fond memories is now just a crumbling holy domain. (Everyone say: "Ahh" Next time you see her)

"How about me" I want to write a bit now!" Whilst Fat Controller has been writing about the stupid goings on to and at the Beer Stop, I wandered along the Icknield Way looking at all the pretty pink flowers, I then made my way across the main road and on to the 'Beautiful View Stop' where I had spent a few precious moments the day before whilst F.C. set a particularly nasty back check through the woods. It was lovely and peaceful sitting there daydreaming as I watched the evening sun set behind the pretty pink and orange lit clouds, then I heard the approaching shouts of "On - On!" "Can you please tell us where the trail goes? It's past our bedtime and we will be told off by our mummies and daddies if we're not home soon." The pack leaders sheepishly bleated. Feeling benevolent, I pointed in various directions, and they thundered past me. Zingalonga Max from H4, much to his chagrin, eventually found the "T". Cursing, they all filtered back to take the right option over the bean fields to the On Inn.

"Me again!" At the pub car park Shagpile and his acolytes were preparing for the 'Circle' as Kisses and I arrived. The hash beer was finally carried in by Forking, then taking control Shagpile called Kisses and I in to the 'Circle'. "What did you think of the two runs we've done tonight?" Shagpile asked. Various comments were returned, especially: "Loved the Beer Stop!" And so we downed our Down-Downs to much applause. There then followed Down-Downs for the usual trumped up misdemeanours as noted on Forking's aide memoir, and then much jollity about the previous beer fuelled daze boozy stunts in punts the previous day. And so ended a most rewarding day as Count Roadkill was called in for a Down-Down for doubting the Hare!

Twisting the truth about the trail is fair game. But, to tell lies about a Beer Stop? ? Never!

ON - ON! Fat Controller
(The original and genuine Mole of Kent, who's still of politically incorrect intent)

Did you know? Number 1. The Little Known Legend of Offa's Dyke.

The settlements of Great and Little Offley take their names from Offa, the 8^th Century King of Mercia.
A little known legend tells that once there lived a fair maiden whose beauty and chastity was known far and wide. However, she had a 'dark secret'. King Offa heard of her chasteness and decided to chase her.
He arrived at the maiden's village and started to woo her, but to no avail. Becoming angry at her refusal to his amorous advances he told the village elders that he would order his soldiers to rape and pillage if the fair maiden would not accede to his demand.
Being fearful of their lives and possessions, the village elders pleaded with the fair maiden to submit to Offa's wishes. Realising the dire consequences if she refused, she gave herself to King Offa, and never gave in to her 'dark secret' ever again. Hence came the rhyme:
She offered her honour
He honoured her offer
And all night long ———
It was honour and offer!
The Pope eventually heard of her great sacrifice, the miraculous curing of her 'dark secret' by Offa, and so canonised her. And that, dear readers, is how the local church of St. Mary Magdalene got its name!