Sunday 25 October 2015
The Globe, Dunstable
Hares: Fat Controller and Ringer
HASHERS: 22 NEWBEES: 2 MUTTS: 2
Looking down The Downs
A passing Belly Dancer aka Golden Globes
100 Run Award for Leroy
So far inland from the nearest seaport! How can this be? Apart from being the 10th Anniversary of the re-opening of The Globe, thoughts nautical drifted like flotsam and jetsam onto the shores of my furtive mind to another 'landmark' Anniversary of a sea battle fought 210 years ago. Our proud history tells that we are a sea-faring nation. And long before the days of international aviation, our founder, Gispert fared a long sea voyage into fame.
Another such famous sea-farer was Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson, who despite having previously lost one eye and one arm, single–handedly (apart from the help of the crews of 27 ships-of-the-line), won the Battle of Trafalgar, on the 21st October 1805. Ten years ago, as The Globe re-opened to fight the CAMRA Battle for Real Ale, my old hashing mate Stormin' Norman and I presented a satirical comedy sketch to FoTMH3 [Friend of the Mole: Dep Ed], based on orders given by Nelson, in relation to being duped by new EU Legislation on diversity and Health & Safety.
I showed Ringer the script ..... "We gotta do that F.C!" came his reply.
So, I hear you ask; if you and Ringer planned your joint trail through the avenues and alleyways of Dunstable, what has it got to do with Trafalgar? Effective lines of communication! And Shagpile, who in a previous life has been a Comms Officer in the 'Queen's Navy', sent a telegraph message that read: 'Reinforcements coming late. Advance.'
Captain Slog: Stardate 2015-1025
This is the log of the good virtual reality ship Venus, and tales of its crew of twenty hardy soles.
Warm morning sun. Breeze from the SE: 3 knots. The crew slowly gathering outside The Globe, watched as Lady P tried unsuccessfully to 'shoehorn' her chariot into a quayside parking space. The semaphore signals given by The Count's flailing arms proved futile, so Forkin' was dispatched to instruct that she use the Regent quayside as per Ringer's email.
Circle Up! was called, and our new GM: Vice Admiral Ringer, informed us that this day [Sunday 25th October 2015], was also the 600th Anniversary of The Battle of Agincourt, an earlier and equally decisive victory for British sovereignty in the Hundred Years War. [Much like the present on-going fight to retain sovereignty of our nation.]
The Hares re-enact Trafalgar (don't ask)
The Newbees take their down-downs
What the heck, says Lady P
Two press-ganged crew members were welcomed into the crew by our new HM: Midshipman Rapid [does he swing port or starboard?] They were asked to introduce themselves: "I'm Sweet FA. I run with Friends of The Mole in Kent, and I am the spawn of F.C." "Hi! My name is Charlotte, and I'm with Sweet FA. And, this is my first hash." A smirk appeared on First Officer Count Roadkill's lips!
"Hares in The Circle!" We gave out the usual drivel, but because of wanting to comply with new H5 H&S Regulations, we warned of the dangers en-route, such as large amounts of dog excres, poo, merde, turds, shit1, and excessive traffic.
Cast off, fore and aft!
The Venus tacked to port and starboard through the South Dunstable shoals, then set course due west to California.
Making landfall at Spoondell Bay, the landing party were given the orders to: 'Prepare to repel boarders!' [How do we do that? Don't change the bed linen!] Fortunately the natives were not restless. But the crew did see an example of teenage 'swinging' at the sign of the 'P'.
Past the potato groves, and through Merde du Chien Canyon, the trail led up onto the high ground, where the landing party watched in awe as the natives tried to catch the strange pterodactyl-like creatures that soared on the mid-day airs. Apparently, they taste like Dodos. Then, as if aided by the Winged heels of Mercury, Underlay and Shagpile joined the thong throng.
The trail took the landing party around the headland (who said head?) and down to Windsock Point, where the old victualler's outpost used to be, until the Anti Real Ale skirmishes started.
It was now necessary to cross the notorious Straits of Tring, where great danger lies, and it was here sadly that Rear Admirable Fat Controller was mortally wounded. The circumstances are far from clear: some say he was frigging in the rigging, others that he was making a mess on the Poop Deck. Whatever the truth of the matter, Vice Admiral Ringer took command of Venus and continued this log.
In the confusion, but unknown to the rest of the party, contact was lost with Chief Petty Officer Pongo and Leading Wren Catch-it. The now-demoralised party fought its way through a wooded area to the west of The Avenue and made its way down to Totternhoe Bay where it was able to rejoin the Venus and set sail with all speed (max 4mph) through the well-used Back Passages to The Globe.
Delicious cake (thanks to CW Catch-it) and a ration of rum was broken out for the courageous sailors, wrens and boys who made it back. But where was CPO Pongo and CW Catch-it? Thankfully they made it back just as the Cirle was called, before which the crew suffered a (mercifully) short theatrical dualogue entitled Rum, Bum and Baccy, inflicted upon them by the Hares.
Circle called, HM Rapid asked Pongo for his profound thoughts on the run. Silence! After a few seconds while he regained his composure, he was remarkably restrained, given his ordeal.
In the total absence of Team RA – the Very Reverend Shagpile having been despatched to collect Agent Provocateur Mekon and deliver her to her berth on a modern vessel taking her to infiltrate the Spanish on their own soil – duties were assumed by the Secret Spies. Among other revelations, Count Roadkill asserted that the claim by Sweet FA that he was the spawn of Fat Controller was a falsehood and that he could prove it, which he proceeded to do by means of a closely-reasoned and irrefutable logical argument.
A specially commissioned Number One Dress Mess Shirt was presented to Leading Semen Leroy for serving as Principal Horn in no less than 100 H5 skirmishes.
1It is the correct word, based on previous hash experiences in and around Stotfold [dogshit capital of Bedfordshire] – Knobber had again forgotten to bring his Scooper with him.