As we welcome the Chinese year of the Rooster, it is still only two weeks into the American year of the Cock. In the week that Black Sabbath bow out, so too does birthday girl Kisses Anytime, by joining the Fat Controller on their joint couch of retirement.

In the circle we ushered in newcomer Jenny, a friend of Blow Felt. Latecomer Subby found the pub and parked, catching up the FRBs once over the bridge and across the field. There was ankle deep shiggy, the best-dressed hasher for these conditions was Princess Theakston in her wellies.

Past the doggy hotel Oscar didn't look interested in booking a holiday, and Rudy missed any sniff of the fox that Milly had chased out the undergrowth the day before.

Depth Charge ran many of the false trails, along with running back on several number checks with Ringer and Rapid Withdrawal. On one return run, ploughing through the shiggy and towards the sound of gunfire from the rifle club, Capt F bemoaned that he didn't fancy going back through the mire into 'the somme'. The Count played his exemption card to excuse himself such an onerous task.

From the hilltop was a view stop that on a clear day it was possible to view the whole route below. Today it was like looking out of a Turkish steam bath for all that could be seen.

Many thanks to the landlord of The Local who, after being well buttered up by Bangers, opened specially for us on his day-off. There was a good selection of ales to choose from, including the 7% Death or Glory, of which the RA purchased a half for a down-down (Hic-cup, burrrrp).

In the saloon bar, Shuffle produced some delicious Chocolate Brownies made by Skippy, taking after her mum. Nicey is developing that finger-lickin good taste of beer from his dad.

With it reported that up to 30 pop-up brothels are opening in the Swindon area this week, what is Northill going to make of two dozen hashers turning up in Red Dresses at The Crown. At least we can run off any weight gained on the Gispert run from the Zebra restaurant.

On on

Forkin