Scorchio was the temperature as the hot hashers arrived. Captain Fantaaaaastic wore the birthday hat to keep the sweltering sun off. Once away the hash encountered a field with a path that hadn't been trod, mowed or walked for many a year. Count Roadkill searched until he found the exit style buried in the hedgerow. Nik Nak kept the knitting circle in order and Depth Charge shuttled back and forward like a yo-yo on number checks to make sure nobody had been lost in the melting heat.

There were bridges to cross, the first one over the new road leading to the brand new new M1 junction 11A. This took me back a few years to my younger days. In the eighties, 83 or 84, a bit like the today's temperature, I would have been in my late teens and still living at home with mum and Bangers. Furthermore I was probably on army-leave as this story includes my Suzuki 125 motorbike.

I hadn't been in Dunstable for a few months, mainly due to being posted in Germany. I must have met up with a long forgotten mate in town who gave me a hot recommendation of a newly opened chippy/curry house that he had a favourable experience of visiting. The weekend arrived and I went for a night out, possibly London, probably Soho. About 10-30 or 11 at night I would have been coming home and would have peeled off the M1 junction 9. I guess I was feeling quite peckish at the time, so on the strength of the tip-off would have gone to the previously mentioned eating establishment.

I parked the bike up and stood at the counter of the fast food shop waiting for my turn in the queue. Into the establishment swanned a couple of girls in high-heels. To say they were wearing lingerie would be to overdress them, but the girls in question teasingly bounced up to and stretched over the counter to collect two or three bags of pre-ordered curry/chips. With tassels dangling, beads swaying, feathers fluttering and glistening pink flesh squeezing out of fishnets, they stood front and centre with their coloured hair up like a peacock in full display.

Meanwhile a bloke who had come in with them, himself dressed in a generous G-String cum Jock Strap then searched in his leather pouch for a note, maybe a fiver, could have been a tenner but ones eye for detail at the time was seriously distracted by the burlesque floor show. The cabaret act paid their bill, exited in as swift a manner as they had breezed in and the greasy frying aroma in the shop was replaced by one of Chanel Number 5, Hi Karate and Brut all in one fug of amazement.

So much for Camping Mug/Courtesan's callipygous check for having a zipper on what the yanks call 'pants'

Down downs were awarded in a random manner. Through the heat haze I remember seeing Fat Controller, Depth Charge and Ringer drinking beer but what for I know not.

I think I need a lie down to cool off.

On on to Shefford
Forkin'