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The story so far

HASH MAG VOLUME 19 ISSUE 4 (July 2001)

Run 924: Coronation Tap, Clifton Bristol
4th February 2001
Hare: Wolfie
Scribe: Le Caniveau

Parking was difficult in Clifton, even on what was really a fairly quiet Sunday morning. Rentahash had just come back from a side street, and was informing latecomers there was still a space left down it, but I never found it. The pack started forming, and Gullible began a joke.

"This blind bloke goes into a pub," he started, "and orders a pint of bitter. He says to the barmaid 'do you want to hear my dumb blond joke?'

"The barmaid replies, 'before you start, I'd better tell you that I'm a blond. And not only that, I've just retired as European shot-put champion, I'm fifteen stone and can bench press 240 lbs.'

"'So, do you want to hear my dumb blond joke?' the blind man continues.

"'Well,' says the barmaid, 'I should also inform you that standing on my left is my best friend, and she's a blond too. Not only that, she's the UK karate champion, undefeated in her last twenty-seven contests.'

"'Oh. Nice! So, do you want to hear my dumb blond joke?' the blind man continues.

"'On my right,' the barmaid says, 'is my flatmate, and she's a blond, too. Not only that, she teaches self-defence to the local police force, and she can break a man's bones barehanded if provoked. So, do you still want to tell your dumb blond joke?'

"'Nah!' says the blind man, 'I can't be arsed to explain it three times!' "

Shortly after the punch line, Lunchbox arrived and was directed down the side street to find the space. Consideration was given whether to wait for him, or start the run.

"No need to wait for him," said Gullible, "he's a pseudo athlete."

"More of a quasi athlete," I suggested. "What's the difference between pseudo and quasi?" asked Sleepy.

"That would make a great subject for the run write-up," I (rep)lied. "So great, that I am prepared to write it myself."

Now this write-up probably isn't scoring too highly in the Fat Controller's book. "I don't like these write-ups that are little more than a joke or talking bollocks," he wrote last time. "What's wrong with writing a bit about the run?" Well nothing really, but all in good time. [To see Fat Controller's idea of a factual write-up, press HERE - Ed.] First, let's clear up the matter of pseudo and quasi. My initial reaction was that if you put it down as the first word at Scrabble, you could score a lot more with quasi than you could with pseudo, in fact double (48 vs 24). However I then thought that, as they were both prefixes, pseudo most frequently appearing in pseudonym and quasi in quango, both would be disallowed. (And you are hearing this directly from the Hash Scrabble Champion from Interhash 1996 who was undefeated in nearly every game except the one that mattered, the grand finale against the Commander). But on checking my dictionary, so that I could at least give a definitive answer to this bollocks, both are in fact legitimate words. "So what is the difference? " I hear you ask in a somewhat bored tone. Well, you quasi-intellectuals will look it up, while you pseudo-intellectuals won't be arsed.

OK. Now down to the action. Knowing that the Greyhounds were going to run from the self-same pub the following Monday night, Wolfie laid a trail that was helpful to the extent that it circumnavigated the pub more than once, and whichever route the Greyhounds took, some of it would have been pre-laid for them by Wolfie. But this meant the trail did stay fairly close to the pub, and even a pack as unfit as us, running up and down the slopes of Clifton managed to complete it in 50 minutes.

"It was a bit short Wolfie!" someone exclaimed.

"I know, " came the reply, "I was expecting it to rain!" Draw your own conclusions.

In the pub, a great discussion raged about where the bar had been the last time people had been to this pub, and the band (all two of them) spent so long tuning up that none of us got to know what they sounded like. Outside, Snackbox got a tankard for his hundredth, and down-downs went to Gullible and Wolfie for their great explanations.

Le Caniveau

Run 945: The Barn, Wraxall, N Somerset
1st July 2001
Hare: Fat Controller
Scribes : Flora and Le Caniveau

It was a warm morning, the sun was peeking out from behind the rain clouds, the birds in the trees and hedgerows were chirping into song, the landlord had just turned up and he was happily being informed that the collection of hashers filling his car park were coming in to his pub in an hour or so; in fact it was a fairy tale beginning. A Hansel and Gretel fairy tale beginning, because from the hashing point of view things were looking Grimm. When the circle gathered at the start you could count the regular checkers and FRBs on the fingers of Captain Hook's bad arm, and it seemed either we would be out on the trail for an age or the hare would have to leak like a sieve.

On On! And the trail crossed the road and what enthusiasm there was at the front of the pack was lost as Wolfie led the pack into a field that was not really in play because of foot and mouth. The sheep were upset, but the cows were over the moon. A little dog laughed. And the dish ran away with the spoon.

I checked up a hill, with Flora urging me on. When we were up, we were on. The rest of the pack were down, but when they were only halfway up, they were neither up nor down. By the fourth check we were off the lanes and into the woods, soon to come across a check with more false trails than hounds to check them. But, as we went down through the woods we were in for a big surprise, as Sweat Monster, Lightning, Claire, Puki Jangut, Soprano, Jed, in fact, nearly every hasher that ever there was, joined the pack together because today's the day the hashers were having a picnic.

We emerged from the woods and turned back on ourselves and crossed by the trout farm counting the blobs: one, two, three, four, five, as someone caught a fish, (alive), only to come back out on the road to Nailsea. We ran through the town rapping on the windows and knocking on the gates following a crooked trail for about a crooked mile. I found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked style.

Then all too soon, or maybe not soon enough, the ON INN sign appeared and it was into the Barn. Pints of Oakhill and Moles, on which the Fat Controller commented "the beer here is always as flat as a witch's tit!" Flora had her first down down for her birthday, the pack got the remains of Lightning's prawn crackers, and a little cock robin flittered about, just avoiding been shot by a sparrow, with a little bow and arrow.

Le Caniveau

Jolly Sailor Bike Ride.

Despite the fact that the Greyhound were holding their 666 Mystery Tour extravaganza, about sixteen cyclists, in various styles (and stages) of dress were milling about Railway Terrace, by the Bristol to Bath cycle path, at 11.00 am on Saturday, 14th July.

I had cycled from The Nova Scotia, and had only a vague idea where everyone was meeting, but I could hear the buzz of expectant conversation from the cycle path. Two elderly ladies, next door neighbours, were bringing out tea, coffee and jugs of orange squash to refresh the assembled throng. There actually were only a few true hashers, the remainder being culled from friends, relatives and people picked up en route. Two dogs, whom no-one seemed to know, were barking excitedly, and, in fact, stayed with us throughout the day.

Thanking Ivy and Doris for the impromptu refreshment, we set off at about 11.30. There was an atmosphere of the Famous Five about the day. People were stopping for sandwiches, the dogs kept going missing, we managed to track down and arrest an escaped criminal who had been hiding from the Police for three years in a series of tunnels under Keynsham. And, when we got to The Jolly Sailor, there was, of course, lashings of ginger beer. Some of the older ones even ventured into the dark and forbidding world of shandy, apparently.

The new landlord and landlady were expecting us and had organised a magnificent spread of sandwiches, quiches and salads, plus a cheeseboard with cheeses from all countries of the EU. And, even better, all for FREE!

We could have stayed all day (some did, I think) but eventually in groups of three or four, we left to wend our way back to Bristol. To an old cynic like me, an excellent day. Lunchbox is considering a repeat later this Summer. Donít miss it!

Wolfie.

The Orchard, Spike Island, Bristol

24th June 2001

Hare: Quarter-pounder

Spike Island Hashsody

Is this just hashing Is this just fantasy
Almost caught in a landslide - two weeks before the reality
Open your eyes Look up to the skies and see he's just a poor hare,
He needs no sympathy
Because he's easy come, easy go, flour high, flour low
Anyway the wind blows Doesn't really matter for we, just drink

Maxine, just killed a man! Put a bottle to his head Poured the strong wine, now he's
dead wine wine wine,
Had only just just begun
To live up to his well earned hashing name, Crystal oooh
Didn't mean to make you drive If he's not sober again this time tomorrow
Carry on, to Crews Hole
As if nothing really matters
Sweatmonster, your time has come you send rivers down your spine drinking cider all the time
Turtle said "Goodbye everybody, I've got to go Gotta leave my Thatchers behind and sleep it off!
Whiffy,Boo hoo hooo I'm missing her so much that I could cry
I sometimes wish I'd never bought porn at all

I see a massive silhouetto of a man, EI Fat Bastardo Fat Controller,
will you do your farts in private Iron Maiden and lightning
Taking such delight in booze
Galliano, rum and cola, beer and cider Lambrusco Magnifico o o o"

Wolfie's just a paper boy Nobody loves him He's just an edit hare never even seen a gym
I think his Sunday wife is Sweatmonstrosity

Easy come, easy go Will you let me do some down-downs

No, we will not let you do them Let me do them! We will not let you do them Let me do them Oh f!*£ing do them!

Quarter Pounder! We will not let you eat more ice cream Let him eat it Will not let you eat it Let him eat it Will not let him eat it

Never, never, never, never, call on on on, on, on, on, on, on

O Kerb crawler Kerb crawler won't you let that lager flow

Public Enema has put the chemo to one side for the day for the day

So you think you can get me drunk before you say goodbye

So you think you can leave me down by the river to fry

I'm hungry, gotta loose this drunk feeling by monday

Just gotta get up Just gotta stagger right home from here

Oh yeah, oh yeah Hashings all that matters Anyone can see
You guys really matter BH3 really matters to me.

Lightning