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The story so far

HASH MAG VOLUME 18 ISSUE 3 (July 2000)

Run number 891 - The Coronation Inn, Southville, Bristol.
Date: 2 July 2000
Hare: Public Enema

Written by Wolfie

This is my third stint, over the long years, as Edit Hare. Since March I've managed to get one edition out. This is mostly due to sloth on my part and the fact that, creatively, I'm a burnt-out husk. There is, though, one other factor. Let me explain. Hash write-ups consist of a two-part process:

1) Our GM, Puki Jangut (what does that mean?), tells you to do it;

2) You do it.

Item 1 has been working very reliably since PJ assumed power. No problems there. It's 2 wot's causing the trouble. So far I've got four. Including this one!

No write-ups (also, until this week, no run list) - means no Mag. So, to set an example, as suggested by our veneered GM, here's a write-up created on the same day as the run. Not for me the hype and posturing of Euro 2000 (all seems a long time ago now, doesn't it?), the dramatic last-minute victory of the old froggies, and muffled cheers in distant living rooms greeting the boy Trezeguet's Golden Goal. No. I'm up here pounding the keys, with the words of PJ ringing in my ears.

One other tip: when you do get round to putting something down on paper, avoid mentioning the actual run for as long as possible. If at all. Those who were on the run won't particularly need reminding and those who weren't won't care. One short line should do. Something like "although a little predictable and slightly too long, the run generally met with approval."

That's enough. Really.

It's gossip that people want. Personalities. Who's doin' what to whom, and how often; salacious, preferably libellous, unsubstantiated accusations, with photographs where lighting permits (we're insured now, you know, you can say what you like). For instance: that new boy, Barr, Bob. What's he all about, then? Coming over here, telling us how to spell our words. I thought, at the time, that you don't spell enema with two Ns. I didn't argue 'cos I was fighting Simon "HBK" for the last ice lolly at the Ice Lolly Stop (some people can be so childish, can't they?), but I did English A-level, and how to spell enema was one of the first things they taught us.

Or they want to hear about the pub. Something like: "externally unpromising boozer, alleviated by drab, outdated, interior and excellent range of beers (Hop Back Brewery, Salisbury). Friendly, but not obsequious, landlord prepared two huge plates of fresh, tasty, varied sandwiches, including vegetarian option, on the house! Toilets a disgrace," will usually suffice.

There, now. It's not difficult is it?

HASH MAG VOLUME 18 ISSUE 3 (July 2000)

"The Emperors New Flour"

The Waldegrave Arms, East Harptree
Date: 18 June 2000
Hare: Wolfie

Written by Lightning

Once upon a very very hot Sunday in a far off land called East Harptree, a rather small but perfectly formed band of merry hashers had gathered outside a local hostelry for the purpose of some light exercise and jolly japes amongst the local flora and fauna. This was a weekly ritual for most and it was of course customary to while away the remainder of the afternoon making merry and putting the world – which is of course flat – to rights, whilst quaffing ale and feasting heartily – two pints of Butcombe and a bag of cheese and onion was the norm.

Apart from the unusually small pack and rather remarkable weather conditions, this Sunday morning had started out rather like any other. We were a fair way down to the south, in Somersetshire, so the grand master had allowed for some late arrivals and set us on-on our outward journey at exactly "Free mince pass lem", for he spoke in local tongue.

Now on this fine day, not everything appeared as it seemed. Firstly, a hare tuned out to be a Wolff, then a snackbox decided he should like to be a fireman instead and demonstrated this by dousing the pack from inside a passing steed.

At twenty minutes past the hour and still only at check two, the lost souls – previously known as the pack, looked at each other for inspiration. The hare-wolff (for he had buckteeth big ears and a hairy back) looked on quiet and defiant and only let on that the trail was of great length.

As we wound our way thru’ picturesque countryside for about another hour and twenty minutes and the yardarm had – well it was further than it should be, I have to start drawing my own conclusions about the lack of spore.

One: The blackhearted Fat Controller whilst in foreign climes has corrupted the traitorous Spiderman (notable absentee) who in turn has stolen the entire trail overnight for possible future use.

Two: The immoral Puki Jangut had this exact conversation with Hare-Wolff last Sunday:

PJ: Wolffie, I see that you are the hare next week – have you purchased your flour yet?

H-W: No I haven’t actually – I like to shop around and get the best deal in Bristolshire.

PJ: I have a bag here that I will sell you at an excellent price.

H-W: But Mr. Jangut, surely that is an empty flour bag?

PJ: Indeed not sir! This is the finest flour in the land, especially suitable for trail laying, and only a fool could not see the purity of the spore.

H-W: Hmmm. I’ll take it.

Not wishing to look a complete baffoon Hare-Wolff had parted with his hard earned money and made off home dreaming of skipping gaily around the east regions of Harptree tossing liberally from his sack.

Three: Being a well seasoned hasher I believe I know the difference between a well laid trail and not setting off from home with enough flour to do the job correctly – one is a pant in the country, the other …. Oh forget it!

P.S. Can we call Wolffie SPARSICUS?

On On

HASH MAG VOLUME 18 ISSUE 3 (July 2000)

The Black Horse, Clapton-in-Gordano
Date: 24th April 2000
Hare: Lunchbox
Written by Public Enema

Monday night, and after a pleasant but wet cycle ride I found myself at this fine historic establishment with time for a pre-run drink, before venturing back out to the car park and probably up that steep hill.

So where are the rest of the Greyhounds? I recognise a few… Oh, it’s a bank holiday (the volume of traffic overhead confirmed this) this must be a Bristol run, I should be here tomorrow! A damp Lunchbox, Snackbox and pal appeared and I gained the use of an extra shirt from Puki Jangut’s lucky dip.

The passage of time before being encouraged to write this has left me confusing things with the following night at the same pub. All I can remember is that the run was wet, we drank at the pub and I punctured whilst cycling home (after declining a lift from Tablewhine). Looking forward to the August bank holiday, and another pub to visit on consecutive days.

On on,
Public E.

HASH MAG VOLUME 18 ISSUE 3 (July 2000)

Venue: The Swan, Pennsylvania
Date: 9 April 2000
Hare: Duracell
Written by Toreador

I heard on the Hash grapevine that, following the Bristol H3 AGPU on the 18th March, our new Grand Master was Puki Jangut. Clearly, this was a clever ploy to avoid his customary whinge to the GM prior to the run, eg "why are we still here? It must be 11 o'clock". True to form, Puki Jangut ordered us to form a circle at 11 am precisely and started proceedings with a conundrum. A hush descended on the assembled hashers - a rare occurrence - and there was much contemplating of feet and looking at the sky. The GM was not entirely happy with this situation and, in desperation, he turned to me for an answer. I just smiled and said nothing. That was a mistake, I should have said "pen", and I was instructed to do the run write-up! [You had to be there - Ed.]

Puki Jangut 1, Toreador 0.

The usual announcements were followed by a word from the Hare, who said that it would be a long run. Not surprisingly, there were groans from most of the hashers - particularly those who had driven straight to the hash from their weekend frolic in Cherbourg and were still feeling the effects of too much booze and too little sleep. Spiderman suddenly remembered that he had a 1pm appointment in Bristol and told me that he would be looking for a short cut back to the pub. "You won't be the only one," I thought.

So, to the run. We turned right out of the pub car park and crossed (eventually) the busy A46 to the first check. The trail then went due east across fields, over a stream, and then south towards the White Hart at Cold Ashton. We then crossed the A420 and shortly arrived at Cold Ashton village and Regroup 1. From there, the trail went down into the valley below Cold Ashton and then west to the A46 and Regroup 2. The haphazard numbering of the checks was duly commented on by The Fat Controller. Wolfie (ever the optimist) checked north from the regroup towards the pub, whilst Spiderman took the more-obvious [sez who? - Ed.] southern route. After a few hundred yards along the scenic A46, the trail went right, over numerous fields down towards the Cotswold Way and the next check…

Where will they go next?

Will they all return to the pub, intact?

Will Spider make his lunchtime appointment? And with whom?

Who gets down (now "on")-downs?

Are our lives ultimately meaningless?

Find out in the next enthralling episode of Ray's "laughter and tears" account of run number 879 in the next edition of The Mag, when I've typed a bit more of the bloody thing. - Ed.