Covering note to Wolfie, who was Edit Hare in 1996:
Martin, this is a very personal account of my trip to Lundy.
It's not a report or a "write-up" as such but it's what I saw
and what I felt. If you choose to use it in the magazine then
that's for you to decide. Personally I'd rather you read it
and then put it in the bin. Unfortunately you didn't come this
year even though you wanted to. A lot of your fellow hashers
don't know how poorly you travel these past few years. I understand.
So read this and feel the trip through my eyes. Perhaps
if you close your eyes you will be able imagine what it was like.
If you decide to ignore my advice and "stick it in the mag" (as
we say!) I won't mind. I'll understand. Maybe it will help
you a bit to feel that others know how poorly you travel. It
could be the start of your rehabilitation into the Lundy scene.
A personal catharsis if you like.
You may feel that it just sounds crap. Anyway, here goes...
Lundy HHH Run 10: 3 August 1996:
Blow Job
I travelled down with Spider and Lyn. We aimed to get to the
campsite by eight thirty. Unfortunately we arrived after
dark and I flattened my battery whilst Spider was setting up his
tent by the light of my headlamps.
We were late because:
We were late leaving Spider's because he'd arrived home
late and needed a bath and needed his back rubbed by Lyn.
There was a traffic jam on the Avon bridge which meant
that we had to go on the A38.
Lyn had to use the loo so we had to divert into Tiverton.
The public loos in Tiverton were all locked up so we went
to Tiverton Hospital where Lyn convinced the staff that she was
an occupational therapist (which is true!) thus gaining entry
to the requisite facility.
We stopped for a beer.
(Finally!) Spider worked out one of his "short" cuts.
But! that wasn't the end of it. When Lyn finished her job of
blowing up the first of their li-los it was discovered that
the second one was not to be seen. A not-too-happy Spider spent
the next ten minutes checking, rechecking, and double re-checking
every square inch of my car and its environs.
I donated one of my blankets to them and scuttled off to the pub.
It was gone ten.
Thank God we got a lock-in!
A Lovely Smooth Ride
Saturday morning was absolutely beautiful. It was bright
and sunny. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. Pleasantly warm
with the promise of "seriously hot" hanging in the air.
To be honest it was a bit too bright for me. As I donned my
sunglasses and popped five or six Anadins into my sandpit of
a mouth I wondered, just for a moment, whether I could have
managed without those last four pints of Bass.
We took the Greyhound Bus (sic) down to the quay for the
princely sum of 50p per head. It was enjoyable passing fellow
hashers on the long trek down, struggling with their picnic
boxes. I waved out of the back window of the bus as we
sped seaward. (I'll probably remember the face of Kimmins
longest as he toiled along).
The boat trip was pleasant, if somewhat uneventful. I think
I spent much of the trip discussing the thorny issue of drugs
in sport with Cloughle and Newton. Carter chipped in with a few
bits and pieces.
I made my customary round of the boat, looking to see who
appeared the worst for wear. Nobody this year was in the state
that Bogholder (Dave Robey) was last year but, for my money,
Arber, P., took some beating as he slept bolt upright and unshaven
in the dining area.
I managed to get off (so to speak) in the first shuttle.
Shit
Everything worked well. Paul's organizational skills
seem to mature with each passing year. One slight hicough
this year was the wanton way in which the traditional righthander
was altered. We got to about check 3, having started
in the usual way, i.e. going straight across past the lighthouse
to the far coast, when it all started to go wrong. A few
hashers walked south in the ritual token gesture, whilst the
rest of the pack were straining for the third blob which would
confirm that we were going north and that all would be well.
After what seemed like an eternity Stretch called ON-ON and we
all streamed north. Soon we would be cutting right and heading
back along the rhododendrons. WRONG! In his eagerness to please
the pack he'd called on a smear of dried-up seagull shit. How he
avoided a down-down I'll never know.
Particularly as I grassed the bastard up!
Cock AND Tits
As I've indicated before Paul seems to organize the weekend
better every year. Last year some moaners moaned that the Saturday
evening was too fragmented. No problem to Mr Mountford
because he listened and he jolly well sorted it out. He booked
a hotel function room, hired a very old but good DJ and in doing
so piped some excellent cream onto the cake of the Lundy
weekend. I've heard that next year he's planning to lift the
event into an even higher plane again!
There was a raffle, too. My tickets were back in Spider's
tent along with Lyn and her headache so I never did find out
for sure whether it was my prize that was redrawn.
There was a game too. Organised by Sheepshagger.
The idea was that there were five couples who, in turn, had to have the
man lick salt provocatively from the the woman then down-down
a tequilla and then to suck the juice of a lemon wedge which was
being held in the mouth of the woman. I think that this game
has its origins in the Brecon area, but you would have to
check that with Sheep' himself.
It was amusing to watch, with some very good acts being produced
spontaneously. One woman had the salt licked from her
naked left breast. At this Cloughle lamented the fact that it
always seems to be older, larger, type of women that do this sort
of thing when he's watching.
My lasting memory of the night was of the pulsating strobe that
was flashing across Paul Hodges' genitalia whilst he demonstrated that he was, in fact, "too
sexy for his pants".
We drank the place dry!
That Old Dripper - Sue Baic!
Saturday night was waning as I sat around a large candle that was
lighting up a mottley gathering of hashers. It was 2 a.m. I had
just remembered that there was a can of Bass in my car and I
wandered off to fetch it. (Incidently, this reminded Cloughle
that he too had a can of Banks' stashed in his car and duly
sent somebody off to fecth it for him.) I returned with my one
can. The last possible beer that I could drink tonight. I was
really going to enjoy it and savour every mouthful.
It was at this moment that Sue Baic decided to adjust the
angle of the candle. Several minutes later it became apparent
that this movement had caused a run of wax to drip. Drip! Drip!
Drip! The wax was dripping directly into the opening in the top
of my beautiful, and as yet untested, can!
I went spare with her! Nothing to drink!
With that, Cloughie's "runner" appeared with his beer. He'd found
two cans! Cloughie gave me one of them. At that moment I felt
that I actually loved Martin Clough! I cracked open the can!
Nectar!
Next morning I found that can of Banks' Beer on top of my car.
A single sip had been taken.
Over the years one consistent feature of the
weekend has been the
poor quality of the Sunday morning hangover run. This has
often been due to the Barnstable hares.
This year the run was excellent, thanks to the efforts of Le
Canaveau. The trail was short, picturesque, and interesting.
One feature of the run was a water crossing across the entrance
to a salt marsh, which got many hashers suitably wet. In particular
Sue Baic who was so determined to stay dry that she entrusted
herself to be piggy-backed across by a male hasher who
was running in a dress. Actually he did an excellent job of
making his stumble look like an accidental slip. For the second
time this weekend Sue and dripping went together.
Back at the pub events were being dominated by the Milton Keynes
RA, who announced that he had found the father of a toy bear
that had been left at Nash Hash, by reference to DNA tests
that had been carried out at the lavatory (sic) on pubic hair
samples from his "suspects"'.
This interested me because during the night I had actually sent
off samples to my laboratory and had the results in my back
pocket, courtesy of a dispatch rider. The sample in question
had been taken from JJ's pint mug on the previous evening. It had
been noted that JJ had switched from beer at about 10.3O p.m. and
had started to sup an opaque amber liquid.
The results were conclusive. Two performance-enhancing drugs were
detected: water and chemical flavorings consistent with cheap
orange squash. As we thought, his new girlfriend had been in for
a rough night. What a cynical schemer! He probably saved a few quid too!
Well that's about it, Wolfie. Do with what you will. I expect to see you back next year.