Words from the New Year’s Day Hash, Malarborouough
So there I was, lying gratefully in the bath soothing my aching limbs, thoughts drifting here and there and all of a sudden, Troughie poked me – I know, doesn’t bear thinking about…
“‘Ang on, ‘ang on”, he said, “Who was the scribe at the New Year’s Day hash?” I cast my mind back: Hmmm, no GM Rear Entry, no ex-GM Overshot, no Flage-No-Lay, in fact no-one piping up “we need a scribe, B’s and C’s” although Running Late honked his horn and Shirtlifter did a fine job of calling the hash to order, leaving Goolie speechless – until the down-downs at least.
But nope, no mention of a scribe, which would have meant leaving a fine hash unrecorded, so here I go, out of the bath and stepping into the scriberly breech…
The 6pm start confused me, don’t know about anyone else, although our car occupants, Low-t-arse (of whom more later), Py and a more-than-slightly hungover Jyde were all equally nonplussed, what with it being dark and all; 6pm is pretty much like 7.30 at this time of year. Nevertheless we made it to the start, meeting up with intrepid walkers Pinky, Cow Pat and Twisted Sister who, eschewing the simple 6 long, 4 short and 2 walkers did their own bespoke 7.5 mile trail from Hope Cove – true hashers if you ask me; who needs flour anyway…
…certainly the hares didn’t, we reckon something short of a single bag was used to lay the trail by the ever decorous Filth and her sidekick for the evening, Sex Wax. There were a significant number of virgins and visitors from London, (which later in the pub turned out to be Cirencester – I know, I’m terribly confused too) and whose names were associated with goats and other oddities too risky to mention in case I get them wrong and misrepresent them.
Talking of misrepresentations, RA for the evening Goolie did his usual fine job of misrepresenting everything that had happened. As a walker, I cannot account for what went on, other than at the drink stop, where I imbibed a glorious Bailey’s hot chocolate and enjoyed the sight of a few dozen torches coming over the horizon as the longs and shorts hooted hollered and on-on’d their way down the hill. I didn’t see the bras either and no-one could tell me why they were there, so I asked Google and it told me of a fence in New Zealand where four women returning in high spirits from a party hung their bras on a fence as a ‘gift’ to passing drivers and the idea took off – maybe Malborough should be spelt Malbra in honour of this fine tradition.
Back at the pub, it seemed that most of the longs and shorts got lost, with the notable exception of the aforementioned Low-t-arse who, together with co-lost-causer Barbarella managed not only to not get lost but also arrive back at the pub before 9pm! That was partly because we ALL got back before 9pm on account of starting at 6 and also on account of the hash being quite easy to find for them, which was quite surprising given the flour-less nature of the trail. What is it about those 2, maybe in their efforts to not follow the trail, they inadvertently followed it, I don’t know. I also don’t know if they were still wearing their bras by the end of the run.
The lovely Rizzo was celebrated for entering her 40’s – from the perspective I find myself at, this now counts as just leaving childhood, so don’t worry Rizzo, it’s no biggie, there’s far worse to come. Gaffer got a down-down for earning his SH4 100 runs shirt and for being amiable, and a virgin was awarded one, took a sip and gave up. She’ll never last the distance. Sex Wax cheated as usual and drank half hers before her cue, Rizzo still won by a country mile.
Thanks to the hares for the trail, in particular the Bailey’s hot chocolate. Don’t know if they still had their bras on at that point either.
Onon, Hekkel 🙂
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