Short editorial note: Writing the Hash Trash isn’t difficult, usually, and I would recommend it as an outlet, a form of therapy as it were. But, Dippy and Gee Gee are sucking the life out of the job. They are the living, breathing incarnation of a Carry On film, one speaking nothing but intentional innuendo and out the other all you get are perfectly innocently delivered double entendres. I am beginning to believe they were fraternal twins separated at birth…Blithering and Blathering would have been good names.
Don’t get me wrong, if you were just going to report they funny shit that was spoken at the hash then all you need do is follow these two around with a digital voice recorder and transcribe the results. But, if you write this crap for the shear love of talking bollocks then you find yourself outclassed rather quickly. It is disheartening.
Officer GG was in especially good form at the White Hart in Wytham, serving up a hot steaming platter of “this lingerie salesman I know,” and “he needs to be ridden hard at least six days a week,” and “oooo! I’m picking up my new uniform this week with extra room for my stuff down here.” It’s simply more than my job is worth to try to compete with all that. I give up. The whole thing could have been finished before the first prelube pint. [End of editorial rant, bitching and moaning.]
Here is a dry report on some of the other details of the trail.
Co-hares Sargent Bilko & Victoria took us on a journey through the Wytham Wood Wilderness but the trail was almost undone at the first check. Most of the pack ran due north along the road, one or two back-checked and I looked off into a field. “Are you?” Road Enema inquired as I propped against the fence but I told him it just appeared to be a bunch of butchers tenderising a palm sized rolled roast. “That’s a bleeding cricket match, y’daft American! Fockinell!” he muttered as he dashed past me crying out, “Onon!”
Clearing the cricket pitch, we were treated immediately to a sprint straight up a 70% grade for at least 6 miles. Passing some concerned looking sherpas close to the tree line, several of us stopped by the Shaggermobile to catch our breath while the partial pressure of oxygen was still high enough to sustain our existence. Further sustenance was found in some wee brown bottles which we found in the vehicle before continuing our ascent.
Suddenly–blessedly–we trudged downhill through thick nettles and blackberry thorns and then just as suddenly back up the hill and repeat and repeat. Actually, the true trail was fairly clearly marked, but I am a strict adherent of the code “if you ain’t bleeding, you ain’t hashing,” or at least you ain’t shortcutting properly.
Too tired to properly bother sheep on the way back to the beer stop (quite a bit further away from the pub than has been allowed on some trails I could mention) we also skipped opportunities to make our juvenile jokes about the hot dogs and the stuffed potatos and any number of other naughty food-related quips we might readily churn out. Perhaps we all matured a bit due to the ordeals of this trail. As for myself, I came to realise that simply reporting the facts without embellishment is the one true way forward; to that end, I leave you with this photo of Gee Gee in her new uniform:
