Run 784, The Lamb & Flag, Oxford, 5 February 2014

Hare Cruella, RA Victoria, Scribe Zorro

Lamb and Flag St Giles Oxford hash run 5th February 2014.

Oxford H3

Oxford H3

The Lamb and Flag is famous for its literary connections, Thomas Hardy wrote the tragically dark Jude the Obscure here. Graham Greene lusted after a barmaid who resembled Nefertiti. the Inklings J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis also met here,  though they are more usually attached to the nearby Eagle and Child. There is also a quote on the
wall , ‘When you are finished go and fetch Morse out of the Lamb and Flag’. This all seemed to go over the heads of OXH3 who were having pre-hash drinks.

virgin

virgin

Outside a new-comer from Bicester was introduced as a virgin though I never found out whether he was a hash virgin or merely an OXH3 virgin.  We shot off down The Broad then wound down Queens Lane. On arriving at The High I endeavoured to interest my fellow hashers in the fact that they were looking at the first ever two coffee-houses in England this fell on deaf ears perhaps because someone was explaining to the Bicestonian that the opposite Magpie Lane was formerly called Cuntstroke Lane, it seemed necessary to explain this multiple times .

Victoria & Dipstick

Victoria & Dipstick

We were about to cross Magdalen bridge but were recalled and instead went down cobbled Merton St, then past The Bear to St Aldates. This is where I realised the difficulties of hashing in town it was too noisy to hear the calls and there were lots of other runners about.  Anyway on to St Ebbes past the plaque to Dorothy L Sayers, Bonn square then down another winding alley Bulwarks Walk. Then through Gloucester Green to Jericho.

Oxford H3

Oxford H3

Perhaps weighed down by my literary pretensions I was struggling to keep up there with the only two runners in sight. After a bit of aimlessness on the Banbury Rd we located the beer stop on a deserted rd behind the Lamb and Flag… mystery only two or three hashers were there. Dipstick was good humouredly heating a sausage casserole in the back of his van. Then after a while other hashers (sturdy looking fellows ) arrived they had apparently been lured into first The Bear and secondly Jude the Obscure in Jericho (how wrong I’d been they were interested in Literature after all). Then after a longer while Whadesay arrived with a small band , as far as I could tell they had been on a completely separate hash based on where he Whadesay thought the hash should have gone.

Whadesay

Whadesay

The RA awarded himself a down-down, The Hare & The Virgin likewise and Fag End received a silver tankard for her 500th Hash.

Fagend's 500th Run Award

Fagend’s 500th Run Award

As a visitor I was mightily impressed both by most of the hash disappeared into a pub and also by the marvellous OXH3 post-hash-feast tradition with hot food, cake and drinks. I just wish I’d thanked the Hare for a great run through all my favourite Oxford Medieval alleys.

Cruella

Cruella

Written by Zorro from Didcot much amazed by the curious ways of Oxford H3 .

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Run 781, The Red Lion, Yarnton, 15 January 2014

Hares: Home Alone & Pony Express, RA: Webfart, Scribe: Mummy’s Boy

I blame Web Fart.

Or possibly Warm & Fluffy, but she seems nice while Web Fart is patently evil, so he’s bound to be the one ultimately responsible for the unpleasantness that followed the Red Lion hash, laid by Pony Alone and Home Express (they’re a double team of sorts; it gets confusing).

It started at the Circle, as these things do, with those quasi-New York-style subs that Web Fart served. Those things were really delicious, especially for something that had undoubtedly been made from the unidentifiable bits left over on the abattoir floor. I only had one but it wasn’t enough, dammit. Later, after the questionable substances had started to kick in, I felt the intense need to replicate the taste experience that remained so tantalisingly on my tongue and, if I’m honest, all down my front.

Long story short: by 03:15 I had acquired 20 kilograms of pork chipolatas. Gorging ensued.

You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one…

You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one…

After six kilos or so came the sweating, the cramps, and the bloating. Curious as to whether this was related to the chipolatas or the substances I decided it was time for a small experiment, which is how I ended up hospitalising the cat. The good news is that I now know that it’s possible to force-feed a medium-sized cat a whole kilogram of chipolatas before it gets jammed in the cat-flap and passes out. Useful information.

Revenge is less likely to be served cold than repeatedly left warm and steaming.

Revenge is less likely to be served cold than repeatedly left warm and steaming.

After scoffing a few more kilos of chipolatas the pain was becoming intense and I was starting to resemble the shape and colour of Violet Beauregarde, so I crawled upstairs to bed, crying silently and praying for a fart. In the kitchen my landlady had found the cat, presumably by investigating the hell-beast noises it was emitting. This turned out badly because the cat had gone through the bloating stage, through the flatulence stage, and into the satanic no-longer-only-flatulence stage rather quickly. How can there have been so much? It’s surprising just how far ejecta can be propelled when an overstuffed cat tries desperately to force itself through a cat-flap. Inevitably, the landlady was hit by some of the ungodly material and landed on her backside, swearing loudly. This roused the rest of the household.

Picture unrelated to what was later found in the toaster.

Picture unrelated to what was later found in the toaster.

Meanwhile, upstairs and curled into a foetal position on the floor of my room, the bloating had reached a critical stage and this exact thing happened:

Ah, Japan. What would we do without you?

Ah, Japan. What would we do without you?

What started as a blessed relief soon turned awful. Mice evacuated the property. Sparrows dropped from the skies. A fox digging through the bins caught a whiff, vomited, and ran blinded into a tree. The landlady lit a match in an effort to eliminate the worst of it, but this just caused a small explosion. It went on for HOURS. The ambulance crew refused to enter the premises and contented themselves with resuscitating the cat and shouting abuse through the window. Fun fact: did you know that Polish ambulance drivers can swear for about an hour without noticeable repetition?

The worst of it is that later, when I awoke with my head in a puddle of horror to the sound of the fumigation team retching as they began their task at triple pay, I realised I still had about 10 kilos of chipolatas left.

Well, you don’t want to let these things go to waste, do you?

On on.
Mummy’s Boy

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Run 778, The Mason’s Arms, Headington, Oxford, 18 December 2013

Hares: Lockjaw & Rupert, RAs: Victoria & Webfart, Scribe: Dipstick

It was the week before Christmas and snow (well water) lay deep when two intrepid hashers ventured out to lay their trial…..

On the strike of 10 past 7 Silent finally persuaded the pack of 17 out from the cosy Mason’s Arms into the pouring rain. After the usual GM’s welcome and a brief briefing (as there were no new-comers), the hares, Lockjaw ably assisted by virgin hare Rupert, aka ‘the bear behind’, led the trial right past C.S. Lewis’s grave, celebrating 50 years after the esteemed author’s death.

The trial then went (via a back-check on the Windmill Road/Old Road X-roads, to the check temptingly outside the Butcher’s Arms. FBJ and I, quickly followed by Mummies Boy summoned to the temptation, and saw Victoria already perched at the bar with half in hand. FBJ very kindly supplied us with three halves of their festive ale. The four of us then left to make our way to Old High Street having been foretold by Archangel Lockjaw that the trail was to come back this way.

Sure enough, the pack was found coming out of The Croft and the trail re-joined going down the footpath between the carpark and recreation ground back to London Road and to the Quarry Gate – now sadly closed and boarded-up. FBJ and I now split from the pack again choosing to take the path down the side of St. Margaret’s Road Rec. We struggled off the temptation of going straight to back to the Mason’s Arms and headed over the by-pass.

The pair of us made our way, zig-zagging rather too unnecessarily through Risinghurst, to the Ampleforth Arms – C.S Lewis’s local, back in the fifties, where we eventually re-located the trail. After downing a shift half of Doom Bar, and deciding against a game of pool on what looked like a brand new table (as we were now like drowned rats), we thought we had better rejoin the trail (as it was now five past eight and thought that the pack should have come past now…

…On arriving at the top of Spring Lane, Pony Express and Salty Nuts were found loitering, trying to find the trail. FBJ had inside information that the beerstop was on Spring Lane. Sure enough the surviving hashers were found huddled around the back of Home Alone’s car, being handed some very welcomingly warm soup. Lockjaw inform us that he had shortcutted the pack, missing out the stretch past the Ampleforth, so we could still have been waiting there for them to pass.

The idea of a circle was abandoned due to the rain, the cold and the distinct lack of beer and hares who had already p’d-off back to the pub.

Dipstick

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Run 776, The James Street Tavern, Oxford, 4 December 2013

Hares: Warm & Fluffy & Webfart, RA: Shit Stix, Scribe: Home Alone

Nice of the pub to put on a jazz gig for us, I thought. (Not that I am keen on jazz, myself…).

Two newcomers joined us, one a virgin and the other, whose hash name I have forgotten, was more used to hashing with gorillas in Rwanda, so not much change there then, except that the gorillas were probably more intelligent at finding the trail than OH3.

Visitors and Returners

Visitors and Returners

Warm and Fluffy set us off almost in the right direction and soon we were ducking and weaving round the streets of Cowley.  Since I was doing some of the short cuts, I didn’t notice too many of the misdemeanours en route but I’m sure there were some.

It hadn’t rained for some time but W & F managed to find some significant shiggy for us to run through, somewhere in the vicinity of the Churchill Hospital.  Eventually, we found ourselves on Old Road and La Crease led the short cutters to W&F’s house (doing a better job than she had in Woodstock!), where Webfart had been busy cooking up a tasty chilli.

Birthday Drinks

Birthday Drinks

Down downs were given by the RA, Shit Stix, to the hares (W&F and Webfart), our virgin and visitor from Rwanda and several birthdays were celebrated – FBJ and Shit Stix (the twins), W&F and Scraggie (again!).  Webfart brought out a cake with candles, a rather smaller number than the 100 plus that the occasion merited.

Birthday Cake

Birthday Cake

On the way out back to the pub, we raided Webfart’s collection of pirated DVDs before the police did.

The conversation in the pub was memorable for FBJ’s musings about whether he was going to wear pants to the POUCH on Saturday or not.  They apparently involved a lit candle and an instruction about what to do with the candle.  Modesty prevents me from being more explicit.

Home Alone

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Run 777, The James Figg, Thame, 11 December 2013

Hare: Cruella, RA: Shit Stix, Scribes: Woof and Goldilocks (translating)

Hash words for the run from The James Figg….a Woof’s eye view as relayed to Goldilocks…..

Cruella and Shit Stix

Cruella and Shit Stix

Woof! Woof! Woof! My cunning plan to escape Uncle Shagger foiled! It so nearly worked…damn those pesky dog wardens….

Shagger & Shit Stix

Shagger & Shit Stix

To quote Martin Heidegger’s dog “The possible ranks higher than the actual”…..maybe i can escape tonight?…..ah but there is the promise of meatballs…..Woof! Woof!…..ooh a lamp post…..smells alright….shall i shag it or wee on it…..undecided…

Lockjaw & Shit Stix

Lockjaw & Shit Stix

…oh we’re off again are we? Woof!…..oi! slow down….i only have short legs……time to look pathetic, then i can be carried…….damn..not working…..lamp post!…..will you slow down?!…….ah at last…ok where are Webfart’s tasty balls? No that one is too hot…..that’s better…a whole sub…chomp chomp Woofty Woof Woof….more meatballs…doggy heaven…Woof!

Shit Stix & Dipstick

Shit Stix & Dipstick

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Run 775, The Black Prince, Woodstock, 27 November 2013

Hare: Mummy’s Boy, RA: Victoria, Scribe: Dingaling

There's a bear close by?

There’s a bear close by?

Change of venue from the Bear Hotel.

Victoria & Mouthfull

Victoria & Mouthfull

Before the run had even started, Silent decided to kick the shit out of Lockjaw’s dog Woof for no apparent reason.

After a short briefing by Silent we set out.

FBJ has his hands full

FBJ has his hands full

We turned left a few times and right a few times around Woodstock before ending up at the beer stop.

Home Alone

Home Alone

Damn good run by Mummy’s Boy.

Give me my beer!

Give me my beer!

Hash chef, Shitstix served up some delicious green soup without meat, guaranteeing a very windy Thursday.

Down Downs:

Mummy's Boy

Mummy’s Boy

Mummy’s Boy, Lockjaw, Home Alone, F’Blowjob and Bit of a Mouthfull

On On Dingaling.

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Run 774, The Victoria, Jericho, Oxford, 20 November 2013

Hare: Dipstick, RA: Victoria, Scribe: Mummy’s Boy

A profound, heartfelt letter of apology, masquerading as the Words for Oxford hash number 774 (The Victoria, 20 November 2013).

Dear Silent,

I’m sorry.

What happened after the hash on Wednesday was, as the magistrate so memorably put it, the unutterably reckless act of a profoundly disturbed individual with all impulse control of a masturbating chimpanzee. My impulse control is normally quite impeccable, as you know, and it was only after ingesting a large quantity of questionable substances that the disturbance arose, but I felt that mentioning this would have jeopardised my case so I let it pass. I am, nonetheless, truly sorry.

I am sorry for following you home. I had been front-running with Victoria, Scrag End and Road Enema, which is of course not my accustomed position on any hash, and I suppose that this, along with the aforementioned substances, went to my head a little, giving me a false sense of entitlement and infallibility.

I am sorry for releasing a live bear into your bedroom.

A Bear

A Bear

Please believe that I did not intend for you to be injured, at least not seriously, but bears have been a theme of late. After all, I dressed as a bear on the Away Weekend in Beer, and next weeks’ hash is (probably) from The Bear, in Woodstock. We even have one hasher called Rupert and another called Goldilocks! I guess that with the substances dancing a Lindy Hop in my brain I became a little fixated.

I am <i>not</i> sorry that the bear proved to be more amorous than I had anticipated. I have for some time told you that your favourite deodorant makes you smell like a lady bear in heat, and we now have definitive proof. This is valuable, life-changing knowledge that can only help you in your ongoing quest to find the love of a good woman, and you had no right to call me those horrid, horrid names as the bear was humping your leg.

Baby Polar Bear

Baby Polar Bear

I am sorry for hurling porridge at you, although in my defence I was trying to divert the bear’s attention away your leg.

I am sorry the porridge I threw at you was too hot.

I am sorry the porridge got into your wig and matted it against your face, scalding and partially blinding you.

I am sorry for previously sneaking into your room while you slept, putting a blonde wig on you, and taking a picture.

How to survive a bear attack

How to survive a bear attack

I am also sorry to Dipstick for stealing his blonde wig from the Wank Tank. In retrospect, if I had stolen his Royal Marines helmet instead I would probably never have called in that favour from Richard de Turd to obtain the services of a bear at short notice. This would, in turn, have saved you the unpleasantness of having a sexually frustrated, porridge-covered bear fly into a panic and void its bowels over you. I for one was genuinely surprised at how pungent bear poo is, and can only hope that repeated treatments will eventually remove the lingering aroma.

I sincerely hope that you accept this apology in good faith, and don’t choose continue with your promised vendetta. Far better to act with dignity, as I am, and let the unfortunate incident fade into what will no doubt become just another charming anecdote.

Yours hopefully,

Mummy’s Boy

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