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).
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.
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.
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.
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.