Oxford Hash House Harriers

July 5, 2010

#589 Wytham (White Hart)

Filed under: Oxford Hash House Harriers — Tags: , , , , , , , , , — Dr Slow Ride @ 10:56 pm

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:

May 20, 2010

OH3 #582 The Bell Inn, Adderbury

Filed under: Oxford Hash House Harriers — Tags: , , , , , , — Dr Slow Ride @ 6:18 pm

“These taste like shit,” was heard from several of the hashers gathered around the walls of the Old Vicarage in Adderbury.  The residents of this stately abode were safely locked behind a gate and could probably not make out the resemblance the offending foodstuff indeed had to poo, but we were assured by the chef that these were “vegetarian sausages.”

No complaints were heard regarding quality or quantity of the “non-vegetarian sausages” and those of us that stuck to these as god intended (“And thou shalt have dominion over the chorizo as you do the kielbasa, lo, and over all forms of spiced and minced meats” — Book of  Wurst 4:15). “These aren’t nearly as bad as the sausages in Chiang Mai,” we were informed by our visitor from the far east, Sperm Sailor. But, your humble reporter was handed this photograph taken near the On Inn of a possible production line for these commestibles:

The run, itself, was quite lovely but the large number of pubs in Adderbury were all passed within the first 5 minutes of trail and, though we drew within sight of Banbury the opportunities to stop at a drinking establishment other than the official venue were well past us.  This was not a problem at all as the Bell Inn had a variety of Hook Nortons and a guest on tap, the regulars were a friendly lot, and we were able to keep Gadget away from all of them by asking him his opinion on, well, it doesn’t matter, does it…we just said, “so Gadget, what do you think about…?” and then waited until he ran out of breath.

{Next week, I should recuse myself of the scribe duties, but since I already know the trail I can probably have it written three or four days in advance.  If anyone else wants to take over for a week, I can email you the photoshoppable photo of Dippy.  Alternatively, if anyone else would like to pose for a picture or two (still kicking myself for missing the one of GeeGee with a sausage in her mouth and mustard on her chin), then that can be arranged.}

May 14, 2010

OH3 #581 Forest Hill

Filed under: Oxford Hash House Harriers — Tags: , , , , — Dr Slow Ride @ 12:37 pm

Forest Hill, a village on a hill with no forest but rather is surrounded by fields and pastures (although there is a wood not too far away) was the scene of the Oxford Hash on the birthday of Ian Dury.  Our own band of Blockheads met at the White Horse for a few bevvies and then out for a wee trot around the countryside.

The trail was laid with treacherous intent as Shagger included a number of backchecks while scrupulously avoiding the worst of the shiggy available.  Some of us made up for the latter problem by diving into thickets on a regular basis and opening manly wounds that we could only hope would endear us to the ladies.  Dippy decided not to count on such war injuries to impress the girls and near the end of the counterclockwise loop he sprinted off.  At first, it was thought that he was trying to turn this into a race that none of the rest of us were fit enough to compete in. But as we caught up to him in the last paddock before the On-Inn, we realised that he was just in a hurry to meet his date:

That ugliness aside, we continued on to Minging Court (a bit misnamed, but the massively wealthy that can afford such places have strange ways beyond the understanding of us peasants).  Here, Bollard had set up a feast suitable for the new Ox/Cam/Public School coalition government, but as we were the only folk in attendance we ate as well as if we belonged in these posh surroundings.  We were treated to a baked salmon, new potatos, prawns with mint, and some steamed asparagus poached from a nearby garden not half an hour before tea.  In deference to our lowly station, this sumptuous feast was served in a manner befitting the rabble as Bollard scooped up the portions in his sweaty hands and plopped it on the plates.  But, no one complained, least of all the neighbour’s dog that wandered over and quickly cleaned all the dishes for next week’s hash.

Back at the pub, Dippy collected sponsorship money ostensibly for a charity event last month, although it was rumoured to be for some psychological treatment…either way, it was worth a tenner.  Those of us that paid up were then treated to a few of Whadesay’s own crisps:

not photoshopped, that really is Whadesay

May 6, 2010

OHHH #580 UK Election Special in Oakley Wood

Filed under: Oxford Hash House Harriers — Tags: , , , , , , , , , — Dr Slow Ride @ 12:47 pm

With the UK general election only one day away the Oxford Hash staged a politically themed trail.  To start, three parties with largely indistinguishable philosophies were supposed to run the show even as it turned out that one of those might as well not even have been there…in point of fact, she wasn’t there: Gee Gee was off on a tropical fact finding junket leaving us at the mercy of co-hares Tinkerbell and Gadget.

As a typical constituent, I was struggling to even get to the start whilst heavily laden like some pack animal. This is no metaphor as I was actually r#nning to the start with a loaded backpack but the trek took on eerily parallel symbolism when compared to the current election: a half dozen red cars each slowed slightly, some swerving toward me as they pulled alongside before hurriedly speeding away. Then when I was just a hundred meters from the hash start having empowered myself to provide myself services that others withheld, a classic blue roadster pulled over and Animal offered me a lift in exchange for directions…”an invitation to join the governance of this vehicle,” as it were.

Soon thereafter we were surrounded by what might pass for the Monster Raving Looney Party convention (Oakley Wood Branch). And not long after that, we were away on the trail.  And, quicker still, we were lost and scattered around the wood. “These bloody foreigners, coming over here and screwing up our trails, they should be sent back,” observed Mouthful, the Other BNP Supporter from Turkey.

And, indeed, this begs an issue of transatlantic politcal interest: it was both the Mexican national holiday Cinco de Mayo (5 of Mayo) and there was a pack member from the not so great state of Arizona where the police have new responsibilities to hassle anyone that appears to be an illegal immigrant.  With our local copper AWOL this left the visiting RA, Shagger to mete out the penalties to visitor Cocktail and to kiwi Mummy’s Boy who might be the right colour but speaks with a funny accent (the author will now take a short break to regain composure).

Having run around aimlessly in the wilderness with little effective leadership we found ourselves right back where we started except now there was food and drink available.  Bollard continued the internationalist political theme by serving enormous plates of pasta; if it was good enough for the Italians as they waded through fifty elections in twenty years then it should be good enough for some Englishmen as they prepare to suffer two or three elections this upcoming year or so.

The last of the down-downs coincided with a vote of “no confidence” from some Community Support Officers that arrived on the scene and dissolved the government for us.  We then gave up the analogies and retired to a pub in Oakley village where the locals were throwing heavy blocks of wood at an effigy of an old woman….

May 3, 2010

#579 Shit Shoveler Memorial–Trash of trail still pending

Filed under: Oxford Hash House Harriers — Tags: , , — Dr Slow Ride @ 11:03 pm

I hope someone else will write a proper, respectful trash for this event.

I only met SS once, on my first visit to Oxford last fall and he seemed like a perfectly hip sort of old guy, the type I hope I someday, erm, mature into.  We have a few mutual friends scattered about the globe and I passed onto as many as I could remember him telling me about (that one drunken evening in Woodstock) the sad occasion of his passing.

I hope you lot did right by him at the hash; for my part, I finished off a bottle of Lagavulin that afternoon which will have to pass as my respects.

Swing low, and on on.

April 8, 2010

#575 Long Hanborough at George and Dragon

Filed under: Oxford Hash House Harriers — Tags: , , , , , , , , , — Dr Slow Ride @ 6:00 am

I was really looking forward to getting drunk at the White House [pub, that is]…man, that takes me back to my 6th grade school trip to Washington DC. But the hare, Bollard Naked, suddenly changed the venue at the last moment so instead of warm reminiscences about Secret Service agents and stern teachers to deal we were sent down the road to Long Hanborough and the George and Dragon. Still, Long Hanborough has 6 pubs servicing the 2600 residents and this was a nice bonus for those of us that occasionally find ourselves off trail, slightly, and in need of refreshment.

Speaking of drinkers of great excess, the Hanborough station was the last rail stop for Winston Churchill’s remains as they made their way to the parish church grounds in Bladon. His ghost loomed large that night as more than once I overheard hashers channeling the Great Man. For instance, shortly into the march, Salty Nuts exclaimed, “from Bladon on the River Evenlode to Long Hanborough a little further up the Evenlode an ‘iron curtain’ has descended across this hash.” “Quit yer whinging, that’s just a fence,” Mummy’s Boy shot back.

At another point I caught the last bit of this conversation that also evoked the Great Man’s ghost:
Finger Flasher: “…yes and you are short but, in the morning, I shall be sober.”
Whadesay: “Yeah, that would be a first.”

Details, details…oh, some Milton Keynes hashers (sort of the German tourists of the hashing world) showed up to recruit for the 20th Analversary of the MKHHH. Bollard felt guilty for sending Gadget off into the Blenheim Forest wearing a deer costume and left early to warn the hunters that one of the deer might yell in an almost human way, but just keep firing. And, the trail was brief but fairly interesting given the short notice for the change-of-site.

The George and Dragon was packed when we returned, largely due to the fantastic food on offer. I didn’t actually see a menu but I heard that Pink Pussy wouldn’t mind being sandwiched by Victoria and Web F@rt, and that picture has put me off dining in the near term.

I bade adieu to my compatriots, stowed away on a vessel to Bicester, and, as the miles ticked by, Churchill’s words once more rang in my ears:

“Even though large tracts of trail and many old and famous Pubs have fallen or may fall to the grip of cheap supermarket cider and all the odious apparatus of temperance movement rule, we shall not wander too far off trail. We shall go on-on to the end, we shall hash in the county, we shall hash on the marshes and through mounds of cowshite, we shall hash with growing confidence and diminishing brain cells, we shall powder our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall hash on the beaches in the hopes of spying some half-dressed 20-year-olds, we shall hash on the playing grounds, we shall hash in the fields and in the streets, we shall hash in the hills (unless we are in East Anglia on a road trip); we shall never be sober….”

On-I’ve taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me-on,
drSR

March 31, 2010

#574, The Boat Inn, Thrupp

Filed under: Oxford Hash House Harriers — Tags: , , , , , , , , , — Dr Slow Ride @ 10:19 pm

April Fools Day has become increasingly secularised the past few years. On April Fools Eve, little Hashers all over the world tingle with anticipation of the cans of beer and naughty toys and underwear left under their Half-Mind tree or in the back seats of their cars, and the following day we all expect the traditional whoopee cushions, snake-filled cans of peanuts, and the Queen’s Speech.  Too often, though, we lose sight of the true meaning of this day (one of the Holiest in the Hashing calendar).

Not so in Oxford, where the devout elders of the Church of G gathered at The Boat Inn, a sacred temple of the divine ale along a canal in Thrupp (a few hundred meters north of Kidlington).  The intricate feast day activities began with a ritual reenactment of the scourging originally imposed upon the earliest hashers in the jungles of Malaysia.

Leading us through these acts was hare Finger Flasher, who ensured that each supplicant was thoroughly anointed with the fully complement of Shiggy at his disposal: mud, baptismal waters, thorns, and even a plague of toads (well, there was a squashed frog on one of the road crossings and Silent’s flatulance had a toad-like timbre).

Through the windows of The Jolly Boatman, I spotted worshippers of another sect and entered their temple to try to steer them to the one true way, but alas, their false idols had too firm a grip upon them and I soon left having sipped their sacrament and thereby been tempted by the easy comforts Their Way offered. This was indeed a close call, but I soon found my way back on the One True Trail.

And it came to pass that the prophecy was fulfilled, and hot morsels and refreshing beverages were spread before us as supplied by Brothers Farcanal and Gadget. The altar was then set and the ground consecrated by our most Reverend RA Victoria who recognised a visiting RA from the land of Bicester, one Reverend and Most Holy Shagger.

Sins most foul were also noted and I found out that Turkish tradition meant that what would have been just a playful masculinely jovial slap to the bottom back in the States meant, in fact, that Gadget was now my spare wife.  That’s bigamy (and if I haven’t mentioned what’s big o’ me before, ladies, please just ask…just don’t let the new Mrs Ride hear you, he gets a bit jealous).

The joyous fellowship one always finds on these feast days even extended to a nod to the secular traditions.  I refer of course to the April Fool’s prank, this time visited upon apprentice copper Gee Gee String, who had her bike stolen (I don’t care how pious you are, there’s a wee laugh in that one for you).  We were also blessed with a prodigal’s return when the long lost Maneater turned up.

These pestilences exorcised, we adjourned back to the pub and basked in our piety.

Too much activity for a christening today, but soon, little one, soon

Run #573, The George & Dragon, Sutton Courtenay

Filed under: Oxford Hash House Harriers — Tags: , — Dr Slow Ride @ 3:17 pm

Here’s the best I could manage on such a short break.  Sorry if it seems a bit generic; expect better for #574:

The barman was heard to mutter, “bloody hashers,” as the crowd descended upon his tavern.  “At least that drunken american one doesn’t seem to be with them this time,” his buxom, raven haired, nurse’s outfit-clad wife reassured him (hey, if I’m making this shit up, it’s got to hold my interest, too, y’know).

Once the pack was assembled, the hares left on time, or early, or lounged about until everyone was wondering if there was even going to be a hash.  A street was crossed (maybe more than one) and a field or playground or pitch was desecrated. Strike through as appropriate: The (well-layed/confusing/dreadful) trail was completed by (all/most/none as everyone just stayed at the bar).  Oh, how we mocked those that (FRB’d/DFL’d/wore something inappropriate) and at the circle that followed beers were downed, songs sung and everyone tried to make sense of whatever Gadget was banging on about (and precisely what those noises that Whadesay makes in lieu of language).

Later, clumsy attempts were made to get into one or more young harriettes knickers, but to no avail…oh, wait, that’s right, the drunken american wasn’t there…hmmm, that must’ve been the previous week.

As much as I would like to claim credit for this find, those of you in scientific research will no doubt appreciate FBJ’s single reference on his write up:

March 18, 2010

OH3 #572, IRA hash

Filed under: Oxford Hash House Harriers — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — Dr Slow Ride @ 7:35 am

[Note: this post is full of Irish slurs and may offend anyone especially sensitive about their Irish heritage.  I have been assured that this warning is probably unnecessary since most Irish start slurring each day just after noon.  Where practical, the original Irish spelling's have been employed for the hashers' names.]

So, these two, erm, Irish men walk into a bar…

There are some odd traditions surrounding St. Patrick’s Day. In Savannah, Georgia, a coastal town near where I was born and raised, the population swells from 130,000 to nearly half a million for the festivities which include a river of puke-infused green beer running down River Street and through most of the historic town’s picturesque squares.  In Tucson, Arizona, the local Hash House Harriers stage a Green Dress Run to honour all potato-eating transvetites, and to drink copious quantities of non-green beer.  Here in Oxford, however, the tradition seems to involve chasing an asian statistician around in the mad hope that Irish themed beverages can be purloined (and, of course, beer of any colour you like).

Gosh and begorrah!  There was perfect Irish weather for the St Pat’s Day Hash, which is to say it was warm and dry and not at all like typical Irish weather. A large group of eejits wearin’ the green arrived at the start for the traditional pre-run lubrications via libation, which is to say pints o’ Guinness (aka, Irish Nyquil) supplied by the hash and I was even caught with a classic case of the Irish handcuffs, which is to say I found myself with a beer in each hand. Our Bangla-Paddy for the evening was one Web McFárt and his arranged spouse, Warm and Fluffy; he’s a wee eastern bog-trotter  with a disconcerting touch of an American accent and has connections to Boston–and everyone from Boston claims some sort of close (that is, ‘mob’) connection with either Ireland or Italy.  He took us on a tour of the neighbourhoods near Port Mahon Pub that left more than one of us wondering if we had not stumbled into the depths of Dublin  (the trail was longer than a run to Belfast, in fact) as we meandered about from port to port of call, desparately seeking something to imbibe.

Marching season is always tense

As we were leaving, Dippy and I started comparing our green credentials.  My outer shirt was nay green enough, he pointed out, but I thought he would be sated seeing my green vest. No, this was never enough and I pointed out my right sock was indeed green as well and to seal the deal added in that I had a recalcitrant fungal infection that glows green under the mercury light at the local surgery.  Thinking this was satisfactory we started to leave when he pointed out that the hares were diddling with electronic devices on their arms: “those are bombs those are” but I worried not as the Irish have figured out that the suicide bomb really holds no reward for the Irish Catholic.

But, strange happenings indeed came to pass, and we were on oddly familiar turf as we pulled into  Victoria’s house (the beer stop a mere week ago) for cups of cider.  No sooner had we all settled into a wee spot of the crack than one of the hares announced, “60 second warning.”  Ever alert, FBJ (or Efh Bí Dídhe, to give him his full Gaelic due), pointed out that we never were given the 61st warning.

The trail continued on and we eventually came upon the peat walled home that the McFárt and Fluffy clan call a home.  Ah, these Irish do amuse and they always make you feel completely at home, offering you such delicacies as hot chocolate with a choice of Jameson’s or Bailey’s.  A fan of the whiskey, I asked for Jameson’s and was disturbed when my shot was dumped in some hot chocolate…I think I have saturated the web with (and I have restraining orders from several US Congressmen regarding) my demands that people who put fine spirits in sweetened beverages have their US Passports revoked or denied, or if foreign that they be denied entry…but this was not the venue for my political proselytising.  I asked about said ‘fine beverage’ and Mr. McFárt said that it was the cheapest Irish whiskey he could find, adding “they took that off the market in America after a bunch of hillbillies went blind.”  My third one was still sublime, and my eyesight has always been rubbish.

The St. Patty’s theme was embraced by all. There was an awful lot of Irish gaelic spoken–or at least something other than proper English–by the leprechaun and former GM, WhaDeSay. And, speaking of strange, Irish related noises, whoever fed Shit Styx corned beef and cabbage before the run should be dragged through the Giant’s Causeway behind a flatulant mule. The odours permeated bar and trail and indicated more than one culprit in this chemical attack, and Dipstick even mentioned “I can smell a shortcut,” whilst lost in the Protestant sector of Marston. “Fer feck’s sake, lad, issue your mates some gas masks next time, ye octopus thievin’ arse biscuit,” Soílent was heard yelling across a table although no one was really sure what he was on about.

For proper news and analysis, the Troubles may be at an ebb in Eire, but our favourite email sectarians Amnísia and Gadhít aptly demonstrated the concept of Irish Alzheimer’s (forgetting everything except their grudges); Amnísia even forgot that there was a trail tonight and many asked Gadhít “where is Amnísia, anyway,” to which he replied, “on the far side of the Shankill wall,” or “I’ve not seen him for nigh on a week,” or something (truth be told, none of us tries to translate his ramblings anymore).

Food and drink are a necessary part of the Irish lifestyle and there is, conincidentally, always food and drink at the end of each OH3 run.  I fully expected the “Irish seven course meal” of a potato and a six pack, but we were treated to another of Gadhít’s delicacies: potato famine soup, which has a lot of everything but potoatos.  During the meal, Efh Bí Dídhe and former GM Loch Rís were heard out in the alley engaging in Irish foreplay (essentially Efh Bí Dídhe loudly saying, “brace yah self, Loch Rís”).  Ah, and they say kids today don’t understand the old style of romance….

At the circle, our co-hare Warm and Fluffy and Mummy’s Boy were awarded their tenth run decorations and Mum & Dad, Wrist Action, and Efh Bí Dídhe were given the “n times 69″ memorial odd socks.  Several other awards were delivered and O’Neil Condom was heard to say, “Feck! Arse! Girls! Drink! That would be an ecumenical matter,” or at least that’s what we think he said, no one was really quite sure (and the telly, inside, may have been tuned to More4, to be honest).

One of the stranger items of the night came to pass when the Other Bloke from Torquay was renamed; I had originally thought, he’s not dark enough to be from Wales, but since we American’s are rubbish at geography I was surprised to find that Torquay was actually in Devon.  Either way, he has to find it a promotion to get a true Irish name on the day the Irish have a national excuse to overcharge for Guinness.  I only wish I could remember what he was dubbed but I am certain it was a mouthful, though.

Having finished this write-up you will excuse me while I take a well deserved Irish nap (ie, I’m going to pass out), and consider calling into work with a case of the Irish flu. And so until next week, in the Craggy Island spirit I bid you

On-go on, go on, go on, go on, go-on,

dr. S.L. O’Ride

March 11, 2010

571…What The PAPERS Say

Filed under: Oxford Hash House Harriers — Tags: , — Dr Slow Ride @ 7:40 am

It appears that I am now the scribe for the Oxford Hash House Harriers. The awesome responsibility foisted upon me by the OH3 Mismanagement is only somewhat met in magnitude by my ignorance of what it might entail.  A survey of the professional press seemed in order and it was reassuring to see full coverage of this week’s hash in the papers.

Click for larger image…

The first stop was at AA Gill’s column in the Times because his name seemed so apropos: initials the same as the famous substance abuse support group, and surname a fluid measure equivalent to a quarter of a pint (or a “sip,” amongst this lot).  Although the food at the beer stop was, as ever, warm, welcome, and approaching the sublime (ie, it was served with beer), Gill disappointingly spent his entire review on some restaurant where you choose, hunt and kill the orangutan your server will subsequently barbecue at your table…noteworthy, but not related to the trail.  Jeremy Clarkson, above, was as ever the voice reason in this confusing world.

Click for larger image…

The Daily Mail spent large portions of the front page covering various aspects of the hash.  Editorial policy probably dictated the bashing of we few foreigners in the kennel, ‘bloody foreigners coming here, ruining our good times, drinking our beers…it’s disgraceful.’  Amen, brother.

Click for larger image (against my better advice)..

I may be old and I may be married, but I ain’t dead yet and so, like most of the male poplation I always turn to page 3 first whenever I have a copy of the Sun…on the other hand, the quality of the Page 3 girls has slipped a bit since Hash coverage has been included.

Click for image large enough to read text, or see outlines in Tommie Jo’s pants…

The Sun’s unpleasant aftertaste needed attention, and the Daily Sport was just the sort of cachou required. The models in this issue may not have made it all the way to the Circle, but the writing (we all buy the Sport for the writing, eh, guys?) seemed a bit more misleading than the photography.  As a case in point, take the Daily Sport Boob Count…while most of those listed are, indeed, boobs it should be pointed out that a few of them are actually tits.

From this brief survey it would appear that print journalism is dead; but if it isn’t, I promise to do my utmost in this position to kill it.

On-your humble correspondent, et cetera-on,

drSR

(brief reviews of Red Lion, Victoria Arms, Bricklayers Arms, and the Cavalier to follow at http://1pumplane.wordpress.com )

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