Oxford Hash House Harriers

July 29, 2010

#593 Oxford, Iffley, and beyond

Filed under: Oxford Hash House Harriers — Tags: , , , , , , , , — Dr Slow Ride @ 6:26 pm

This is the sort of stuff I SHOULD be writing…Many thanks to Amnesia for stepping up and wresting the reins of scribe power from me.  The only thing I have to add is that as I approached Amnesia, Wrist Action and Mouthful, Wristie was explaining to Amnesia how she had just grabbed the first thing “long and large” that she could find (I guess Mouthful must come by his name honestly).

So without further introduction here’s the Amnesia version of events:

I am always wary of attending the Oxford hash; not that they are not a fine bunch but they seem to be a little quicker than I can manage these days and do tend to like a bit of road running, but as they were holding a Gispert Birthday Hash, I felt it was probably my duty to go. In any case hashers such as Wha De Say and Shagger attend regularly so I assumed they did have some provisions for slow old farts.

Having paid the £3 to park then have to walk the distance of a normal Bicester trail to get to the pub, all did not auger well, but when the landlord told me he had lager, Guinness or cider only, but the real ale would be on later; (is that later this evening or this year I wondered), I realised it may be a night to remember. The hash, sitting in the lager and cider garden, greeted me with their usual cynicism, but I sensed a touch of extra jollity in the their mood. It was only later when I realised Gadget had not arrived that I understood the reason!!

The hares, Webfart and Warm and Fluffy (Warm and Fluffy being one person not two)called the pack together for the Oxford customary briefing, normally long enough, in normal circumstances, for anyone to get another pint in, and we learnt in detail how difficult the trail was likely to be. Not that it needed an explanation as the husband and wife team immediately had a domestic as Webfart, sensing the repercussions, relinquished all responsibility, and allowed his beloved to take the blame. Now that, one may think, would be the normal action of any reasonably experienced  male hasher, which Webfart is, but the fact that there was no caveat, allowing him to claim credit should the pack hail the trail as one of the greatest, was a bit of a worry. More concern arose when W&F decided to stand there silent, watching her GPS on her wrist until she acquired the right satellites before she could call the on.

Well off we went with rumours of 10 clicks in our ears. (10 clicks to me is calling our cat 3 and a third times but I went along with it!) . Actually I went along with it for not very long as when we got to the check (in fact the first check), there was a choice between hashing on the green and tree lined South Parks or the wheelie bin lines back streets of Cowley Road. Those immortal words from the Oxford H3 web site sprung to mind! “We hash in the towns and smog during the winter months, and out in the glorious Oxfordshire countryside during the summer.” Off into the park I went along with Dr Slow Ride. How wrong we were! The last I saw of any hasher after that was DSR disappearing over the park horizon at a great rate of knots, but as discovered soon after, in completely the wrong direction. My lifesaving kit of £5 in my back pocket bought me a proper pint in the Port Mahan before I walked the 200m to the beer stop (about 47 clicks I think) and awaited and awaited the return of the hardy. Upon their eventual return, hot sweaty, exhausted and complaining, we were served an excellent chilly before the down downs were started and quickly and rudely interrupted by natives with big sticks, ranting on about kids being asleep upstairs. Skid Marks would have been proud of them! Abandoning the down downs we decamped to the Angel and Lettuce or whatever the Oranges and Lemons is called now. I can never understand changing a perfectly good name of a pub to a crap one. ‘Angels and Lettuce say the bells of St Clements’ Click, click,click!!!

OnOn

Amnesia

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 28, 2010

OH3 #583 The Black Bull, Launton

Filed under: Oxford Hash House Harriers — Tags: , , , , , , , , — Dr Slow Ride @ 11:20 am

We were all baffled by the trail on Wednesday.  It was supposed to be live but it appears that was just a ruse perpetrated by Slow Ride (the hare) so he wouldn’t have to talk to any of the stragglers–quite antisocial.  Worse still, he didn’t even know where the On Inn was, arrogantly assuming that it was at the location stated in his text to the Chef (Bollard) and the Beer Donkey (WhaDeSay?).  Typical American, eh?…I won’t more than mention his complete lack of respect for rights of access or questionable hygiene.

We all should have read the signs of doom better.  It all started out badly as Gee Gee, fresh from the cop shop, wandered into the pub and was immediately mistaken for a stripper.  Perhaps this was fair enough since she went in wearing her uniform and without any cash and came back out in a skimpier outfit, some sparkling new shoes (according to the RA) and enjoying a frosty beverage.

Next came a plague of toads from the sky or, at least, Daglocks and Sperm Sailor flying in on ultralights.  Finally, some Bicester hashers showed up which is always a bad omen–may I remind you that Gadget is one of them.  As storm clouds gathered, we decided to soldier on in the face of certain destruction.

The true trail was sussed by members of the pack and has been published elsewhere (at this link, in fact).  The pack, cleverly, fell for none of the false trails set, as shown in the supplementary map, below…the red lines were laid at 16:30 and the blue lines were the path of the hare starting at 19:00 (intended On Inn and the actual one are also indicated).  In the interim, the hoax was ruined by rabbits who, following on from the evil signs of confusion, wanton behaviour, and plagues from the heavens, pooped on several of the prelaid blobs:

Sorry, no photos of Dippy doing something rude, this week.

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:

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