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 HASH MAG ARCHIVE 1987: RUN NO.208 Run Date: 23 November 1987 Battling Our Way Through Modbury It was a grey evening, which was unremarkable, but for some it would even be unforgettable. Approximately seventeen Hashers and three Hashettes assembled in prime S.H.I.T. country at the Modbury Health Centre Car Park. I blinked and adjusted my gaze, not knowing it would be the last time all of the hash would be seen together. The Hare's shout brought me back to reality and off we went, down Back Street to the top of the town, and to the first check. As I don't normally see the majority of the Hash but follow the scent, and as we were in Hunting Country, I think we lost the Dirty Dozen here. Up Brownston Street the remaining Hashers and Hares went, through Traine Estate, up Galpin Street (or was it down?), where various house viewings took place. El Pee and I pondered, briefly, whether to call in and see the Proper and Improper Doctor for a quick drink, but as the run was becoming like 'Ten Green Bottles' - it would have meant leaving "two green hares hanging (around) by the wall", so loyalty overcame us and we continued around by Swanbridge Mill. A new Hasher, Martin, a friend and business associate of the Proper Doctor, but with better qualifications, was still with us, and was receiving the benefit of various instructions and pointers. Wanting to make him 'feel at home' we examined various 'blobbed' cow pats as we daintily tripped amongst them, pondering on their nitrate content. The essential mud, stream & bramble part of the run began to emerge, as was the answer to the question of why one of the Hares had been covered with mud at the beginning of the run. El Pee and I were guided to the sluice gate, preferring it to pure slurry, and followed the On On's up a ghastly lane which even a Chieftain Tank would have been pushed to overcome, and believe me, any lane where a Chieftain Tank has to be pushed is not the sort of place one would choose for a pleasant stroll. Over a corrugated iron gate we went and then into a field with a one in one gradient, where the Hare took fleet of foot Snakehips and the other runners off to Little Modbury and Lower Little Modbury. It was here that I saw a couple of torches and heard a feeble "On On", which couldn't have been Deadly, which heralded the Return of the Dirty Dozen. El Pee and I shortcutted back past Swanbridge Mill while the rest went to Cuttlass Farm, Ayleston Brook, down Runaway Lane, so named after the Battle of Modbury in 1643 between the Cavaliers and the Roundheads. When the Cavaliers lost, they belted off down Runaway Lane - I had visions of a re-enactment between Deadly and the Hares, then past the Church and down to the Health Centre, where, I believe, you can see several wounded Cavaliers still waiting for an appointment. Meanwhile, back in the 'Ex' as resident SHITS call the Exeter Inn, the familiar figures of I'm Not Norman and Deerhunter were to be seen deeply engrossed in booze and gossip.And what was it they were discussing? A sex scandal? A smoke ring in the loos?. The 'Getting with Child' of the missing Hashette? Maybe even compiling a handbook of runs to go barmy on? I have been warned against the damages of speculation and can only speak from first hand experience. They were in fact offering themselves as prizes in the Modbury Christmas Draw. The tickets are free - well, with prizes like that, they would have to be! Please apply in writing to the 'Ex'. I quickly ordered a chipless supper and sat back to enjoy a quiet drink. On glancing out of the window I was amazed to see the Farting Armpit or Farmpit as he now seems to be known as, pounding down the deserted pavement, reminiscent of the opening chapter in 'On the Beach'. His heavy breathing punctuated the stillness. He was at this point only seconds away from the car, but failed to reappear for about half an hour! Martin followed in his footsteps about ten minutes later. Eventually, the Hashers but not the Hares, filed into the 'Ex' where the usual post mortem on the run took place. I understand this to be what orienteers do at even greater length after their runs, recalling with macabre detail every second of their run. The food looked appetising, until Deerhunter and Woodenlegs, sitting opposite Cream Soda, gave an exacting account of the untimely demise of a man-eating Tiger adding colour and flavour to the rendering by relating it directly to Cream Soda's Chilli - minute, blood coloured rice brains and kidney-bean blood clots etc. A hardened hasher like Cream Soda is not easily swayed from his appetite. Martin added a few references about dehorning (calves) although I noticed that he refrained from ordering any food himself. All to no avail, so, in desperation, Woodenlegs showed Cream Soda her freshly injured, badly gashed, blood splattered leg and even that fell on deaf eyes. Only the appearance of the Proper Doctor did the trick. Having a medical 'expert' on hand pushed the conversation in the direction of a possible theory that hashing safeguarded the nation's mental health. Can we collect a small but significant EEC Grant? Would Hon Sec look into this, please. Whereupon the Proper Doctor, having been cut off from his unbilical telephone, had to return home. I, too, was about to leave when I was reminded by Snakehips that it was my turn to scribe. SHOCK, HORROR! Did he not know that my social calendar was full for this week? Why had I been asked to change with Norman when he was there? Crestfallen, I then felt obliged to socialise. I found, surprisingly, two very pleasant friends of Moby Dick who appeared to have enjoyed their run - I hope he keeps them away from an Arkle Run or we will never see them again, either! It was riveting eavesdropping on Hashers' lustings after Vanessa's sexy, silky all-in-one running gear. Please come back soon, Vanessa, they get SO unsightly when they dribble...... I have yet to get to the "bottom" of the unusual spectacle of Farmpit on a rival hash a couple of years ago leaping on top of a table during a cabaret and uttering such a masterpiece of a joke that, after all this time, no-one can remember - still. Woodenlegs reported that she had been overtaken at immense speed during the weekend by DIAT, doubtless leaving himself enough time to find the Monday hash. A cruel retort of "It's a pity he doesn't run as fast as he drives" was wiped from my mind. Deadly eventually returned to normal after food and drink and the Battle of Modbury 1987. He had just jetted in from Jersey where he had spent the weekend as the booze was cheaper than at the Chagford pub (Is a Chagford SHIT a CHIT?). He had an anxious moment on take-off at Jersey when he read the local headlines saying "Pilot Drops Dead Whilst Landing". It was at this point in the evening, when everyone else had gone home, and I was desperate to get some 'copy' that a deep meaningful discussion on the variations of landing a "FOCKER" sans pilot took place between Deadly and Snakehips. A quite staggering fact emerged during this conversation. I realised how much Snakehips and I were alike. Tall, slim, wonderfully athletic, drooping moustache (although I tend to shave mine off), and with the most breathtaking knowledge of total trivia and sanctimonious waffle this side of the Black Stump! Lastly, although it's difficult to have a lastly without having a firstly, may I present a Chalice of Excellence to whoever started the rumour that, after sitting opposite Cream Soda at the Hash Dinner, Horsetrough feels we are all a load of boring old farts and has resigned his commission. I can recommend a punchbag for his alternative Monday evening's entertainment. Hashettes prayers have been answered!! PS Snakehips, you were right - I should have nicked the TVH3 Sturmer mag and just changed the names...........
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