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 HASH MAG ARCHIVE 1989: RUN NO.315 Run Date: 27 November 1989 Swamped By Greenies This is more of a hash mag than that was a hash run. What a hash up, and in front of a bus-load of first time hashers, too! Are they called Greenies? In fact, having spoken personally to the hares only the previous weekend to confirm that they were laying the run, it did not seem possible at first that we were following a phantom trail set several days/weeks earlier by a rival hash. Unfortunate circumstances had prevented our hares from laying the trail, but there was no excusing that unmentionable Drake H3 hare, who not only failed to inform the Chief Hare of their inablity to lay, but also went on a rival hash trail for the night. However, the Drake H3 stalwarts and super keenies did an excellent cover up job. Farting Ferret set the tone by leading across an icy river which claimed the first Greenie causing him to lose his torch. The trail looped and double-looped, Drake H3 calling "On On" and the Greenies calling "Where? Where?". We came to a leat. Most of Drake, skilled at long-jumping in the dark, took it in their stride, although IAT was heard down to our right calling "Short this way" to no avail, since almost everyone, Greenies and Keenies alike, was eager to jump the leat. Smutty and a couple of other spoilsports took the trouble to find a bridge across. None of the Greenies gave in, nor did Alastair's wife, whose name I cannot spell. One by one they launched themselves, and one by one they slipped on the edge and went in. In fact, only three of them avoided getting wet, which was less than could be said for our esteemed scribe. Hobbling along with a pulled calf muscle and therefore unable to jump the leat, I fully expected Endosperm to play the dutiful husband and help me to walk on water. No such luck. There I was, up to my waist in water whilst he went charging away with the Keenies up the hill. The Greenies had taken so long crossing the leat, since they all waited for each other, that the Drake H3 Keenies were on the way back down the hill, which resulted in an unscheduled regroup. The hash was united briefly, we soon divided company to cross the raison d'etre of Drake H3's existence - bogs, muck, mire and swamps. Cavorting from tussock to tussock, I realised that most of the Greenies were following me. It is good for the soul to hear comments such as "Follow her, it's safe that way....she knows where she's going!". Just then then, a Greenie tried to elevate himself to the ranks of the Super-Keenies. He wore a heavy tracksuit with a full length, thunderstorm-proof anorak and would have made an excellent stand-in for I'm Not Norman. So what did he do? Tried to overtake me, and within three paces, no joking, was up to his armpits in the bog! Then I realised, that he lacked one of I'm Not Norman's vital survival techniques: This chap could not get out and was still going down. He reached an arm out and I could just grab his finger-tips. He sunk deeper still. It is actually quite interesting seeing just how quickly a person can subside in a bog. We had mutual rush of panic, l grabbed his lapels, he kicked madly and with a lot of squalling noises ( just like when my wisdom tooth was extracted last week) out he came. Suddenly it seemed hilarious, I could not stop laughing all the way back to the cars. It must be recorded that Rover was heard whingeing tonight. What about? The fact that a bus-load of Greenies drank all the hash beer and didn't leave him any. I hate to see a grown man cry! The on-down was at the White Thorn, Shaugh Prior. Deadly confirmed our suspicions that he was going senile, in fact had gone senile and regressed into his second childhood. Not only did he lose his car keys and wallet (which cost Limpalong a Coca Cola to redeem), not only did he frisk all the likely females in the area, not only did he pat IAT on the cheeks (facial) to see if he had false teeth, not only did he nick the Greenies' chips, he even climbed up on the seats and tried to scale the partitioning armed with an offensive weapon to stab at more chips. Doubtless, suffering the amnesia so common with senility, he will not remember any of this. Alongside Deadly's antics, Smutty and Farting Ferret were in loud conversation about a hapless female who had arrived at the hash only to find that the company was not what she expected and drove away again. Well, the topic of conversation was mundane enough, but it was Smutty's body language whilst talking about nubile females that was so loud, or does he suffer from a nervous twitch down there? Certainly Farting Ferret could not keep a straight face. Cream Sod was with us again, and he produced a hash mag for us to peruse. But whatever was all that rambling on about his filofax? And where has he put it this week? Don't miss next week's exciting episode. By the way, Cream Sod is an expert instructor in laying - he'll show you how to do it and can always guarantee a good lay. Full satisfaction or your money back - just ask Cream Sod! Alastair properly introduced his wife to us, but I still can't spell her name. She has given up squashing for hashing. With all those fit female newcomers to the hash we are a dead cert of win the Ladies Albaston Relay trophy again!
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