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 HASH MAG ARCHIVE 1995: RUN NO.614 Run Date: 31 July 1995 Granny Hill's Escape From Hobnails New Waste Revenge The minimalist hash goes from oblivion to oblivion; not my turn to write etc.- someone has to etc.- why me etc. You probably know the rest of the all purpose introduction, which gives me a bit of time to tell you about the latest visit of Granny Hill (aged 92) to my house. You have to hand it to her, she has all her marbles and certainly knows when her glass of babycham needs refilling. She was very sad to miss the opportunity of running with us last Monday, but an Apex return rail ticket to New Milton waits for no man (or Granny Hill), and she sadly bade farewell on Saturday. She quite liked Teignmouth but I shall save those rather racy stories for when you are all grown up. She also missed the Staverton and Landscove Show which is a great shame, since our Thomas came first in Class 33 (decorated egg, under eight years). Anyway, with the summer holidays here (for the lucky few -yes, we know you are all stressed out and deserve the rest and you have to do marking during the evening), but some of us still have to turn up and go hashing even if it is with the 'other few'. Hobnails, our hare for the evening, looked worried, especially since the view from his Popemobile showed only Deadly, Rover and Ferret cracking rocks between their cheeks and limbering up. Where was our Member of Parliament, where were Pan's People, the committee, Elvis Presley and anyone else who could talk without grunting? I'm sure I've read this somewhere before. A closer inspection of Hobnails revealed him to be sitting in sawdust encrusted splendour, as a result of doing 50mph in an open top vehicle with a loose bale of shavings on the back seat. Rather like those Christmas scenes where you shake the glass container and watch the snow slowly subside. A very loud thump, not unlike Concorde passing overhead gained our attention, but was only Rover, in training mode, molesting a wet hole prior to the off. God knows what B****** Bunny thought (more of her later) on her first foray into the physically challenged world of the Drake experience. Although Hobnails did not actually run away, his skill at directing the trail at what must be considered a leisurely pace (and I know about leisurely paces) was to be admired. He conducted a long and frank exchange of views with Dishy all the way to the summit of the stone row whilst the longs got themselves all lathered up on a long loop. We had previously had some old Druidic bollocks from him in the guise of a hint about finding your way home concerning the tallest stone lined up with the sun, two naked virgins (obviously not from Plymouth) and a trail of sawdust. It sort of worked but somewhere along the line I missed out on the virgins, naked or otherwise. At the Comwood Inn our guest B****** Bunny moaned about the unsuitability of her name. Deadly and Rover both nodded sympathetically making strange clucking noises as they grovelingly agreed, trying to to leer and smile at the same time. Rover then proceeded to work his way through all the beers as the barrels ran out one by one and he rejected pint after pint of the new ale due to cloudiness. He, of course, tested them all first. FFerret showed us his impressive gut, the sight of which attracted the luscious Morticia (ask Ferret) who thereafter lurked nearby, presumably in the hope of another sighting and some hands on experience. Things slowly deteriorated as the rump of the hash leant against the bar contemplating the charms of Morticia, the girl in the interestingly filled black dress, and the meaning of life. I blame the hare, global warming and Mr E. Nesbit of 41, Orme Crescent, Grimsby. Next week- a short and informative account of Granny Hill's week in Teignmouth .You have been warned!
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