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 HASH MAG ARCHIVE 1997: RUN NO.700 Run Date: 14 April 1997 The Seven Hundreth Or Seven Hundredth Only sixteen runners turned up for this momentous hash which was a pity. Anonymouse even went to The Warren House Inn to see if there were more hashers there, though why anyone would have gone there I cannot imagine. Thus we were ten minutes late in starting after Deadly and Ferret who were supposedly laying the trail ahead of us. I say supposedly, because fifteen minutes later, on one of my shortcuts, I came across the two conspirators hiding behind a bush sawdustless. Having been caught redhanded, they admitted that the trail had been laid sometime before hand and they were just pretending to lay a live run. They then disappeared up a track and roared off in a car which even Zippy could not catch. At this stage Dumbo and I began a series of short cuts which kept us in front of the rest of the hash. It was on one of these short cuts that Dumbo announced she was hot but could not take off her sweatshirt as she had a body under it. Whose body she did not say but I was quite relieved to see Rudolf turn up alive and kicking. At the On Down Monday money for food was being distributed, but not by the Old Queen. He demanded his £2, even though, as hare, he was having a free meal courtesy of the pub. There are no flies on Deadly which explains why the front of his trousers are always wet. This was not the extent of the evening's largesse as free T-Shirts commemmorating the run were distributed even to those who had not run, such as Hairy Bollocks and Tinkerbell. Everyone was quite pleased with the shirts even after Not Norman, who is not noted for his ability to spell any word longer than four letters (which doesn't matter as he only uses four letter ones, anyway), suddenly noticed a spelling error. Quick thinking as ever, the Grand Master explained that it was the American spelling which was accepted by everyone with the exception of an American gentleman in the corner, but after his hundreth beer he saw the error of his ways. If you insist on the English version it can be corrected for the eight hundredth run. To: The Secretary, Leveryton Golf Club From: Colonel Blimp (Ex- 3rd Foot And Mouth) Dear Betters, Long time no conflab, but have been lying low since some gal reported me for flashing at the top of Axtown Lane. Can't get away with anything these days. Got hauled in the other day for questioning about these moorland fires someone's been setting, but they let me go when I explained it was the sun reflecting from my binoculars when I was doing a bit of birdwatching (and I don't mean the feathered variety. Haw! Haw!) Of course, I wouldn't have to do any of this if the hashers hadn't reformed their evil ways. They seem rather a dull lot these days. No orgies at the golf club with Zippy wearing his underpants on his head and the hash women dancing around in erotic outfits. They still run over the moor shouting On! On! but never put it into practice. Even Deadly has stopped ogling Skippy, must be getting old (Deadly that is, not Skippy). What can you expect when the Grand Master is the oldest active hasher (and when I say active I mean he still moves. Just!). What the hash needs is new blood (the Spice girls I hear you say) and I know just the answer. We approach Martin Bell's blueblooded fillies and offer them more than he is doing to join Tinkerbell instead. From Anti Sleaze to Auntie Liza! By Gad, Betters just the thought of it makes the old cockles rise, and that takes some doing nowadays. I must write to them straight away and then get a clean supply of clean underwear ready, what? I reckon if I get the old tropical suit out, polish my monocle and wax the moustache I'll be well away. If they want to fight sleaze I've got plenty to give 'em, haw, haw! Must go now, Betters, and put my makeup on for the aerobics class. Yours as ever, Blimpers.
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