Aberdeen Hash House Harriers |
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AH3 Run #1320 on 25th Nov 07 at Warren Wood brought to you by Numbskull Once upon an overcast and chilly sabbath morning, the Hash assembled at Warren Wood. Cars were duly unburdened of athletes, non-athletes, last weeks smelly socks & muddy running shoes, sprogs, all-terrain buggies, all loose change, etc. Instantly alerted by the unusually attentive greetings of the GM, and his seemingly innocuous enquiry as to which member of our family was running this week, I was dismayed, but not surprised to find myself put in charge of Hash Drivel for the week. Mrs T on the other hand did seem to be surprised to find herself dragged into the circle and awarded a 450th cap, which she proudly wore next to the skin for the boys. On a more subdued note Hippo announced that he had brought along a book of remembrance on behalf of recently deceased Lobotomy. Heartfelt sympathy from his many Hashing acquaintances is extended to his family. With no time to forage on an Olymprick Pie, I nervously fingered my horn in anticipation of the checking which lay ahead. Despite its age, it was in good working condition - probably due in no small measure to its getting a routine weekly workout. It is difficult on a Numbskull run for the typical hasher to out-guess the hare, on account of the inability of a ‘normal’ mind to imagine itself sufficiently bereft of logic and common sense. However, given the strung out nature of the neighbouring woodland it was obvious that a fair amount of tarmac treading would be in order, and Numskull kindly elected to get this over with first - presumably so that by the end of the trail we would probably only remember the more recent leafy, beer saturated bits. When we eventually entered Ashentilly Wood we found Farmer waiting at the first proper check. As usual he hadn’t managed to spot the flour, and had been obliged to trust to luck (combined with following the hare) in order to arrive just as the Hash’s finest were appearing from the opposite direction. This latter collection included Plonker (still on a high from cycling out to the OnOn), Harley (complaining about the temperature difference between Florida and Drumoak), Wotz off (still gong strong after 60+++ celebrations – I think it must be something in his water supply), Hippo (or at least most of him), and of course my humble self. At the next check Numbskull slowly cycled up a false trail in the forlorn hope that he might entice the pack to follow. The pack however, being collectively endowed with an IQ of marginally over 100, immediately saw through the ruse and sped off to the next check, which proved to be the undoing of Hippo. Trouser Shredder took pole position – obviously having the previous day stomped out of the Mearns 400th beanfeast before the beans had even arrived had not done her any lasting harm. Of course, where Trouser Shredder dares to tread Cannae be Arsed is not far behind (injuries permitting). About this stage Mad Cylist and Mad Dog appeared from direction unknown (but definitely off trail!), as did Little Shit and ‘short of seven’ Hillary. The trail cut through a boggy neck of woodland to gain the public road bordering the policies of Durris House and other fine residences. Upon espying a ‘For Sale’ sign One Liner could not continue without pausing to indulge in some quick mental calculations to ascertain whether the time was ripe to close a deal and move upmarket from Persley. However, the lack of a convenient adjoining supermarket proved decisive, and it was by the cunning appropriation of a child’s bicycle that he caught up on the troops at the beer check. This was situated by the edge of Durris Burn, and involved fording the stream, since a nearby fallen tree which spanned the freezing torrent had already been commandeered by the Hash Bratz. Several walkie-talkies were already there (naturally). Numbskull was pushing his bike, Fifi was pushing Heebie Geebie, Lights Out was pushing his luck – with the unfortunate result that he sprained his ankle. Almost within sight of the On-Inn, and Nae Knickers suddenly became quite breathless. Of course, White Trash and Bruce Almightly modestly attributed this to an overwhelming lust provoked by the proximity of their macho-physiques (sic). However Susie’s recent cardiac irregularities hinted at a more plausible explanation, and Farmer was duly dispatched to fetch his 4 x 4 recovery vehicle. It was good to see that Stainless and Thrupennies had made it back before the onset of darkness, but by this time the FRB’s had consumed all of Hash Dray’s/Edit Hare’s (how many positions can Thrupennies fill?) best Gluwein, thereby robbing our patient of the re-invigorating powers of Asda’s cheapest. The pack grazed on canned beer instead, and additional helpings were doled out to: By the time the Hash adjourned to the Old Mill Inn heavy promotion of our forthcoming Little Italian Job by ‘short of three’ Hillary had all but resulted in the Hash Xmas Dinner being sold-out. OnOn,
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