Run 1233 St George’s Naught to B run
Hares Harley & Farmer
A sunny St. George’s day dawned, making your scribe feel poetical.
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
Of course, this could have something to do with Harley’s new tactic of having the bus leave the pick-up points 10 minutes before the scheduled time.
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
… strange then that the bus driver then waited 10 minutes for Numbskill who was hiding in the long grass at the drum oak
This day shall gentle his condition.
Although miracles might take a bit longer
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
Presumably this includes all those gentlemen now at bus stops scattered around Aberdeen
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That hashed with us upon Saint George's day.
Although the only manhood holding was the loo stop at Banchory, although I couldn’t see what **** and **** were holding at the back of the bus.
The mystery destination became clear as we passed through Birnam wood to Dinnet National Nature Reserve, famous for wetlands, streams, slippery rocks, moss, slimy frogs, rain, lochs, glacial remains, wet leaves, slippery snakes, outlaws, deserted dungeons, but hopefully no dragons.
Sergio’s 450th run won him a full AH3 cap. Hopefully, being now so appointed, he will now cast his ancient battered blue relic aside.
We had hardly had time for anyone to lose the trail (especially as the main culprits were setting the run) when a we were waylaid by a scurrilous ragamuffin hidden in the Vat Burn furtively thrusting shots of Vat 69 into our hands. Dutch courage for what was to come?
The trail passed through wild and wonderful highland scenery. There was a problem when got onto the flatter, country park part of the trail – you know, with proper paths, and with lochs and walls for landmarks, not to mention dog-walkers in fur coats who actually owned all the territory we were trespassing on and needed to remind us of this fact very loudly – we had been sabotaged by malevolent farmers, or possible savage sheep. Anyway, there was no trial, it had gone with the wind, and the pack had split up into a myriad of splinters. Some wanted to head north to an ancient settlement at Cambus-something they set a trail at 17 years ago, other wanted to follow on the path through the gate, because it looked rather pretty. Lost! No-one answered the call of the horn. Lost! Now this could have been a problem for hashers on an A to B run, to be in the middle of the highlands, not knowing where you are or where you are meant to be. Sunset was only 5 hours away. But, were were downhearted? Yes we were.
Being scribe, I thought I’d better try again to rally the troops:
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our hashing dead.
In training there's nothing so becomes a hasher
As modest stillness and humility;
But when hash horn’s blast blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger:
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest hasher.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to trail. And you, good hashers,
Whose limbs were made of iron, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; (even Litteshit?)
For there is none of you so mean and base, even Numbskull,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot…
But I was cut short by a phrase I would never have imagined Fifi’s immaculately formed lips, so I gave up and sulked for the rest of the run. Fortunately, coming out of the mist appeared the eerie figure of the small but perfect lady, Shirley Valentine, who, didn’t have a lamp, but led us back onto the right course.
Eventually, after a long but strangely enjoyable slog we caught up with the bas, which had mysteriously found its way to B without us, and enjoyed a few beers and changes of clothes in the warm sun. All of us that is except Numbskill, who we unfortunately picked up on the road back to Banchory for steak pies at the George Hotel (sorry artistic licence here, it was actually the Burnett arms).
So, we had survived another Harley and Farmer extravaganza:
He that outlives this day and comes safe home
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named
And rouse him at the call for on-on.
He that shall see this day and live t'old age
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours
And say, "Tomorrow is Saint George’s run."
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars
And say, "These wounds I had on George's day."
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words -
Farmer the GM, Wotsoff and Sergio,
Fifi and Meganne, Littleshit and Lifeboats -
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
And take their spirit; and make loud this charge
Cry 'God for Harley, Farmer, and Saint George!'
T.Rex Cock
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