On the fifth day of Christmas
Sunday 30th December 2007
AH3 hash # 1325 – Shag-it Farm, near Sauchen
Hare: Hippo
A cold but clear and sunny day. Too cold to risk bumping into irate farmers hunting for the pot over a white Aberdeenshire countryside with nowhere to hide? Although it was very tempting to linger over the breakfast black pudding, my dear Hen reminded me that it was a year to the day that Saddam Hussein was hanged, and so I jumped in the car and skidded off to the Hippo mansion, conveniently situated east of the Dunecht glacier. Here I found the hare showing Wotzoff his new skating rink, which he explained he was using to get his place in the Guinness Book Of Records for the highest number of hash vehicles in the smallest possible space. Apparently however, his neighbour, farmer McShagger, was putting the kybosch on this attempt by driving a coach and horses through it.
Hippo and The Penguin were also trying to get into the Guinness Book of Records by accumulating 140000 AH3 runs between them. Well done! And each received an almost-matching bum bag. We toasted their noble effort. Hippo then explained that despite extensive research he had laid a trail running through three special sites of extra-special scientific interest, a pheasant hatchery, Scotland’s largest tree-based bird hide, a truffle mine, a Celtic druids’ burial ring, and Farmer McShaggers’ prize Dry Blackthorn piggery. So we all had to ignore the dull yellow spots of frost-enhanced flour and follow the nice bright new organic white spots that he or possibly Mrs. T would be laying if they could get in front of the FRBs and SCBs. It was obvious that this run would need an experienced hash horn, someone with the nous to feel a hash trail, someone with the confidence and charisma to rally the lost and forlorn, someone with the humanity to gather up lost sheep and lead them to the promised land, … I have a dream. Sergio looked around the circle, shivering in the winter sunlight. His kindly old grey eyes gradually fell on mine. “You’re the man.” What our esteemed GM had forgotten however, was that T. Rexes are cold-blooded and therefore can only extend their fibula flexor longus slowly below freezing point (well that’s my excuse).
The trail slipped down icy driveways, along icy car-tracks, across icy fields, atop icy tarmac, through icy farmyards, around icy gorse, up icy hills and skating over icy pools. At least this stopped LittleShit doing his mud distribution trick. We were running into the sun, so I couldn’t see who was ahead, but apparently it was Trouser Shredder, Wotzoff and Tiger Feet who were running all the back-checks to ensure the pack kept together … apart from Drill Bit, who was testing out his survival hash trousers …and apart from Numbskull, who was still following Boxing Day’s flour (this was a great impromptu run, but I bet it doesn’t get a scribe published). Weirdly enough, after the whisky mac stop and the Stella Artois stop, my limbs felt much more functional – I’ll have to try this at home. The only problem with hanging around at refreshment stops is having old codgers like Wotzoff initiating a debate on whether there should be more whisky or more mac in the mix. Or perhaps I was miffed because no-one was interested in my debating topic on the prevalence of barbed wire in runs in North Aberdeenshire. I really wanted to pee after all this, but didn’t want to risk getting stuck to a tree. Fortunately, as Mrs. T explained, the second part of the actual run was shorter than the planned run, to make up for the extra long section they had to add to the first part of the run to avoid the pigs, or was it the rare pheasants?
Being at the back I missed out on all the end-of-year gossip. (But I’m sure I heard ****** complain to **** that her bloke’s idea of idea of foreplay was half hour of begging.) Lightsout did tell me a joke, but it was far too rude to reproduce here. Instead, try this one:
A man stumbles up to the only other patron in a bar and asks if he could buy him a drink. "Why of course," comes the reply. The first man then asks: "Where are you from?" "I'm from Ireland," replies the second man. The first man responds: "You don't say, I'm from Ireland too! Let's have another round to Ireland." "Of course," replies the second man. I'm curious, the first man then asks: "Where in Ireland are you from?" "Dublin," comes the reply. "I can't believe it," says the first man. "I'm from Dublin too! Let's have another drink to Dublin." "Of course," replies the second man. Curiosity again strikes and the first man asks: "What school did you go to?" "Saint Mary's," replies the second man, "I graduated in '69." "This is unbelievable!", the first man says. "I went to Saint Mary's and I graduated in '69, too!" About that time in comes one of the regulars and sits down at the bar. "What's been going on?" he asks the bartender. "Nothing much," replies the bartender. "The O'Reilly twins are getting drunk again."
Back at the on-inn, Wotzoff demanded a pseudo-scientific explanation as to why the glügwein tasted different every week. (It actually depends on what the cat drags in that morning.) Numbskull found a corner of Hippo’s estate with bright sunshine to show off his new trainers. We knew they were new because they had “NEW” on the sides. He then protested that he should drink a down down from each shoe instead of just one. Perhaps he likes the cheap lager we use. Our ingénue harriette Chiara is now known as Pussy Boots, despite the RA referring to her confusingly as Tom Tom.
Into Hippo and Mrs. T’s (warm) mansion for a fine meal featuring some of Mr. McShagger’s best porkers. Hippo was outlining his plan to get in to the Guinness Book of Records by cycling backwards from Lands’ End to John O’Groats with a wooden spoon in his mouth. Meanwhile, in a different room LittleShit was outlining plans to replace post-500 run awards with public floggings. Sounds too Mearns to me. Only 51 hashing days till next Christmas. Pip! Pip!
T.Rex Cock
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