Scribes

Run # 1452.
Hares; Little Sh1t & Sharnie.
Where; A hill North of Kingswells - Brimmond.

As our illustrious GM called order a hush settled over the assembled throng in anticipation of what poor sap would be called upon to don the scribes hi-vis sweat rag. For once the # was quiet and no one looked or sounded like a suitable candidate to pick on. Oh well announced our wonderful GM, I'll give the scribe to the last arrivee, and then headed off in the general direction of trying to remember his duties for the night.

Let's welcome in our new runners, our visitors, any returners. Excellent, that's out of the way and we have a returner/visitor who he could introduce to us all. What's your name he enquired not noticing the LARGE lettering emblazoned across his chest announcing to one and all that he was Road Runner. It was at this point I thought it worth while pointing out to the Grand Moron that his name was not 2 feet in front of his nose and maybe he should have gone to speccysavers. Bloody stupid suggestion on my part as the scribe still hadn't been picked at that point. But in my defence I reckoned the Geriatric Monkey had forgotten all about it.

Bollocks, bugger and blast I said as the cunning GM passed the proceedings over to the RA. Pre run down-down was awarded to our TV loving #er Hillary for legging it toot sweet from the previous # to rush home and watch the final episode of Lost. This may be the perfect Get a Life Award for the AGM.
And over to the Hares, at which point L1ttle Sh1t gave a very baffling story of new walls and rampaging motorways blocking excellent trails and confusing him with the option of 3 beer checks, but it was definitely 4 spots and your on and there are loads of back checks and we were off.

The usual well laid trail courtesy of Sharnie & L1ttle Sh1t led us all on a merry rampage around the golf course, over the hill to the lost cabers, or around the hill if you were Wotzoff, through the woods or any where the flour wasn't if you were Tonto, in his defence he was with Harley, and eventually via quite a lot of nasty back checks to the beer check or 3. Or to a happy search for a camouflaged bag of goodies hidden in the undergrowth.

And finally back to the cars for some well deserved beers and crisps, if # beer had remembered the crisps that is, for the happy #ers, and a pleasant circle thanks to our soothsayer Aids who took great delight in down-downing any body for any reason and some for no reason at all.

For being late to the run and relying on your phones internet map to show you the way, but then having it refresh to next weeks run site after 7 o'clock, Norman Hunters Son. (That'll teach him to buy a map, bloody modern technology)
For doing their knees in on the nasty jaggy ground, Horny Blower.
For there impersonation of Freddie Krugger with a bush whacker from Wilkinson Sword, Leaky Willy. Please note there are other bush whackers out there, and when the RA started going on about Leaky Willy's bush whacking I thought he was referring to something else altogether.
For a fantastically organised gardening adventure, Sergio.
For her endeavours towards topiary excellence, the freshly trimmed Privet.
For doing a forest run in slick trainers, Road Runner. Just like it says on the t-shirt GM.
For having the perfect doggers car, even to the point of the wet wipes to clean the seats, Nipples.
For wearing biker kit to match his new bike, Harley. Oh wait, the RA missed that one; he must have borrowed the Gormless Muppets specs.
For loosing interest in front running after the rest of the # has caught up with you, Numbskull.
For a bloomin' excellent trail with lashings of flour, but no ginger beer, the Hares.
For taking 2 weeks holiday and then being laid low with dysentery, cholera, bubonic plague and various other manly illnesses, Norman Hunters Son.