Scribes 2003

Aberdeen Hash House Harriers

Run 1101

Sun 22 Nov 2003

Straw field across from Sunhoney farm, Midmar.

Hare Mad Cyclist

Scribe: T-Rex Cock

Not only was it St Cecilia’s (patron saint of music and real ale) day, but it was the most prestigious sporting event, another run for the Aberdeen HHH, on the morning after a momentous day for the English race.  Were we welcomed with garlands of red roses around the hedgerows, red and white flags fluttering in the trees, images of St. Jonny and St. George emblazoned on the haystacks? No, but the writing was on the wall (well OK, on the track): zecs null.  Was this a message from a mystic god? Ajax perhaps?

40 brave gentlemen and woman entered the iron hard field, in deepest Midmar country in a brilliant morning sunshine, but not many brave enough to bare any pounds of flesh.  Those others, still a-bed, would think themselves accurs’d they went to Twizzle’s for the world cup final breakfast.  It was also One-Liner’s forty second birthday.  A long wait, with definite signs of stiffening sinews, and blood being summoning up ready for the run, had Twizzle passing the time by relating a story, which continued so long, One-liner was already contemplating his 43rd birthday. 

Eventually we set off – in the wrong direction.  Of course we were following lumps of crystallised frost coloured O, instead of flour-centred frost, coloured O.  The hare had a map, but, he said, it only showed the beer stop and no trails.  However, in the absence of flour we had no option other than to follow the hare’s prompting to climb ever higher through the forest.  At the top, we happy few, we band of brothers, found flour leading us ever deeper into the forest, while those who which had no stomach for this run, took the obvious short cut to the next climb.  ‘Oh’ for the blessing of St. Pamela, the patron saint of falsies.  The hare was reassuring: "A few yards to the top, then its downhill all the way." An outrageous lie, perpetrated by hares throughout the civilised world in order to encourage backmarkers, those desperate to outlive this day, and come safe home. 

Down a track and two more checks (why bother when the trail was straight ahead anyway?) and into open country with a glorious view of Midmar castle.  One hasher was not impressed however: "Once you seen one highland castle, you’ve seen them all." Although the next check took us back into the forest; there was good running all the way, with slow uphill segments allowing seasonal goodwill to develop between the brothers and sisters.  For he to-day that runs this hash with me, shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile.  (Nothing personal Sergio).  And once more down to the check, dear friends, once more, with a charming slalom through Xmas trees to the beer stop in a clearing by the river, a spot where the sun hadn’t touched for four score months or more (the last time the AH3 ran in the area). 

A mere 17 min later (is this a record?) back to the on in, marked by the steam rising from the happy hashers who had got back to the glugwein before White Trash.  While Numbskull sunbathed in the haystack, risking spontaneous combustion with the sun bouncing off his white tracksuit, the few sober pack members cajoled Farmer into demonstrating, with gestures, every infringement of every scrum in the second half of the world cup final, and how the referee was able to ignore Australian indiscretions whilst penalising imagined English ones.  Olymprick and Hagissimo were meanwhile in their flowing cups, plotting their revenge on anyone appearing to be English or Dutch, by arranging next week’s run in St. Andrews bar, with entry only to tartan-wearers, and using blue-and-white flour. 

Stand in RAs Little Shit and Twizzle handed out down-downs to deserving miscreants, anyone wearing orange, anyone mentioning the number six, anyone looking miserable, and to the indefatigable and indomitable hare Mad Cyclist for almost losing Tonto and The Penguin on the run.  The highlight in the circle was the revelations about One-Liner being head boy, and his wife commenting that he had more blow jobs before his marriage than after it.  I think that’s what she said.  Unfortunately, by this time Twizzle had started on another interminable story, and I was passing into semi-consciousness.  As he continued for several more hours, and with sunset threatening, men worrying about being late for work the next day, women wondering whether they’d ever see their grandchildren again before he reached the punch line, the pack dispersed in smart order to fill up on stovies and prepare for St. Andrew. 

Old men forget (especially Twizzle’s jokes): yet all shall be forgot, but he’ll remember with advantages, what shortcuts he did that day, and hold their manhoods cheap (it was a cold day) whiles any speaks, that ran with us upon Saint Cecilia’s day!

Pip! Pip!

T-Rex Cock.

Those that attended:

Goat Wrestler, Harley, Wotzoff, Mad Cyclist, Farmer, Knickeless, Twizzle, Jolly Rogerer, Sir, Lifeboats, Threadbare, Swizzle Dick, Gusset, Little Shit, Sergio, T-Rex Cock, White Trash, The Penguin, Olymprick, Piss Poor, Winroes 69, Haggissimo, Pigiron, Stainless, JC, Fifi, Sonic, Thrupenybits, Hippo, Tonto, Numbskull, Cocksin, Fire Flaps, Shiggle, Lightsout, Oneliner, Struth, Comatose.