Spring had sprung and the morning sun promised a glorious run with a respectable turnout for this weeks Hash. Virgin Hares, Just Stupid was neat and trim but Sleeping Sex greeted us wearing so much flour that she looked as if she had been ravaged by a deranged boulanger. After we figured out which side of the station we were supposed to start, a spring shower panicked our wet brave hashers and threatened to wash the trail away. Stand in Religious advisor Two Timing-Hyman realised had forgotten to sacrifice the obligatory virgin before breakfast, so Sleeping Sex bravely offered herself to the God Gisbeth. He’ll call back.
Our trusty hares had not spared the white stuff, although some trail markings were fiendishly hidden … behind lampposts. The pack set off on an art study trail through the upscale suburban roads of Chatou and the Park of Impressionists, complete with stops at famous places that looked nothing like they do in the paintings. Needless to say, we were impressed! OK. I had to get that one in.
Lots of false trails and picturesque viewing points brought us back to the car park with deranged runners screaming. “Make it longer.” “I like it long and straight”. They enjoyed the run too.
The hares leapt with enthusiasm into their down-downs early, were severely penalised and forced to repeat the ordeal of drinking more beer as guests, Just Mimi and Useless Tool, who had crossed the pond all the way from Gay San Francisco to Gay Paree, toasted, were toasted and got toasted (Not really, but I like the line) for not stopping at the clearly marked ladies checkpoint.
Footwear misdemeanours were punished severely. Impaler wearing a loud pair of sneakers small enough for a Chinese mistress and Virgin Miranda sporting brand new shoes were forced to down-down from their offending footwear while the group thoughtfully discussed the idea of using Miranda’s complete set of new running accessories as drinking cups for a mass down-down. The RA intervened with an unexpected decorum, noting it would be inappropriate to go this far with a virgin and it would be nice to have Miranda back for the next Hash.
Other crimes and misdemeanours were by the hares again who were accused of not dropping enough flour. The accusation was not convincing but the hares took their down-down punishment bravely.
Down-downs for returnees Philip from NY, Gonzo, Screwing Nemo and Just Bernard who was justly renamed this week, as he and Screwing Nemo were spotted handing their balls to a group of young tennis players. And one for Frog Banger: he wore a neck brace but it slipped down to his ankle.
In the spirit of this weekend’s festivities in Rome, Bernard was beatified with the new moniker “Ball Bearing” after also playing pockets billiards with himself while in the circle and not with altar boys, as is the habit in Rome.
Postman was cited for masquerading as a Scotsman in a badly coordinated tartan scarf. He complained that it was for a sore throat and was advised not to swallow in future.
Meanwhile the real Scotsman Gonzo and Seven had to be reminded that it was a serious Hash and not some frivolous Royal Wedding. They were condemned and sentenced for crimes against fashion and dragged screaming to the circle and forced to down-down. The mob went wild as the condemned demanded more beer and had to be dragged out of the circle pleading for more beer.
TTH was forced to drink the amber nectar for starting the Egyptian Revolution and returning to France before finishing it.
Mismanagement, Just Alex and Half Crazy managed to lose their way to the Hash even with a GPS and were forced to find their way to the beer and down-down. Everyone had become so lost at some stage that the overachieving FRB’s were too numerous to mention in one paragraph. A tortoise could have led the pack at some stage.
Slack Mack reminded us that it was the Hashes 30th birthday. As no one baked a cake in honour and there were no virgins left to sacrifice – not surprising after all since it was not the birthday yet! – a simple down-down with a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday was sung with real enthusiasm as it was one of the only songs everyone knew the bloody words to, accompanied by the obligatory beer and wine.
The ceremonies ended with a rousing rendition of Swing Low Sweet Chariot that elicited some strange looks from passers by, especially the mimed silent reprise that would have made Marcel Marceau proud.
The Hash went in Peace.