In the Scrum (or a birds eye view of the great unwashed)

  Dear Readers, as the leading Social Organ for Surrey we normally reflect the activities of the good and great who represent the backbone of this green and pleasant County.  However as we approach Xmas, a time of charity and goodwill towards those of a lesser order, we have decided to probe into the activities engaged in by the artisan classes, colloquially known as the great unwashed.  To this end we ordered our youngest and newest stringer to hunt down an itinerant group known as the Surrey Hash House Harriers, who supposedly engage in cross-country running all over the County for no other reason than to generate unpleasant body odours to annoy the local gentry.  Fortunately he was able to track them down from graffiti on several Public House toilet walls, and duly arrived, suitably dressed in athletic clothing, at their start-point.  This, surprisingly, was a damp and dismal rugby club car park inhabited by screaming hordes of uncontrollable juveniles, surrounded by the detritus of the sporting  classes, namely empty beer cans, burger wrappers, and torn knee supports.  What was more surprising was the bizarre nature of the group’s clothing, mainly non-athletic with abusive slogans, all ill-fitting as rolls of fat, beer bellies, and drooping busts challenged every seam, corset, and brassiere.  This and veined faces confirmed a love affair with alcohol, crisps, and donuts.  The only consistency was the pension book that protruded from the back pocket of all present.

  At around 11 o’clock a chubby grandma wearing entirely inappropriate hotpants uttered words sounding like On On, although it had little impact such was the shrillness of her voice.  Extraordinarily nothing happened, or so it seemed, until after 5 minutes you noticed that they had moved 3 feet in various directions.  Soon the pace quickened, and after 15 minutes they were a 100 yards from where they started, and looking very pleased with themselves.  Thereafter the next hour was a complete parody of an athletic event as groups of huddled and dispirited so called runners shuffled forward along muddy paths, interspersed with pools of water and kissing gates.  To be fair there was some relief with stretches of road littered with spent fireworks and glowing embers from the previous night’s bonfire party. Towards the end survivors were offered a dubious selection of liqueurs plus the odd bottle of harpic  and bleach, acquired from a house clearance 30 years previously.

  It has to be said that our reporter returned to the start thoroughly depressed by his experience, wondering how that was remotely linked to athleticism and outdoor pursuits.  His humiliating experience was not helped when the two, yes two, persons who ‘organised’ this debacle returned to claim great success, something the participants did not challenge, mainly as they were too busy drinking cheap cans of beer and eating out of date crisps.  Clearly both were quite mad, one dressed like a pink stick of candy floss, whilst the other endlessly blew a trumpet, to the great annoyance of all, obviously suffering some sort of mental disturbance.  It must be assumed that the continual cuts to Social Services have denied them essential support.

  At this point our stringer left in disgust, there being only so much a human being can take.  However local residents, who are aware of these misfits, reported that as they are banned from respectable Public Houses they drank in the Rugby Club, clearing it in no time at all by bad behaviour, including setting their pet dogs on strangers.

  Finally, dear Readers, I trust that bringing to your attention the so called interests of the lower orders has not overly disturbed you, although it would be quite understandable if it did, and to assure you that next week and beyond we will fully dedicate our time to the upright and respectable pursuits of all decent people, such as Polo, Lawn Green Bowls, and Croquet.

  Wishing you our very best wishes for the approaching Xmas season.

  The Editor