What a disaster. No, not the run, the pub. What used to be a lovely old English pub with ancient beams and Inglenook fireplaces turned into a ghastly common eatery. Heaving with families stuffing Grannie and Grandpa from a eat as much as you can buffet and carvery. As the hare told us later, in its 500 years of existence what was once a farm, then a knocking shop, poor house, school, jail, bawdy house and pub had sinking to this. No wonder our English culture is disappearing.

  But enough, what of the run? Well, there was Master Bates sitting in front of his pint later looking at his mobile and waxing lyrical about a balloon shaped run because it came together at the end like the mouthpiece of a balloon. If indeed it did resemble a balloon, it was not the regular round shaped thing you get floating around at parties. Rather more it was sausage or, more graphically, cock shaped with a cherry at the far end. But, shape is irrelevant. What matters is how you lay it and here the family came up to scratch.

  MiA clearly had her lesser half well under control. A sharp word here, a brief instruction to stay there while she did the difficult bits kept everything well under control. Lots of flour, a good clear trail. Out of the pub, across the road and immediately into the greenery. From there the trail maximised use of the heathland to stay away from tarmac and urban sprawl, heading over the Chobam road. Onto Horsell Common proper with enough twists, turns and checks to keep the pack guessing. On to that blasted area where the Martians landed. From afar came the echo of children screaming that the Martians had come back again. Hashers do look a bit odd to the uninitiated.

  The Martians may have made a mess of the area but not half as much as the BBC made a mess of their attempt at a remake of War of the Worlds it must be said. Anyway, the return trail managed somehow to keep clear of the out trail, no mean feat on this narrow strip of countryside, and so back to the pub for the customary rituals.

  SH3 has always been a family affair in a broad sense. Run by an avuncular group of folk who democratically dictate what is and what isn’t. Today it seemed to have taken on a much narrower definition of ‘family’. Everything was done by just The Family duo, GM, RA, JM, Hares, Scribe Enforcer, the whole works and with Bolshie having buggered off early, MiA had to pour the Down Downs too. Makes you wonder whether we really need a committee. Just joking. We all love you really.

  Bigfoot, in his avatar as RA, invited Belcher to be a joint RA. The main reason seemed to be so that they could give each other down downs. The list of souls who were publicly humiliated and had their misdemeanours broadcast is now lost to history but an excellent lemon drizzle cake and a chocolate cake were in evidence on the table. If it was a tribute to some unannounced birthday celebration, it should happen more often – the cakes that is.

  Jollity over, off to the pub where we were banished to the nether reaches of the astroturf, down by the kiddies playground. JA lashed out Hash money for some, hash chips. They seem to be becoming a regular welcome treat. And they were hot despite the distance to the kitchen. A sumptuous end to another happy SH3 Sunday

  On On,

  Tosser

Postscript: Tosser should have got a down down for pissing off a cyclist, by muttering, “Bloody cyclists!” rather more loudly than he thought!