The Anti-Newsletter: Why Am I Doing This?

  Why does anyone write a newsletter? Seriously, I’m asking. Is this some form of administrative punishment? A hazing ritual? I’ve noticed our club splits neatly into two factions: the deeply disturbing individuals who are actually keen to write these, and the rest of us who would gladly fake our own deaths to get out of it.

  Are we building an archive for future generations? (“Look, child, here is the historical record of when your grandfather drank lukewarm ale out of a running shoe.”) Or is it just a tool to cross-reference our booze-addled recollections and see if anyone else’s version of reality aligns with ours?

  [The lengths people will go to get the kiss of life!] 

  And more importantly—who reads this anyway?

  Statistically, nobody. [Ed: Judging by the comments I receive many are on the edges of their seats waiting for your words of wisdom/sarcasm.] Except maybe the miscreants who didn’t show up. If you skipped it, you’re supposed to read this and feel an overwhelming sense of FOMO. To ensure that happens, I am fully prepared to embellish, exaggerate, and outright lie. As the old Hash adage goes: never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

The “Highlights” (If We Can Call Them That)

  We kicked off with a designated minute of silence for Remembrance Sunday. Naturally, Spud didn’t get the memo—or can’t read—and chose to howl directly through it. Yet again. Consistency is key, I suppose.

  Against all odds, the run itself was actually excellent. The trail markings were intricate, bordering on a cryptographic puzzle. You’d think after 50 years of doing this, some of our senior members might have cracked the code, but apparently not. Is it not about time Surrey Hash evolved past binary code? We were beset by checks featuring random confirmation numbers, bars, and fishhooks that looked like a toddler’s maths homework. It’s a miracle we made it back, though that’s largely because the Hares, Yellow Peril & Hanging About stayed with us to constantly remind us how our own club works. The entire trail was a guessing game of epic failure. In fact, the first time I actually recognized where we were was when my face physically collided with the doors of the pub.

The Circle of Punishment

  Speaking of punishments, let’s talk about the Circle. It’s the only place in the Hashing world where public humiliation is sanctioned, yet somehow the same targets always appear. Wally knew his number was up. Given the not-so-favourable climate, he tried to seek asylum inside the pub, self-flagellating with a vastly superior quality of beer. He was dragged out anyway.

  Because this was a joint Hash—or rather, we crashed their event, contributed absolutely nothing of value except a crate of beer, and refused to leave—we graciously inflicted our RA upon them for a second round of collective punishment. And, of course, to penalize Wally again. I can’t actually remember what Wally did wrong this time, but honestly, the menu of his daily failures is so vast that the specific reason doesn’t even matter. Down it down.

  But who needs Wally when we have actual enemies within our own ranks? Earlier on, I spotted Bonn Bugle in a state of sheer distress—broken by the weather, defeated by the trail. Taking pity on her, I told her not to despair. I suggested she invoke the name of Jesus in her hour of need, pointing out that our lord and saviour was literally standing right behind Spud. She entirely missed the spiritual comfort of my message and instead rewarded my kindness by getting me baptized again in the Circle, Hash-style.

  I’ve fulfilled my newsletter quota. Please don’t ask me to do this again.

  On-On.
  Stevie Blunder, PVI (Hons)