It was Christmas Eve and the H*sh gathered, keenly as ever, at the appointed venue, Black Bull, Brookhouse, in anticipation of a nice easy pre-Christmas r*n, given the treacherous icy conditions, forgetting that Major Twit and Morticia were hares. Straight on through the village we dashed and instead of the nice easy run we went up the hill and up an up. fish hook and up and up and up and fish hook and up an up and up and up and up and fish hook, up and up. The only thing sustaining us was the unseasonably sunny weather and the great views (Bubbles missed Heysham power station, he will be devastated. or maybe he was there, he certainly was not on the Hash!).  Dodging the whirling guillotines on the hilltop, we amazingly happened upon the Adams family Starbucks franchise (full fat versions of everything only, thank goodness!).

Down, down, down, down, down down, down down, down down, down fishhook down, down down, down down, down down, down the road back to Brookhouse. Evidently the pub was far too warm for a circle and the excuse was offered that the pub car park was full. So we stood in the driveway of the Adams’ mansion freezing while the Starbucks franchise swung back into action. After a few hours our hallowed GM OffHisTrolley strolled in and the circle could commence. Down Downs included Full Member and Lurch: desperate to soil the trail and did so (first fishhook).  Twisted No brain petrol diesel. Twisted, the car expert.  MasterBaker (aka Wellie man) for purporting not to be able to R*n but how come we saw him all the time?  Two visitors: Fiona (think she works at Warton), friend of Swollen Boner from Roma.  Hares Major Twit and Morticia.  Baldbrick, crap shortcutting, got lost in the village.