Decisions, decisions! No - I'm not talking about the AGPU; what to wear, that's the question. Waders? Wellingtons? Boots? Running shoes? Nah - this is a Minor Tw*t trail; bedroom slippers would be quite adequate, given the man's aversion to shiggy (equalled only by my own, I should point out). That said, our outgoing GM did manage to choose a route with a very rural feel to it, while staying broadly within the city limits - just take a look at the pictures. A very nice trail.

Our illustrious Hare only blotted his copy book twice. We were promised a pub beer stop, and we got one  - eventually. Those of us with local knowledge were convinced it was going to be White Cross; we were close, but not close enough.. Not to worry, it must be the Water Witch, surely; nope, wrong again, although this time we were tantalisingly close - so close, in fact, we could even smell the beer. Bypassing a fully functional pub during opening hours is totally inexcusable, and totally flies in the face of hash tradition; what makes it worse is that I was spotted by two friends while committing this heinous deed, which makes it doubly shameful.

Heavily influenced by the ongoing Brexit shambles, GM decided on an EU-style AGPU, with a summit to pave the way for another summit. AGPU#1 took place in the Gregson, where two dozen of us squeezed onto a table designed for four. Intimate doesn't even begin to describe it. 

AGPU#2 was held at the Wagon & Horses, after our post-ambulatory troughing session, in accordance with Hash custom. Fiddler On The Hoof was appointed Imperial Grand Wizard (bet he didn't see that one coming!), presumably on the grounds that with his musical background, he's the person most likely to insist on music lessons for Baldbrick. Second Fiddle too looked somewhat taken aback - she's probably wondering how she's going to slot into her new Melania Trump/ Eva Peron/ Imelda Marcos role. 

And so all the campaigning, bribery and jockeying for position comes to an end for another year. The King is dead. Long live the King!