Hash 850 - Was this "The Worst Hash Ever"?

Disclaimer: This account was written in line with the first non-law of hashing - always invert and only say the opposite of what you mean. Read and interpret the following harrowing account of Hash 850 accordingly.

Was this “The Worst Hash Ever” we mused as we staggered exhausted back to the end of the trail? Apart from the hideous experience of the “Worst Shiggy Ever” encountered just two weeks previously It had all the hallmarks to go along with that epithet. We had hoped that LVH3 could cut us some slack after that brutal experience which left a number of hashers filthy and traumatised, but it was not to be.

Hash 850 was one of those life-expanding experiences. Type 2 fun indeed. It was both too hot and too cold, too flat and too hilly, too dry and too wet, too short but too long with myriad other issues for the heroic hashing hounds to navigate whilst moaning, complaining and carping as only true blue hashers can.

I could go on… so I will.

We all coalesced as the usual undisciplined rabble in a lay-by outside Wray village just before 11 am and stood roasting under the bright November sun.

Exactly 3 minutes too early, one of the hares made an abortive attempt to call the circle to order and was rightly ignored by the hounds. Then, exactly on time, the deputy GM (the real one being missing in action) barked out an order:

“Circle up, hares in”.

We sprang into action, quickly forming the circle. There were two newcomers to welcome. Virgin hasher ‘Just Ian’ from Cockerham and experienced hasher ‘Just Allan’ from Morecambe via the Sudan. How pleased we were to welcome these fine fools into the bosom of LVH3. The Rambos took ‘Just Ian’ under their wing and ‘Just Allan’ joined the Wimps on their route.

Then a lonely Cyberseptic hare stepped forwards, eyeing up the expectant hounds.

Was that pity we glimpsed in his eyes? Perhaps so, knowing as he did what traumas we would soon have to face.

And why was he alone? Where was Antiseptic, were they not haring together? Surely she had not become lost, or worse, carrying out her haring duties? We waited anxiously for answers and instructions in the blistering heat of the November morning…

“It’s the usual markings, all flour, checks are three blobs and you’re on, not one, not two but three. There are two beer stop (hooray!) and fishhooks. Antiseptic is live haring at the moment and if you catch her she is a fishhook. If you see blah blah blah”…. He went on. A comprehensive briefly to be sure, but after the word “usual markings” the attention of the average hasher had drifted as always and we failed to acquire any further useful information.

Except, of course, at the mention of the “two beer stops”. TWO BEER STOPS? Marvellous, what a superb hash this will be!

Only it wasn’t. There was only one. And the markings weren’t all flour, but quite a lot of chalk.

Thus misinformed of how things weren’t on the trail, off we set, joyfully trotting, leaping and frolicking around the Lancashire countryside. There were the usual howls of “On! On!” and rather more of “Are you?” as we progressed through the rugged trail. The hilly bits were too hilly-like, the shiggy bits too shiggy-like and the wet bit were too wet-like.

Early on, having faffed about in the woods frightening small foxes hiding amongst the trees we were well behind schedule and a strange, slightly sinister man in a blue car kept appearing, shouting unintelligible words and waving his arms about wildly.

Had we offended a remote upland local? Or were we just off trail and too slow and this was the hare was doing his best to correct us?

Meh! Who cares? On! On!

The Rambo split was long, and too (inserted anything you like here as long as it is unpleasant and undesirable). As a member of the Rambo group I cannot account for the experiences of the Wimps here but it took us until just short of the first (and only!!!) beer stop to catch them, grinding their way up another dreadful steep hill. Finally the beer stop came into view, and there was Antiseptic, still alive, thank goodness!

We refreshed ourselves with various malted rehydration beverages and energy bars (aka chocolate biscuits) and then quickly made off for the finish in an abortive attempt to drop ‘Just Ian’ who was finishing his beer. We later laughed inappropriately as first Big Dibber then Large Package took tumbles in the shiggy, hash-crashing to the boggy ground. To his credit Big Dibber turned a 1 metre skid into a 360 parachute roll on landing, which was impressive and entertaining in equal measure.

And so it ended. Muddied, exhausted, bruised and battered, our heroic hounds re-formed a circle to berate the hares for settling such a hideous hashing experience.

Which we somehow rather enjoyed. Rather, in fact, a lot!

But was it “The Worst Hash Ever”?

Of course it was. 

Until the next one, that is…