Back to the Future with North Hants.
9th-11th July 1999
The Lithuanian Country Club, Bordon, Hampshire
Back to Reports
Let me set the scene for you; Nestling amid verdant lawns, sun dappled woodlands and rippling lakes the Lithuanian Country Club, with its sprawling late Victorian red brick house, is the epitome of rural English elegance. It’s a pity then that this idyllic setting had to be spoiled by a crowd of noisy, coke snorting, boozy dissolutes, who gave no thought to the beauty of the their surroundings or the gentle folk with whom they were sharing it. Lithuanian youth - for this is what we later discovered them to be - is, unfortunately, no more respectful of its elders and betters than British youth and, judging by the sound volume issuing from their music boxes, as equalling hard of hearing. Meanwhile , amid this discord, beleaguered hashers gathered in quite groups to test the quality of the ale, as supplied by the self-effacing Big Bollox, and exchange views on the finer points of trail laying.
A slightly biased view? Possibly, but it's certainly true that most of the noise pollution on the woodland campsite came from young Liths and, during the Saturday evening party, the Whale was forced to throw out a bunch of Lith. gate crashers. Which just goes to prove the old Isle of Wight adage "Don't stand too long in the shiggy if you haven't got cloven hooves" No I don't know what it means either.
Moving right along. The Friday evening run has to be a contender for the Guinness Book of Records shortest run of all time, about three hundred yards give or take an inch or two (in hashing terms about four times around Big Bollox) but it was clearly enough for most of us. A heavy duty weekend such as this needs a gentle start. Can't speak for the die hard marathon runners, of course, they may well have felt cheated. Tough! For those of you who like statistics; the walk from the Isle of Wight tent enclave to the Lith. Club bar was slightly longer than the run, and it took about the same time to get served. The lone bartender was also in line for a coveted place in the Guinness B of Rs ; the first know case of rigor mortis in a person suspected of still being alive.
But there were diversions. A couple of hot air balloons occupied the lawns and our attention with their efforts to become airborne. A dozen or so hashers were called upon to supply the requisite amount of hot air and the vast constructions rose majestically into the sky, where they were wafted westward on the gentle evening breeze. Later someone pointed toward the east and said, "those balloons are coming back." The sceptics among us were confounded to see that this did in fact appear to be the case. Were we all to have a go? They passed over in disdainful silence just to prove that in hashing you never get what you expect.
Finally the real festivities broke out with a Back-to-the-Future mock-up DeLorian car and Back-to-the-future mock up characters, Commercial Whale being the most prevalent amongst them. All good fun, but most ears were straining to catch the sound of the first barrel being tapped rather than the Whale’s thespian efforts. Mercifully it wasn’t long in coming. The DJ spun the first record and the Isle of Wight took to the floor.
Several hours and a decent breakfast later, the 1000th run loomed. A single coach stood in the car park, it's driver disdainfully reading the Sun whilst the rest of us stood in it awaiting instructions. "It's simple," the Whale informed us, "the long run starts from here. Those of you wishing to do the medium/short run must board the coach. When the coach is full, those not aboard will have to do the long run." One of the most effective methods of filling a coach ever devised by man, I should think. Some thirty minutes later the coach deposited us medium/shorters on a nice sandy beach - which came as a bit of a surprise to us Isle of Wighters, we thought we had the monopoly - abounding a picturesque lake. Young families gambolled in the gentle, mud coloured, waters, whilst others, older and wiser, merely sun bathed.
Fruit'n'Nut took charge - as only he knows how - and we slogged off across the sands. A mile or so later we arrived, already leg weary, at a very welcome beer stop. Five minutes later, in an absolute triumph of synchronisation, we were joined by the long runners who - you may remember - had run all the way from the camp site. Reunited and refreshed we set about the rest of the run in fine style. The Stockbroker's Arms lay in wait for us at the completion of the run. No freebies here; a ploughman's and a couple of pints took care of a tenner, which came us something of a nasty shock to us IOWers with our £1.65 -£1.70 pints. Which may have explained why we were among the first to board the coach for the return trip. Sensible in view of the fact that there was free beer back at the site. Even so the Whale had the cheek to accuse us of being tight-arsed.
Tea and cakes, or beer and cakes for preference awaited us back at the site , as did hash games and such like. The older more sedate among us took a well earned nap in preparation for the evening meal - a morning after bum warming chilli or an almost inedible veggy lasagne were the choices - and the evening's festivities. An excellent reggae type band took centre stage and once again the IOW was first to hit the dance floor, shortly to be joined by everyone else, including Twonk and nearly-reformed Wimpy who have their very own inimitable style of dancing - a cross between jungle voodoo, Japanese wrestling and the lambada - quite something to watch - from a distance of course! The band ran out of music around twelve leaving the disco to fill the void for a further hour. Some off-the-wall impromptu entertainment then took up the slack, which included various oddball "turns" and not a little nudity - so I understand. Twonk was unpleasantly surprised when he finally decided to turn in, his tent had been whisked away by fairies. If Showman was one of the fairies the prank backfired on him, because he discovered himself with an unwelcome tent guest for the night - Twonk.
Sunday dawned bright and sunny to match the breakfast, easily the Lith. Club's best meal, and there we were, once again set up for a nice long hangover run.
Actually it was a pleasant middling distance effort, but made almost comically short by a trailing laying hiatus which had more than half the pack heading home after less than a mile of running. Hare Silver Fox and friends put us right and claimed that someone had kicked out a line-out (check-back). Now who would do a thing like that? Back at the Lith. Club, winding down time with the aid of the last of the beer and a plate of chicken and chips, which was, courtesy of NH4, additional to the programme. Very nice of them.
Circle time and once again I was appalled at the beer that went to waste, most of it going over the RA. Can you imagine our MaGoo being soaked in beer every Sunday? I think not. Other than that they seemed fairly innocuous, no ice blocks or other instruments of torture. Several RAs, including the very correct Fruit & Nut and the frenetic Showman, had already taken their particular hashers to task when Big Bollox took the stage. He related an adventure he had that very morning . Desperate to go (remember that chilli?) and discovering the gents to be oversubscribed he sneaked into the ladies only to have a person of that gender enter and occupy the next cubical before he’d even had time to drop his shorts. In glorious detail he describes the sounds coming from the other cubical as he holds and waits, too embarrassed (if you can imagine such a thing) to let it go with all the attendant sound and olfactory outpourings that he knew would assail the poor woman's senses. She received a down down for taking all day to have a simple wee. GBH (of the ear) now took the floor and recited a poem, the object of which was poor Roo. Naturally it was quite rude and Roo ended up with a down down for her pains.
Time to go home.
Missing persons included TC, Hyena, Hampshire Man, Buzby, Bellend, in fact quite a few of the usuals.
Standing out character included Big Bollox - of course, Twonk - as ever, GBH - never to be overlooked, Lemming - somewhat subdued on this occasion. Showman and his bum biting son. Fruit & Nut - always understated. And Commercial Whale - naturally - to whom we should offer, along with the rest of his Mismanagement, a hearty thanks for an Excellent Weekend,
