So here we are once again in the lovely insula of Pen, to celebrate both the birthday of Saint Valentinus and the anniversary of ET and Phart's nuptials, inaugurated one year earlier with the Prenuptial Hash, and a good turnout it was on both occasions. Most if not all hashers came adorned with red lingerie, the colour of Love, Amour, Liebe and Stoplights, and isn't it amazing that all these good-looking hasher girls seem to have drawers and drawers full of silky, fluffy, gauzy and floozy red things, a waste I'd say looking at the general male hash turnout, except for Phart, but I'm prejudiced especially on this day of remembrance, and poor Phart never had the full benefit of my drawers since the warranty has run out and the fun is over, as all married people know. Today's event brought us more than a double dozen hashers, including some hungover newlings, local runners and little girls, all anxious to find out who the hell lives in that house on top of the highway-overlooking hill. Well, it turns out to be an empty shell, as so many things in life, except hashers, because at least we have booze in the bod, even if we don't have brains inside that shell; certainly not sufficient brains to qualify for Mensa (IQ higher than 98% of the rest of the plebs) proven out by the fact that No-One in this bunch could figure out the cryptic challenge thrown out by yours truly in previous trash. So it's the round circle name dropping for all, after admiration of some particularly fetching red apparel on girls and GlowWorm's underpants that had little red balls hanging off it (not his). And a good thing he dragged his balls over to Niagara, if only to bring the hash beer, without which he would have been sorely missed. And here's one minute of silence for the founder of the Hash House Harriers, AG@ Gispert, who was killed defending Singapore 60 years ago to the day, and what the hell was AG@ doing in Singapore anyway, you Imperialist British Bastard, except to leave a big spot, and the eternal institution of Hashing around the world, for which we are forever grateful, both having given us much pleasure. So off we go, and it's sunny but cold, the ice having melted everywhere except on the path, causing several hashers to stumble and fall at least a few times till we get better footing in the newly seeded grass of the golf course. So there's a few landmarks here, including the above-named house, formerly owned by the Thomson clan of newspaper fame, a pretty part of the Bruce Trail, the brand-new golf course, which even locals had not yet seen, the old Welland canal locks and a magnificent view of the Skyway bridge, but no one paid any heed, since the only thing these hashers are interested in is running, especially those FRB's who showed off their prowess by going miles in the wrong direction and finding the beer stop which happily included vodka-laced chocolat, apparently an aphrodisiac, and beer of the ABlack Ice@ Label, appropriate since we had seen much of it on today's adventure. As for that beerstop, Phart told me a so-called short-cut trotting down a railway track with the little and the limp, instructing me to shlep the 2-4 half a mile down the road, but to hell with that, we jumped the gravelpit fence and drove the chariot thus having the opportunity to forego the last mile, just as well since my back was bad and Short had the flu but forced by Skewbic to drag his bod around. Child abuse I'd say, and that's why I told the neighbour kids to get to work and grab us a couple of bags of pinecones while waiting for the rest of the pack, who finally toddled on-home, including the late WeakLink, who tried to do a two-hour trail in ten minutes but had a good time anyway. So there were lotsa down-downs and chanting with TwoJugs standing on a picnic table, to the great amazement of little children, including drags from the chalice for the obvious hare, for Sue who suffered from last night's sins and slunk off pronto, for Tony who showed gallantry in stream crossing, definitely a no-no but he could be forgiven since he was new to the hash and I certainly didn't mind being grabbed by him, for Dave who has a previous hash career having been in foreign places and on it goes, but we got cold so enough of that, and on-on to the Phart home, location of the honeypot museum, where hot chili awaited, lovingly prepared by the old fart and lots of bread, heart-shaped Joes and sinful cheesecake, and junk food for which the pack was crying out, but no one wanted the diet tonic and I've never seen so many bodies lying on my rec room floor, trying to warm their buts by the fire place stoked by cheaply begotten pinecones, and although the scene missed the intimacy and the bear rug and the red lingerie, it was good fun until they all went home and we were left with the dregs and the cleaning up, the latter no doubt being alleviated by the former.

On-On !!

TranScribed by E.T. - February 21, 2001