Here we have a New Year and it’s accompanying resolutions - less booze, less debauchery, never to miss a Hash again! Well, this one I certainly would not have missed, since it is the coldest bloody day of the year, and Cueball is the culprit, always being good for a long one. So we collect clattering teeth at the Captain’s home, to be given the get-going. A virgin not called ChippenDale joins the crowd with three Hogtown sirens: Mrs. R, Deadend and Ros-Eh! Plus the usual suspects, Dyscount being the honourary GM, not clear why since TwoJugs collects the cash.

Explanation by the Hare, and to add insult to injury, Himself is not running the course, but parks at strategic spots, leaving Hardcore to do the hard work, and her with only a vague idea. So off we go, Confucius reigns, down a gully, up a hill, through the golf course, past the school, every two-way and check accompanied by much head scratching and relatively little checking it out. Just standing there like a bunch of duds, waiting for someone else to make a decision. A heated van mirage seemed to presage an early beer check, but no, Cueball was just checking that his buddy did not get lost and call in the loan. Finally back on Trafalgar it was whispered that a beer check would be near the police station, but she forgot to mention the deep downhill and the long stairs up, and more slogging through snowy street until we saw the sign: BCN, BCVN, BCVVN! You figure it out, but we did get to the Leather and Lucky Lager - for my money I would have preferred brandy over extremely cheap cold beer. Here I was accused of fingering a beaver not my own. And horror of horrors, after getting all cosy and discussing branding marks with which Bumsteer should have been familiar, we had to go heave our heavy beeHinds to go down the long and winding road on on home, which would not have been so brutal were it not for finding out what windchill factor really means. Wheezing, moaning and groaning we finally reached home, but had to hold off getting warm until the ceremonial down downs were administered by the honourary Dyscount: to Cueball first of all for setting a run that was too short and not cold enough. Birdie was accused of shortcutting, Toad and Canoodle showed up after, giving rise to bashing without hashing and the Bimbo song, Cueball again for blatantly driving by in a heated van, and Mrs. Robinson for forgetting the seasons and flagrantly falling into a sand trap on the golf course. ET was accused of not recognizing a beaver when she saw one, but it was not my own and besides not my preference. The finally found Virgin Dale was forced to drink from the plunger under much protestation, and was herein joined by Hardcore who claimed she was not a virgin, having dropped two kittens, however, it was noted that like a virgin she did not swallow, and at the end we called on Deadend for not peeing on trail.

Well, that being over we finally get to the good part: the enjoyment of Cueball’s historic Captain’s home, and the overabundance of food and drink, making a mockery of above new year’s resolutions. Cosy conversations in front of the fire place, civilized and intellectual conversations, pondering about the significance of life and various movies, is this not why we joined the hash in the first place? Would it were always so, and why bother with the agony of the long distance hash to reach this lofty venue?? Another one of life’s philosophical conundrums!

A Robbie Burns Hash

January 26, 2003 

Och Aye it is Run No. 709 and we suitably celebrate the Scottish Bard by the wearing of the tartan. Not all of us, because some are stupid and forgot, but at least 3 kilts were noted, plus various other apparel denoting an affiliation with the folks of the glen. Well, fondness at least for the liquid of life that was offered pre-trail and once again we had to listen to ramblings of the Scottish Bard himself, this being presented by TwoJugs in a Northampton brogue as a suitable song for the Oakville hash:

"Brave Johnie lad"

When first my brave Johnie lad came to this town,

He had a blue bonnet that wanted a crown;

But now he has gotten a hat and a feather,

Hey, brave Johnie lad, cock up your beaver!

Cock up your beaver and cock it fu’ sprush,

We’ll over the border, and gie them a brush;

There’s somebody there we’ll teach better behaviour,

Hey, brave Johnie lad, cock up your beaver!

Enough of that crap and off we go on the trail set by Toad and Canoodler, but neither of them seem to participate in this rather frigid event. Some bodily effort and chilly rays of wintery sunshine soon warm us up while we are clop-clopping through the snow, surrounded by the magnificence of a Canadian winter’s day: the crunching of the frosty snow under our frozen feet, the babbling of the brook trying to escape from it’s icy cover, the rustling of the weeds left bare in barren winter, the frenzied roar of the traffic on the nearby highway, the drone of a plane taking off for a sun-dappled vacation location without diarrhea.

Set by a person who doesn’t really run and one who has trouble with his feet, this turns out to be a hell of a long hash, or seemed it so because of the minus twenty temps? Avoiding cross country skiers and other dogs we finally make it to the end, only to find that the beer has froze and TwoJugs with the key to the wine is still underway. So we start off with the introductions, and have to repeat this exercise three times, with much yelling by Scousebitch because we don’t even know our blinking name, and finally TwoJugs shows so all is well since he also has a corkscrew. So on to the downdowns, but Cliff (drop over and see me some time, cutie) the Virgin suffers from Coitus interruptus because we have to give it to the hares first. Then we sing Auld Lang Syne for the virgin, TwoJugs gets a downdown for getting lost, TwoJugs and Weaklink get busted for hashing all by themselves, and then anyone not wearing tartan was singled out, and there were a few see above. Clod (we missed you!) was cited for backsliding, HandJob was lambasted for claiming that she went "A Park Too Far", well who knows how far this gal goes, but she caught up quickly.

So off to the on-on suitably located at Coopers Bar and the rumour that this was a Scottish establishment seemed to ring true because the cheep beer deals only occurred after the start of the Superbowl, long after our thirst was gone and other dispensatory restrictions imposed by the management also seemed to reflect the stingy and cantankerous nature of a true Scotchman. Well nothing gets in the way of the hungry hasher, and large amounts of wings were gobbled, fries fell victim to the same fate, all this doused with tankards of beer and other liquids. So who the hell wants to hear the traitorous Celine belt out our neighbour’s national nothings, or see Shania sashaying in front of drooling yanks, so off home we go, where at least we can turn off the big screen TV - if only Phart would let me!

 On-on!!! 

Reported by ET