Stick 'em up!

Look out, circle!

Date: Saturday, January 21st, 2012.

Hares: Tarzan and Gin.

Location: State Lodge hinterlands.

Hash Number 1651.

Drink up, ladies.

What a fantastic hash and a new location to boot! Passing the Leopard’s Hill roadblock, the start of this hash felt like any other. With Tord Steiro in tow (a visiting Scandy who Knee Trembler was very excited about – not many hotties down Monzi way, apparently), we passed by the usual turn-offs to the forest reserve on the left and headed on in convoy.

There was some confusion with hashers stopping and starting their vehicles, gesticulating madly out the windows and generally causing  nuisance on the roads, until the white arrows appeared and we pulled over on to a most agreeable green lawn and fish pond. There was not a rain cloud in the sky.

Child labour.

Again, a great turn out with 12 newcomers – Americans, Germans and the usual gaggle of Scandewegians (seriously – is there anyone left up there?) – taking the numbers to well over 60!

Subs were duly paid and the circle formed up.  Tarzan led the runners while Gin herded the walkers on their way. Hash Trash was relieved that the pace was a little slower than previous weeks. And the pack seemed to agree.

Doggy down-down.

We trundled along a stream and through a stinky building site, much to the mirth of the builder, and weaved our way up into the hills. As several hang overs were sweated off, the hills got steeper and the going a little tougher. The pack stretched out as Orca – clad in a little red number­ - trumpeted across the valley.

And then another hill. Now Hash trash don’t like no hills. They hurt legs and make you see in pins and needles (yes, it is possible, I assure you). We’ve had some real crackers over the past couple of weeks; big ones, small ones, steep ones, but, as we trundled on, along came the other type – the never-ending ones. You know, those ones where you keep going up for about 3kms. They really hurt.

Cheers, Titillator.

Up we went, for ages, until we came to a hash-hold. We sat there gasping in the sun as the pack caught up with itself. The pace was leisurely after that as our thoughts (well, mine anyway) turned to a cold one from Titillator – snigger, snigger.

Hash Sh*t!

Up through the power lines we went until the pack was given a choice: Another 83km or a shortcut back to the Mosi in 5 minutes. Squits lead the way back to the beers and the diehard runners (seriously, what’s that all about?!) split off for more of those nasty never-ending hills.

Back at the circle, the walkers had returned and were dipping their feet in the pond.  Out came the T-shirts and mugs as Look If You Like peddled her wares like a pro and the rest of the pack soon joined the short-cutters!

Circle was called and we all fell in for the usual.  Lothario led the proceedings as our illustrious leader stepped in to be RA - Hamster had gone missing (no obvious Richard Gere jokes, please).

In the name of the Mosi.

Called up first was Chipolopolo-clad Titillator and treacherous Senegal supporter Goodison Two Shoes.   The pair sank a down-down to the football and it was agreed by all that Senegal are a load of rubbish and that it was nailed on that Zambia are going all the way.

Awwwwww!

There were more crimes to fashion as a neon-wearer was penalised for looking like a glow stick and two dogs were penalised for being, well, dogs.  Room service was lambasted for something or other, possibly being nouveau riche, and a triple was ordered up for  the feet fetishists (is that even a word?).

Shelley was called forth and duly baptised as Well Thumbed  (she’s a librarian at LICS… geddit?) while Gyros was aptly named Dreadful thanks to his flowing locks.

Stick 'em up!

Bin Dealin’ celebrated a whopping 250 runs, which left just the dreaded hash sh*t nominations! Now every hasher should know not to bring a water pistol to the hash. Every hasher should also know it isn’t a good idea to squirt Lothario with one, either - especially when he’s acting HM.

Oh dear, Knee Trembler. Out came the plastic Mosi-filled toilet and off came her T-shirt, which was duly replaced with the new PC non-muddy T-shirt. Now there’s a lesson learned! On-On.