A LOW-FLYING AIRCRAFT, MAN-PIG NOBBLED & A NAMING IN ABSENTIA

 

Run #1950 Monday 2nd January from the Devon Arms with Smellie

 

Who wuz there: GM Shitfaced, Teapot, Piltown, Smellie, Pollyfella, Coldtits, Soapy, Melon Picker, Beefy, Pisswell, Piddler, Broads, Tamsin, Man-Pig, Well Hopped, Big End, Fallen Woman, Pork Torpedo, Hornie, Ernie, Bluebird.

 

PREAMBLE

Vainly did I search my emails for Man-Pig's words until it slowly dawned upon me that I had been volunteered by Teapot. Even the faithful template and who wuz there failed to materialize. I grudgingly concede that MP deserves a week off now and again.

 

But now, to the rapturous applause by the two 'words' junkies out there - and to the collective groans of the majority of long-suffering readers, follow the first words of 2023. You may need a cuppa to endure.

 

THE CIRCLE

The born-again Grand Master, convincing himself that he was now hopefully free of ailments, circled his suspicious little huddle into some semblance of order and launched into his first spiel of the year.

 

His opening gambit that the hash subs would now be an eye-watering £30 elicited gasps from the now even more suspicious little huddle. The bombshell was tempered slightly by the good news that 2023 would be laden with goodies to make up for the shock to various wallets.

 

The spiel was punctuated from time to time by passing vehicles making it difficult to follow the arguments. The enforced interruptions served the useful purpose of delaying the start of the trail as first Coldtits, and then the Dartmoor tourists of Beefy and Pisswell arrived on the scene.

 

It was decidedly chilly, and the huddle began to shuffle with impatience as thankfully, a heavily attired hare stepped forward with the trail menu.

 

'One and on, the long and short trails are together for quite some way, so FRB's please kick out any checks. The short is four miles and the long is about five and a half. The walkers' trail is two point two miles.' The hooded Eskimo-like hare pointed vaguely in the direction of the North Pole and the huddle was duly dispersed.

 

Before we embark on the flight of fancy [sic] it might be useful to imagine a little old pensioner, plucked from a park bench, and unkindly informed that he must complete a four-mile run after years of inactivity...

 

THE TRAIL

Two figures dressed in black led the pack onto the sandy foreshore of the Back Beach to encounter a veritable obstacle course designed to maim and incapacitate the unwary. Man-in-black-Pig jinked and narrowly missed falling into a hole, shouting a warning to the second figure in black - the little old pensioner outlined to you previously.

 

Man-Pig again nearly came to grief a few strides later as a log loomed out of the gloom, and a succession of heavy mooring chains kept the pack on their toes.

 

The obstacle course jollity concluded, the pack veered onto the tarmac whereupon the pensioner, now warming to the task, shouted: 'On to check!' 'What check?' uttered Man-Pig. 'The one twelve feet in front of you!' retorted the little old pensioner.

 

As Man-Pig dutifully kicked out the check, the little old pensioner - plucked randomly from a park bench, found himself at the head of affairs and decided now was the time to switch on his novelty finger lights to celebrate the unexpected event.

 

The finger lights - two on each hand - emitted a bright but limited-range glow, perhaps more befitting as indicators of presence - or, wingtip lights mayhap?

 

The triumph was short-lived, however, as Beefy ambled past, doggedly pursued by Man-Pig. Only a half-mile into the test, and the little old pensioner had shot his aged bolt, resigning himself to being overtaken by all longs and sundry shorts.

 

Pollyfella tipped his cap to the old pensioner and then two more longs closed in - Tamsin and Broads.

 

The unlikely trio joined up for a social chat on the climb to the Dawlish road.

 

Breasting the rise and the salvation of the easy cascade back into Teignmouth, the little old pensioner hesitated. Just at that moment of indecision, the errant Man in black Man-pig hurtled past and the die was cast.

 

A blood-red mist swirled and the little old pensioner, despite anxious warnings from Broads, headed into the dip, Holcombe bound.

 

The sea wall beckoned, siren-like to the unlikely trio whose destiny now seemed intertwined for the rest of the trail. The lights of Teignmouth sparkled in the far distance as Broads and the little old pensioner prepared grimly to dig in for death or glory.

 

An amused onlooker, Tamsin's role would be to summon assistance in the event of catastrophe befalling the little old pensioner. With a warning shout by Tamsin: 'Don't fall off the wall!' It was game on.

 

The little old pensioner amused himself by periodically extending both arms wide and pointing his novelty fingered lights backwards as he swept by unsuspecting walkers on the sea wall.

As he approached, he cried out: 'Watch out! Low-flying aircraft!' The walkers, now unfortunately aware of the apparition, refrained from replying, being fearful that it may be an escaped lunatic. They were half correct in their appraisal..

 

The lunatic paused for a moment to stabilize his laboured breathing. Tamsin sauntered alongside. 'You're doing awfully well (for a doddery old pensioner)..' At least there was one person who appreciated the task set to the little old pensioner plucked from a park bench.

Two hundred yards later and pausing yet again to forestall a possible stroke, Tamsin sauntered alongside once more. 'I bet you didn't realize how long the sea wall is, did you?' This wasn't very helpful as the lunatic was by now, quite aware of this fact.

 

At last the torture was nearly over as the tall figure of Piltdown appeared at the end of the sea wall.

 

'Smellie will direct you from now on.'

 

As Coldtits pointed out later in the Devon Arms, the tree and decorations in the square were very pretty indeed - apparently at a cost to the taxpayer of £46,000, but, with his face set in a glazed death grin, the little old pensioner, so cruelly plucked from a park bench, was intent on reaching his chariot to call for a paramedic.

 

Satisfied that he was safe, Tamsin and Broads continued onto the long split... sigh.

 

THE DOWNDOWNS

There was a delay as a few were missing. The Grand Master, as good as his word, got round the four mile short to get his year off to a solid start. Piddler also survived the short trail, sporting a plaster on his forehead after sustaining an injury whilst climbing into his camper van. As you can imagine, he was subjected to many a jest for the mishap. Big End and Well Hopped (injured, we wish her well) did not venture into the pub. Pisswell, despite not feeling a hundred per cent, came in just as the downdowns eventually got underway.

 

Recipient of the Baby bat hat from Warm Front, Man-Pig singled out the hare for the honour but Smellie was a little unhappy to have the drink from the urinal which cramped her style somewhat.

Never mind, amidst generous applause, she triumphed.

 

Smellie proceeded to give an award to a hasher she had been accompanying but who mysteriously disappeared en route. Sheepishly, Teapot came forward for his punishment, and it wasn't a bad effort at all, surprising a few of the cabaret onlookers.

 

A naming in absentia was next. Man-Pig had mentioned in the words that Tamsin really should be named but as she never goes to the pub, there was a slight problem. After hearing a few details, the hash was given the task. As is the norm, confusion was rife in the ranks. 'We'll think about it!' called one. 'No, you've had twenty hashes to think about it!' called another.

 

It was Fallen Woman who came to the aid of the party, providing a very clever hash handle indeed: Miss Inn' - far too clever for most. Please don't make me explain.

 

Tamsin's plaintive last words to me were: 'Please make sure it's not too bad!'

 

A classic hash handle methinks, well done FW.

 

There was one last award. The RA was forced to explain why he had mislaid the hashit shirt.

The answer lay in a Christmas outing with Bobby and the Bird at the Thatched Tavern. Bobby had brought the shirt along as he wasn't going the following Monday. Slightly befuddled on leaving the tavern, Man-Pig was sure he had put it in his chariot only to find it missing later on.

 

The explanation was still ongoing as the Bird advanced with DD drink in one hand and the shirt in the other. I fear reprisals for the dastardly deed.

 

POSTSCRIPT

A very good turnout for the Bank Holiday Monday, well done the attendees and especially those who travelled afar like Beefy and Pisswell. 

 

Grateful thanks to Smellie, assisted by Piltdown, for the trail. It's not much fun laying a trail in gloomy January, but it was well worthwhile, and we all enjoyed it. Good service in the Devon Arms and the Deck Hand went down a treat.

 

NEXT WEEK

We're at the Taphouse, Newton Abbot with Arkangel the hare. I hope to see you all there if fortune smiles on me.

 

ON ON to next week!