Bring your wheelchairs!

Right then, I'm forever amazed by hashers. Our lead runner was one of our own, a bloke we all know well. Cracking distance runner, I'll give him that. Trouble is, once he's off, the rest of the pack might as well not exist. Runners? Fine. Walkers? Apparently we're just decorative.

Anyway, enough of that. Let's wind it back.

As usual, I managed to blag a lift. Turned up fashionably late but still made the 5.15 kick off. Off we trotted, with the warning that it was a live hare. Right then, expect trail marks to be about as clear as a politician's promise.

Straight into the shiggy we went, then. Sod that, I thought. I know this area, and I reckoned the shiggy would spit us back onto the road, so I ignored the mud and hit the tarmac.

Now, fair play to the sneaky bugger. He'd obviously worked out that sensible people would avoid the jungle and stick to the road. So what does he do? Lays a bloody dead trail down it. I walked straight into the trap. Hats off, you devious bastard. That was actually rather clever.

Five kilometres in, and I was already thinking, "This lunatic's planned a nine- or ten-kilometre stroll for the walkers." Still, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. More fool me.

Eight kilometres in and even the bloody runners had stopped pretending they knew where they were. They were back checking every bit of paper they'd seen since Christmas. The front of the pack had vanished into another postcode, the walkers were inventing new swear words, and everyone looked thoroughly fed up.

With about two kilometres still to go, we all looked at each other and unanimously declared, "Bugger this." Out came Google Maps. Technology beat flour for once.

Final tally?

Walkers clocked in at 9.67 kilometres.

The lead runner somehow managed over 12 kilometres.

We didn't stagger back to base until about 7.20 in the evening, well after dark. What in the name of stale beer was that all about?

I'm convinced this hare has joined the secret MMC conspiracy. Get them back late; they'll drink less beer. Nice theory, except I filled my tank before the run. Yes, I have a beer before hashing. It's the only way to deal with these muppets without ending up in prison.

Circle eventually got underway. It drizzled pretty much the whole evening. Not enough to get properly wet, just enough to make everything slightly miserable. We had a stand-in RA who did a decent enough job, although by Christ it went on. The circle was a bit flat, but that's hardly surprising. Half the pack were starving, knackered, and contemplating whether to eat the trail shoes.

Was it a good hash? Yes.

Did I enjoy myself? Also yes.

Did I enjoy nearly ten kilometres of wandering around Sri Lanka in the dark? Absolutely bloody not. I'm not twenty-five anymore. My knees submitted their resignation somewhere around kilometre seven.

Still, that's hashing. You curse the hare, abuse the runners, threaten never to come again, then sit down with good mates and a cold beer and somehow decide it was another cracking evening. Funny how that works.

The beer went down beautifully. The company was even better. As for the food... I think I inhaled it before I actually tasted it.

On-On, you reprobates. May your flour run out halfway through laying trail, may every false check be yours, may your piles itch through every circle, and may your wife's cooking give you the trots halfway round the next hash!

Back your hashing crews, CH4 Mixed Wednesdays, CH3 Mixed Saturdays, PMS Hash ladies, and, of course, the Fullmoon Hash, Mixed, Monthly.