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Run No 902
Written by "Our Kid"
After staying up half the night to watch the men's triathlon from the Olympic Games at Sydney, it was a bleary-eyed Our Kid that met Soprano at 10:15am on this Sunday morning. Off we toddled to the Jolly Sailor at Saltford under really good conditions, perfect for running. Everything on the run was straight-forward (they say if you have half a mind to go hashing, that's all it takes, and fortunately, I just about had enough); it was only after the run had finished and we all headed for the bar that things started picking up.
First up, outside on the river by the lock, there was a load of French acting the goat. We weren't sure if they were mounting a blockade this side of the channel, or had had too much of the liquid variety from the bar. Another possibility is that they were protesting about the price of a pint of dilute orange juice and soda (£2.40p). I don't know about that Gordon Brown bringing down the tax on petrol, but I do think it's worth having a look at the tax on oranges, especially in the Saltford area.
Then, as we were sitting outside in the sunshine enjoying the barbecue and the crack, Duracell arrived upon the scene. When asked why he hadn't run, he gave us the sad news that he has arthritic knees. This, the hash felt, needed specialist advice and very soon the knowledgeable Dr Puki Jangut was on the case. Contrary to anything he'd been told previously, Dr Puki was able to tell him categorically that he (Duracell) did not have arthritic knees.
Having talked with Duracell for some time, listening and being sympathetic to what he had to say, me and Soprano made our exit back to Northend for something to eat and a few drinks. Whilst sitting there, relaxed and getting a few drinks in, there was a knock on the door. On opening the door, there, to our surprise, was Duracell. My first thought was that he wanted a further opinion from Dr Puki; but no, he, his girlfriend and another couple had been walking in Batheaston and had dropped in for a drink and a chat. With the conversation hovering around Duracell's knees, Dr Puki, preaching the virtues of running, and Soprano searching out the medical journal, I was thinking it's about time I made a move. On travelling back home, I was sure Duracell would emerge from 55 Northend with his batteries well and truly charged up and raring to go.
The Lock-Keeper, Keynsham, Bristol.
Written by Maxine
This has to be a first.
The first time, that is, that I have been asked to do a write up and managed actually to put pen to paper.
Cloughie asked me once.
I told him to ***ger off.
On one other occasion I managed to bribe Wolfie. It worked, and I managed to maintain my record of never doing a write up. But not any more. There I was minding my own business, waiting for the run to get underway, when a request was made by our great leader for all gathered hashers to thank me.
I can tell you, doing a write up was not the first thing that came to mind.
(For those of you in the know, I spent the previous afternoon on a mission at Dave Battye's house. Well someone has to create order out of chaos in preparation for a mate's birthday party).
How wrong could I be?
I was so surprised about being asked to do a write up, that I could not think of a suitable reply. Well, not one that was printable anyway.
What can I say about the run?
The Lock-Keeper, Keynsham, Bristol
Written by Maxine
I drove to the run. [What Max means is that after some inner contemplation she emerged to a day dripping with drizzle and expectation. The morning mist rose to meet the glowering clouds and, together, they conspired against the mere mortals who scurried below. The Autumn leaves, like the litter from nature's Summer picnic, blew around the ankles of street lights still confused by the extra sixty minutes bequeathed to them by the recent removal of daylight saving time. As she drove, Keynsham-bound, the air seemed electric with the knowledge that, out in the Atlantic fearful sailors scurried towards the security of harbour and the arms of their loved-ones, as the mother of all anticyclones, itself the daughter of the bastard-son of countless Caribbean hurricanes, pregnant with a deluge of truly biblical proportions, was girding her easy loins for one last furious attempt to flush this proud but stupid nation of ours down the plug-hole of history. - Ed.]
I got lumbered with the write-up and we set off. [Here Max, in a brilliant piece of ironic juxta-positioning, points out the eternal human dilemma between the potential limitlessness of our creative, spiritual, imagination (the write-up) and the confines of the physical "prisons" which are our bodies (the run). The metaphors are reinforced by the disparaging use of the word "lumbered" with its attendant timber-related ("short planks"?) subtext - Ed.]
There was quite a lot of road and housing estates. We spent ages at one point because of a T-bar. Need drew a picture of it:
Run ended at 12.15, and, as the rain was starting, down-downs were held inside the pub. Ray got a down-down for being a miserable git and Sue Baic got one for snoggin'. [Both fully justified, I might add; there's far too much of it about, you know! - Ed.]