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One Man's Lundy
A personal view by Lunchbox Willy.
Covering note to Wolfie, who was Edit Hare in 1996:
Martin, this is a very personal account of my trip to Lundy. It's not a report or a "write-up" as such but it's what I saw and what I felt. If you choose to use it in the magazine then that's for you to decide. Personally I'd rather you read it and then put it in the bin. Unfortunately you didn't come this year even though you wanted to. A lot of your fellow hashers don't know how poorly you travel these past few years. I understand. So read this and feel the trip through my eyes. Perhaps if you close your eyes you will be able imagine what it was like. If you decide to ignore my advice and "stick it in the mag" (as we say!) I won't mind. I'll understand. Maybe it will help you a bit to feel that others know how poorly you travel. It could be the start of your rehabilitation into the Lundy scene. A personal catharsis if you like.
You may feel that it just sounds crap. Anyway, here goes...
Lundy HHH Run 10: 3 August 1996:
I travelled down with Spider and Lyn. We aimed to get to the campsite by eight thirty. Unfortunately we arrived after dark and I flattened my battery whilst Spider was setting up his tent by the light of my headlamps. We were late because:
Thank God we got a lock-in!
A Lovely Smooth Ride
Saturday morning was absolutely beautiful. It was bright and sunny. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. Pleasantly warm with the promise of "seriously hot" hanging in the air.
To be honest it was a bit too bright for me. As I donned my sunglasses and popped five or six Anadins into my sandpit of a mouth I wondered, just for a moment, whether I could have managed without those last four pints of Bass.
We took the Greyhound Bus (sic) down to the quay for the princely sum of 50p per head. It was enjoyable passing fellow hashers on the long trek down, struggling with their picnic boxes. I waved out of the back window of the bus as we sped seaward. (I'll probably remember the face of Kimmins longest as he toiled along).
The boat trip was pleasant, if somewhat uneventful. I think I spent much of the trip discussing the thorny issue of drugs in sport with Cloughle and Newton. Carter chipped in with a few bits and pieces.
I made my customary round of the boat, looking to see who appeared the worst for wear. Nobody this year was in the state that Bogholder (Dave Robey) was last year but, for my money, Arber, P., took some beating as he slept bolt upright and unshaven in the dining area.
I managed to get off (so to speak) in the first shuttle.
Everything worked well. Paul's organizational skills seem to mature with each passing year. One slight hicough this year was the wanton way in which the traditional righthander was altered. We got to about check 3, having started in the usual way, i.e. going straight across past the lighthouse to the far coast, when it all started to go wrong. A few hashers walked south in the ritual token gesture, whilst the rest of the pack were straining for the third blob which would confirm that we were going north and that all would be well. After what seemed like an eternity Stretch called ON-ON and we all streamed north. Soon we would be cutting right and heading back along the rhododendrons. WRONG! In his eagerness to please the pack he'd called on a smear of dried-up seagull shit. How he avoided a down-down I'll never know.
Particularly as I grassed the bastard up!
Cock AND Tits
As I've indicated before Paul seems to organize the weekend better every year. Last year some moaners moaned that the Saturday evening was too fragmented. No problem to Mr Mountford because he listened and he jolly well sorted it out. He booked a hotel function room, hired a very old but good DJ and in doing so piped some excellent cream onto the cake of the Lundy weekend. I've heard that next year he's planning to lift the event into an even higher plane again!
There was a raffle, too. My tickets were back in Spider's tent along with Lyn and her headache so I never did find out for sure whether it was my prize that was redrawn.
There was a game too. Organised by Sheepshagger. The idea was that there were five couples who, in turn, had to have the man lick salt provocatively from the the woman then down-down a tequilla and then to suck the juice of a lemon wedge which was being held in the mouth of the woman. I think that this game has its origins in the Brecon area, but you would have to check that with Sheep' himself.
It was amusing to watch, with some very good acts being produced spontaneously. One woman had the salt licked from her naked left breast. At this Cloughle lamented the fact that it always seems to be older, larger, type of women that do this sort of thing when he's watching.
My lasting memory of the night was of the pulsating strobe that was flashing across Paul Hodges' genitalia whilst he demonstrated that he was, in fact, "too sexy for his pants".
We drank the place dry!
That Old Dripper - Sue Baic!
Saturday night was waning as I sat around a large candle that was lighting up a mottley gathering of hashers. It was 2 a.m. I had just remembered that there was a can of Bass in my car and I wandered off to fetch it. (Incidently, this reminded Cloughle that he too had a can of Banks' stashed in his car and duly sent somebody off to fecth it for him.) I returned with my one can. The last possible beer that I could drink tonight. I was really going to enjoy it and savour every mouthful.
It was at this moment that Sue Baic decided to adjust the angle of the candle. Several minutes later it became apparent that this movement had caused a run of wax to drip. Drip! Drip! Drip! The wax was dripping directly into the opening in the top of my beautiful, and as yet untested, can!
I went spare with her! Nothing to drink!
With that, Cloughie's "runner" appeared with his beer. He'd found two cans! Cloughie gave me one of them. At that moment I felt that I actually loved Martin Clough! I cracked open the can!
Next morning I found that can of Banks' Beer on top of my car.
A single sip had been taken.
Over the years one consistent feature of the weekend has been the poor quality of the Sunday morning hangover run. This has often been due to the Barnstable hares.
This year the run was excellent, thanks to the efforts of Le Canaveau. The trail was short, picturesque, and interesting. One feature of the run was a water crossing across the entrance to a salt marsh, which got many hashers suitably wet. In particular Sue Baic who was so determined to stay dry that she entrusted herself to be piggy-backed across by a male hasher who was running in a dress. Actually he did an excellent job of making his stumble look like an accidental slip. For the second time this weekend Sue and dripping went together.
Back at the pub events were being dominated by the Milton Keynes RA, who announced that he had found the father of a toy bear that had been left at Nash Hash, by reference to DNA tests that had been carried out at the lavatory (sic) on pubic hair samples from his "suspects"'.
This interested me because during the night I had actually sent off samples to my laboratory and had the results in my back pocket, courtesy of a dispatch rider. The sample in question had been taken from JJ's pint mug on the previous evening. It had been noted that JJ had switched from beer at about 10.3O p.m. and had started to sup an opaque amber liquid.
The results were conclusive. Two performance-enhancing drugs were detected: water and chemical flavorings consistent with cheap orange squash. As we thought, his new girlfriend had been in for a rough night. What a cynical schemer! He probably saved a few quid too!
Well that's about it, Wolfie. Do with what you will. I expect to see you back next year.
I'll bring an old blanket to put over your legs.