Guifoes Gambol

Gender Bender stepped in at the last moment as a co-hare with Spanker and they took us on the short journey north to Guifoes for this one. We were joined by Hooker, on a weekend visit and looking as sprightly as ever, despite the exertions of the night before at Horny's fortieth birthday bash. The event did take its toll, however, with Horny herself absent and Big Stick and Pretty Vacant appearing somewhat fragile. The urgency of the fragility became apparent when they disappeared up a street as we got out of the cars to start. When BS returned he discretely told everyone that PV required the use of a random stranger's smallest room, so they had knocked on some door and asked to use the toilet.

Eventually, we were all ready, and set off past the eforementioned house, just to cement the bewilderment, no doubt. It was straight into the Sunday morning bustle of the village centre, wary eyes tracking us, cars and buses threatening to squash us over the cobbles before we headed away from the numbers, finding quieter streets, fields and woods. At one point we headed down a hill through some woodland and into a thicket that became increasingly overgrown with hacking brambles, leaving those of us who ventured deepest to emerge with bleeding shins reminiscent of ex-GM, Chalky. When it turned out to be an on-back, Inaction Man, like a tracker, foraging forward, returned to inform the next contingent that our wounds had been sustained in vain. As GM, however, I had to ask where the red string was and, on hearing that it was still in place, I had to instruct IM to go back into the worst of the brambly inferno, never mind the cost to his socks. He knew his duty. Without a word, he went back in.

Crossing the paths of at least three other hashes at various points, we wound a clever course round the area. Near home, Bunbasher headed back on his own route, in customary fashion - it was a case of 'we'll never get him back if he checks that way, so just let him go' - but on the right track Hard Drive was away, flying, a hundred yards ahead of the chasing pack. "Go on, Hard Drive," came Spanker's cry. "You can do it!" The trouble was, he still did not know where he was, even with the cards ahead of him. It was, perhaps, the worst sprint finish in hash history, but at least he could console himself with the sight of Bunbasher making uncomfortable progress over the churned field he had made his own, vastly more difficult, way back. Except he probably didn't see thet, either.

At down-downs it was revealed that this was Bunbasher's 250th, unknowingly marked by his 250th hash t-shirt, or what wasleft of it. Then, following a few beers, it was round to a nearby restaurant for another excellent value bash.