On another fine Sunday morning we assembled at Modivas Sul metro for the traditional wait for Mrs Slocombe. With five virgins (although, I'd question whether any of them actually looked like a virgin) present at least it gave some time for explanations. Plenty of time. Anyway, with such holiday weather few minded standing around for a bit and eventually we were off, into the nearby woods and tracks.
Obviously, I don't have to justify my love of hashing, but when a whole bunch of newbies turn up I want them to fall for it too, so in many ways this was an ideal one with which to make one's bow. Set in the flat, pleasant, semi-rural environs of Modivas it was easy to get going so everyone was quickly into the groove, and virgins were soon to be seen checking, leading and calling from afar. Jade, as a PE teacher, one would expect to be somewhere near the front, and, although I am sure we will see her go faster she showed the sort of material Girl Power was made of - I feel a name coming, Sporty Spice. Fellow virgin, Alan, not a PE teacher, with an admirable sense of symmetry, ably ensured that there was usually a virgin at the back as well.
As mentioned in my blog about the Jingle Bells, we must present quite a sight at times and that was apparant on this one, too. I loved the bemusement in the centre of Modivas as one beautiful stranger after another, plus Droopy, sauntered past sweating and swearing. Nobody says a thing; they either stare intensely or look away as though offended by your unathletic appearance; clearly you are borderline crazy for you have got up on a Sunday morning, driven to the back of beyond, got out of your car and chosen to run through the muddiest, smelliest places available locally.
Well, anyway, it was a very smooth hash, without hiccoughs, which is more than can be said for the roadside shrine we passed near the outlet mall - smashed to bits, it was, madonna and child one side, candles the other, an unholy mess, (it looked like a prayer meeting had turned ugly) that for the supersticious could have boded ill (I could tell Master Baker was quaking, unless that was the result of his Saturday night curry). No, our lucky star was out and everyone made it back unscathed so that we could christen Nancy 'Bow Job' and Asha 'Deep Throat', paying homage to their personal talents, one of which was ably demonstrated to us all before their down-down. Shrotly afterwards, Inspect My Gadget caused gasps of horror and consternation as he threw beer over little Harry Trotter; his apologies to the dog appeared to involve sucking the Super Bock back off his muzzle.
After a long wait, surprisingly not for Mrs Slocombe this time, but for the restaurant which had a liberal approach to the concept of booking, we managed to sit down for a marvellous bash, by which time I think it's fair to say we were well-watered. Hopefully each of the virgins was able to live to tell the tale and will be back again.
Roll on the momentous 400th weekend. Order your t-shirt now!
On, on.
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