I don’t know about you, but I find that my hangovers are far less severe as I age. Against this, getting up to run a third hash in three days after partying the night before is getting much harder. Which reminds me of something else that is harder to get harder with age, as recounted by Gorgeous Edna the night before.
Fortunately, the local hashers knew that nothing could be as daunting as the excellent trail from the day before, nor an Irish Donald Trump as RA.
Question – We all know that The Donald has Scottish roots and a taste for eastern European women, but is he the first President not to pretend he is Irish too? Even O’Bama tried that one.
The RA faced accusations before the run that his weather management abilities had let him down as it was raining hard and a meagre 7 degrees as we gathered for the start. This, however, was not the case. Your RA is an inclusive type of person and, having given the hash the chance for light sunburn at the main event, he realised that Pilchard’s new €60 waterproof outfit from Decathlon needed to be tested. Even more, it allowed Cumalot to run the trail disguised as Mary Poppins with his umbrella. All he missed was the daisy under his skirt and he would have been blown into the sky by the wind, to await Dick Van Dijk’s rescue.
That reminds me. How many sleepless nights have you spent wondering where the term “whoops a daisy” comes from? The answer, as suggested above, is that a daisy was the rigid frame underneath Victorian style skirts (and modelled in Mary Poppins) that gave them their shape. Unfortunately, women were prone to fall over wearing them, thereby exposing the daisy, hence the term.
But I digress just a little. The pack was reasonably healthy for a hangover run, though it did miss a few hungover members. Iron Lady was the walking hare and No Satisfaction the running hare. Formalities over, it was off on a trail laid by tennis ball flour from a car.
Hash Cash from London was bragging that he had finished the main run 30 minutes before anyone else and the Friday warm up some 15 minutes ahead, despite only training for a beer marathon. Such racism does not go down well in these parts and we were delighted that the rain had made the markings more difficult to see, thereby keeping him with us. Nevertheless, Hash Cash managed to find a check from the Friday night trail near the start point. It would have been interesting to let him run both that and the Sunday trail in one and see whether he could still beat the rest of us.
Meanwhile in the real world, we hashed past a gleaming Mercedes that was badly parked with one wheel on the pavement and the rest not. Moreover, the engine was off but the driver’s window open and a phone in full view on the console. This led to Dr Purple Helmet and Keen Knickers, the Northern Irish contingent, to advise us that this was a typical ambush ploy in the troubles.
Unfortunately, Pilchard could not escape his upbringing on the mean streets in Stretford, Manchester and he was last seen driving the car away at 160km an hour down a wrong way street.
Having threatened to take us down flooded tunnels to the beach, the run started to wend westwards towards Cannes, where Padre found himself to be in his element.
Padre has form in relieving himself on trail, having availed himself of a bath in the middle of the forest in the Var on a hot and dusty day a year or two ago. I spent an afternoon trying to find the incriminating evidence but failed, so you will just have to take my word for it…..
Poo break over, the trail went under the railway line and onto the coast, allowing the visiting hashers to gawp at the pride and joy of people with too much money sitting in the Golfe Juan harbour. Question – “What are the two best days for sailing?” Answer – “The day you buy your boat and the day you sell it”.
The hares had advised before the start that the balmy weather would allow for a swim stop. Pilchard clearly was not going to be parted from his swanky Decathlon wet weather gear, nor Cumalot from his umbrella. But unbelievably, someone did take the challenge. Unfortunately, I do not have photos of the happy occasion as I was trying to keep up with Racist Hash Cash, but I can add a photo of Levrette (for it was she) from the day before.
From hereon it, it was but a walk on the beach and a swim down the water ravaged streets of Juan les Pins back to the start point, where the walkers were waiting (im)patiently for the circle and, more importantly, the remainder of the picnic from the previous day.
The circle might as well have been held in Scotland or Ireland given the cold damp weather ordered by the RA. Fortunately, this did not dampen spirits, largely, I suspect, because many hashers were from those parts. Memories of down downs are hazy (even if I was the one making them) but here is a selection:
Hares – Iron Lady and No Satisfaction
Thanks to the organisers for making the weekend so excellent (or did I mean shitty?)
Thanks to the visitors by ethnic block.
- The Scots and Irish in a Celtic alliance, although certain Northern Irish hashers disputed this term being applicable to them. Looks like we breached the Good Friday Agreement…
- Zurich hashers who brought their special songbook with them.
- Other visitors grouped together, notably from Warwickshire and France. Cue the French national anthem.
Various, ranging from Haggissimo for getting the party going and Gorgeous Edna for Viagra abuse the night before.
Cumalot for imitating Mary Poppins Singing In The Rain.
Red Stripe for complaining that the hash had “forced” her to fall off the wagon after 6 weeks without alcohol.
In honour of the Emirates plane that flew overhead mid circle, MeMe drank for admitting to designing parts of it and Hash Cash for working for an Arabic bank.
Levrette for swimming mid hash (in the sea, not a puddle) and Gorgeous Edna for wishing he was a runner just to see her half naked.
And many, many more.
To finish, the Zimbabwean jury decided that MeMe should be nominated for Shit of the Weekend (how on earth it wasn’t given to Hash Cash I do not know). The hash then closed in correct fashion with a rendition of Swing Low Sweet Chariot, led by twins separated at birth Haggissimo and Padre.
Many thanks to the organisers of a great weekend and OnOn to the next.