SLOW WHITE AND THE SEVEN DRUNKS
“I’m ever so tired,” Slow White gasped. “I’ve been r*nning through these dark and freezing woods for such a long time. Oh my, what’s that sign? It says The Wellington. It must be a public house – maybe I’ll just sneak in and rest for a while.”
When she entered the pub she found a roaring fire, and seven beers set around a table, so neat and foamy that nobody could say otherwise. Slow White was so very thirsty that she took a little sip from each beer, and then fell asleep in the corner.
Meanwhile, out in the woods, the seven drunks were making their way back to the pub. They had started at the pub, but they were also trying to make their way back to the pub. That’s why they were called the seven drunks: because there were seven of them, and they’d all had a few.
Chesty not shown
There was Harey, who was really Story; and Sweaty; and Fivey; and Sporny; and Count; and Pimpy; and Chesty. They had all met up at The Wellington to go for a r*n, but as usual they ended up drinking beer instead, and so they didn’t go r*nning until very late, when it was very dark. Story was the latest of all, which made all the other drunks very surprised.
“Was it the evil Queen who delayed you?” asked Count.
“Did you eat a dodgy apple?” asked Sporny.
“No, the train was late,” said Story.
“Why didn’t you r*n all the way going wee wee wee?” asked Sweaty.
“Because that’s a different fairy tale, you dipshit,”Chesty told him.
“It’s not even a fairy tale, it’s a nursery rhyme,” said Fivey. And soon they were all arguing.
“For god’s sake let’s get on with it,” said Pimpy. “It’s five past seven and Kwai’s been here for ages.”
“Right then,” said Story. “Five ways, check ’em out.”
And so began the r*n. When they finally found the trail it took them into the railway station, and across the tracks, and into the woods near Riding Mill Burn. The woods were dark, and full of wild animals, none of which dared go near the drunks who were swearing loudly and shining their bright shiny torches everywhere.
“Is that a check?” asked Fivey.
“I’m not sure,” said Story. “It looked different when I laid it because it was daylight.”
“Oh shit,” said Sweaty. “Remember the last time we heard that?”
But there were no charva domestics in the woods, just wild animals scared shitless of the noisy drunks.
Soon they came to the stepping stones across the burn. All the drunks were up for crossing the stones, and none of them threw the scribe a bone by falling in. Before long the trail took them across a footbridge, which meant that in the greatest traditions of the Hash, they went a long way to end up back where they had started.
They r*n past some nice big houses which made them all go oo and aa. They r*n up some big steep hills, some of them completely covered in shiggy, with a morley at the top which made them all go shit and balls. They r*n across a great big road which was called the A695. They ran up some more big long hills in Whiteside Wood, which made them huff and puff and blow your house – sorry, wrong fairy tale again.
Story had put FRBs in lots of clever places, including in both the kissing gates they went through. Sweaty got the first one and Sporny gave him a kiss. Think that’s another fairy tale as well.
They r*n through some farmer’s fields and even tried to r*n through a farm before Story called them back. Soon the drunks got really tired of running up big hills and started bitching about it.
“It’s okay,” said Story. “We’re going to cross the motorway again and then we go down a big hill.”
Count fell over. He was okay though, and most of the drunks didn’t even stop.
Just like Story said, they r*n down a big long hill. This cheered the drunks up no end, and one of them sang out:
And they all replied with:
On On, On On
We haven’t got a song
It’s cold as balls and the trail’s dead long
On On, On On
At the bottom of the big hill they all thought they would find a beer stop, or maybe the first pub. In fact it was just more houses.
“How fucking big is Riding Mill?” asked Pimpy. “Where’s it all coming from? And how’s it only got one pub?”
“That’s a nice old church,” said Fivey.
“Do you think they’ve got beer?” asked Sweaty.
“Of course they don’t have beer, they drink wine,” Chesty told him.
“There’s a sign. It says graveyards are dangerous,” said Sporny.
“Of course they’re dangerous, you can die in one,” said Pimpy.
“Would anyone like a shortcut?” asked Story.
They all said yes, apart from Count who had already taken a shortcut.
So Story sent them up another bit of hill.
“Definitely the last bit of hill, I promise,” he told them.
This time it really was the last bit of hill. There was a lovely big house with trippy Christmas lights all over it, and another bit of village full of wild middle class people, who were too scared to come to their windows and see who were these idiots yelling ON ON at this hour.
And then they saw the Wellington at the end of the street. And they were so happy that they went and stood in the car park and drank beers.
And there they found Slow White, aroused from her slumber.
“That’s not her name, it’s Poppins,” said Chesty. “You’ve got the wrong fairytale again.”
They gave her a down-down for not even bothering with the wa*ker’s trail which Story had laid. Count got down-downed for missing four different FRBs. Pimpy then told a tale.
“We have travelled far and wide all across the land,” he told them. “This may be the widest-ranging year for the Hash yet. We’ve even been to Consett, for Christ’s sake.”
“But what about Little Red Riding Mill?” asked Sweaty.
They all looked at him.
“That’s a different fucking fairy tale,” Chesty told him.
“Oh right,” he said. “I think that’s the one I meant to do.”
And then they went to the pub.