NH3 @ The Chillingham – 25 Sep 2019


You’re about to start the best years of your life and it starts with Woof Woof and Counterfit talking chalk to twenty Hashers outside The Chillingham in Heaton! Newcastle is renowned for having one of the best Hashes in Newcastle, with buckets of flour and shiggy urban trails, there’s truly something for everyone in Hasher’s Week 2019.

Heaton’s back street scene is second to none – you’ll find FRBs on wheelie bins and plenty of traffic in a maze of streets that all look the same. Even heavy rain won’t wash away those super-neat Woofers markings!

Heaton Park’s shiggy scene is second to none. Hashers can get in under the trees in no time, dodging weird little ha-has and holes where trees used to be in an amazing level of darkness. There’ll even be some stretches on actual path to keep you guessing!

Hash Sab’s FRB scene is second to none. With his lanky legs and penchant for shortcutting you can be sure he’ll get to that little floury square before you do!

Jesmond Dene’s dene scene is second to none. Once you’ve r*n all over the bits of Heaton Park that you didn’t even know existed you can hash on into the darkened Dene for some of the best steep stairs and wet-leaf-coated downhills in the country. Your hares will even offer shortcuts, though all Hashers know better than to take them!

There’s even room for latecomers in Hasher’s Week 2019. Slippery When Wet’s catch-up scene is second only to Five Kuai Headjob’s – Slippery shows us that Heaton Park can be navigated solo, and Kuai goes one better by turning up in the Dene a full 20 minutes into the r*n! Just a little taste of the superb public transport options that Newcastle can offer.

The choice of beer stops is second to none. By the time Chafing’s sweated enough to make it look like he’s pissed his trolleys all Hashers know it’s time for a beer. Even if the hares can’t be arsed with the beer stop themselves they’ll still set Hashers up with excellent pubs like The Hussar, with a side option of The Heaton Tap for anyone who finds the Hussar’s bar staff too goddamn slow.

Tom’s finishing pace is second to none. Except maybe for Innconts who got back before him. And maybe Pimp as well. R*nning around with a belly full of beer can seem daunting at first, but like Tom you’ll soon discover the sheer joy of pegging it down a back alley half cut shouting ON ON!

Pimp as RA is second to none, and he hadn’t even been re-elected yet. Hares will receive circle punishment for non-attendance at the beer stop because we all know how important it is to get a beer down you before you get a beer down you! Getting a fifty-r*n shirt is as easy as doing fifty r*ns, as Ion Dick demonstrates. And if you’ve done at least five you’ll get a spiffy Hash handle, just like (R)over And Out.

Hasher’s Week 2019, for nights you’ll never remember with people you’ll never forget!

NH3 @ The Gunner Tavern – 18 Sep 2019

The Night We Lost Innconts

It was a cool evening, the looming equinox bringing the first chill of Autumn to the bones of the gathering Hashers. At the Gunner Tavern they convened, near a score of them, old and new. The hostelry’s martial title concealed a darker past, well known to the seasoned drinkers of the group, just as the sunlit evening held within it the menace of a dark, dark night. It was from old Gotham Town that they hashed.

The night’s hare, Treasure Chest, celebrating her natal day, had been left to lay her trail alone, her customary Pimp having been but lately transported. Those who made shift to w*lk were presented with a map – to a buried Treasure? – in case their chosen house of refreshment should lack paper in its facilities. The r*nners were ill-provisioned with torches and all heedless of the peril into which they would shortly plunge.

Past St Cuthbert and the ladyboys to the pinker quarter they went, the local rapscallions urging them on. Woof Woof grew chary of her first FRB by the sauna; surprising, as her fair gender meant its denizens would have little interest in her.


On across Redheugh to drink in a last sunlit view of the Old Town’s bridges before delving beneath. Down the trail took them, and deeper down, through scrub and graffiti to the river’s edge itself, then to cross again at the oldest and lowest of the benighted Tyne’s shackles. Though many FRBs held them back the pack pressed madly on, too eager, overstretching themselves on the crusty cobbles of the Quay. But the hare had other things in mind.
The route led north, and up, winding over Akenside and past the scaffold-wrapped bulk of All Saints, then meandered on towards Manors. Here the FRBs grew thin and the pack spread out, paced by enormous rats, casting about in the alleys and courts as the gloaming decayed into darkness.
Into St Ann’s they ran, and through the very grounds of that ancient church itself. At its southern gate they assembled upon the check – but not all. Long minutes passed without sign of Inncontinents or Five Quai. The Hash attempted to soothe its nerves by screaming ON ON at the church. The church remained unmoved.
Convictions of supernatural murder were soon upon every lip. Immediately two more bravoes, Trees Are and Ion Dick, began to backtrack in search of their lost companions; and with that, where once were 12, there remained but 8.
More minutes passed. The shouting went on. Still the church kept its silence. A local wench indulging in a cheeky spliff was their only audience. Then – hulloa! – the missing Hashers were seen to approach. They numbered but three; of Innconts there was still no sign.
It was mooted that he was either horribly murdered, or back at the pub, and in either case there was no recourse but to press on. So on they went, down stairs onto the Quayside, over the youngest of the city’s bridges, up into the underbelly of Gateshead. Here they took solace in strong drink at Station East, bidding farewell to the bold but undoubtedly butchered Innconts.
Night threw its shroud over their departure. In darkness they hashed, the FRBs barely a glimmer underfoot, until they were upon that marvel of Stevenson and the Hawks that we call High Level Bridge. Here they feasted their eyes upon the floodlit splendour of the Tyne’s many spans; a fitting tribute to the sadly departed.


But then – a miracle! – on their return to the Gunner they found Innconts intact, inebriate, installed at table with the w*lkers. Not murdered, but misled, and Misled wasn’t even out that night. Great was the joy and several were the down-downs visited upon him for his tomfoolery. A mirthful circle was held then and there, to the chagrin of some civilians. A Mean Eyed Cat there was, and a shirt for Tom, and a baptism of beer for Brevet RA Ion Dick.

And so they drifted unsteadily from what was once Gotham, chastened by the shortening of the days. All’s well that ends well, as they say; or to be more precise, all’s well that ends with beer.