We were drinking out in Dunston late one night When our eyes beheld an eerie sight From the Tudor Rose a bunch of r*nners arose With masks on their faces and mud on their clothes
They did the Hash They did the Monster Hash The Monster Hash They went by in a flash The Monster Hash They all looked canny lashed They did the Hash They did the Monster Hash
Led by Innconts on a winding trail They were all a bit sweaty and ghostly pale Including the wa*kers there were maybe sixteen Of the scariest Hashers this town’s ever seen They did the Hash They did the Monster Hash The Monster Hash It was a Dunston Dash The Monster Hash The All Hallows Bash The Monster Hash They did the Monster Hash
It was all false trails and turns and twists Around where Paul Gascoigne used to go on the piss Cinderella showed the pack a clean pair of heels Legged it past the stop checks like they weren’t even real
They did the Hash They did the Monster Hash The Monster Hash They nearly caused a crash The Monster Hash The house porn was a bit gash The Monster Hash They did the Monster Hash
Slippery went wrong up a nice bit of hill Got Pimp to follow on, made poor Pimp feel ill They were waiting at a stop check feeling kinda deranged When Five Quai Headjob turned up late for a change
They did the Hash They did the Monster Hash The Monster Hash A bit of shiggy splash The Monster Hash They did it with panache The Monster Hash They did the Monster Hash
There were hybrid beasts of a hideous mein: A Drac Rees-Mogg and a Faragenstein They wore glow-stick bracelets from a Treasure Chest It’s safe to say the locals were not greatly impressed
They did the Hash They did the Monster Hash The Monster Hash Drunk from first to last The Monster Hash One had to stop for a slash The Monster Hash They did the Monster Hash
Over and above the A1 they slunk The bridges were okay but the underpass stunk Gripper knew these streets and he led from the front Cos he’d seen all the flour on his way to the pub
They did the Hash They did the Monster Hash The Monster Hash They didn’t need any cash The Monster Hash It was a non-stop Hash They did the Hash They did the Monster Hash
Once they hit the bike track it was all FRBs ‘neath the eerie moon and the skeleton trees Like a gang of angry peasants they pursued the Rees-Mogg Who was r*nning like the wind because he needed the bog
They did the Hash They did the Monster Hash The Monster Hash They didn’t listen to thrash The Monster Hash The hare prefers The Clash They did the Hash They did the Monster Hash
Hash History by the river didn’t get very far The Hash couldn’t be arsed, they were close to the bar They were on it in seconds in a monstrous hurtle In the car park round the back for a chilly circle
They did the Hash They did the Monster Hash The Monster Hash This song is balderdash The Monster Hash They had some beers stashed They did the Hash They did the Monster Hash
Down-downs, singing of the usual lyrics They didn’t see a ghost, but they did see some spirits Counterfit posed a name-changing question “Five-past-seven Quai” was his suggestion
They did the Hash They did the Monster Hash The Monster Hash A Bobby Pickett rehash The Monster Hash A lyrical mishmash The Monster Hash They did the Monster Hash
Hold a-fast o’ me now, Jim, and listen close! I’ll tell ye a tale, of land-lubbers and walk-r*nners, of sweatin’ and drinkin’ and Admirals and Clowns.
‘twas upon a Wednesday eve in October, during the first watch. The sky was bright with stars, a touch of north-westerly in the air, the sea just a-breathin’ gentle-like. Nigh on twenty of these coves, Hashers they calls ‘em, a-gathered afore a dockside inn – it was The Ship’s Cat, at the sign of a pussy in a sou’wester – for one of their queer meetings, or Hashes as they have it. They were crusty old hands, mostly, just a few with skin still smooth enough fer a dress and a wig. There was even an old bos’n from the Peloponnesus, Fair Cop by handle, a-making his yearly pilgrimage to the locale.
Their hare was a one called Chafing Bollocks, a snaggle-toothed one-legged drunkard, rimed with sweat and reeking of booze. “Foller me,” said he, “an there’ll be booty, and good beer!” His breath was his bond for that gear. Fools they were to follow him! But they went gamely about it, aye Jim lad, a-r*nnin’ and a-skippin’ along a trail of sorts that lies above the mouth of the mighty river Tyne. Soon they were upon the headland where a grand mon’ment to the Admiral Lord Collingwood stands, an hundred feet and more if it’s an ell, with Nelson’s right hand (nay, he had need of one!) all marbled and mighty athwart the top. Upon the very guns of the Royal Sovereign they mounted, making out as though they were 20-pound willies, and disported themselves for pictures upon the steps. A wench they call Treasure Chest – arr, an X marks her spot! – used her wiles to make the unruly mob toe the line.
Just out of that port they found themselves all at sea! The trail was faint as a landsman’s heart and they beat about the beach until they settled on a rendy-voo at the edge of the North Pier. The pier was a-locked and barred agin them, no access to jackanapes such as they, though the weather promised fair. All to the good, says I; for had that drunken cripple of a hare sent them a-chasing wild geese down that half-mile of cold stone, they’d as like to have tossed him into the briny, beer or no.
Long they floundered upon the beaches of Whitley Bay! And yet their feet barely touched sand, for the hare in his groggy confusion had laid all his flour upon the portages that lead up and down. Many cursed him for a son of a gun. Counterfit showed the nous of the old hand with a shortcut across the prom.
At last they unbeached themselves and sailed on into the town. “There’s drink,” wheezed the hare, “and wenches, and even doughnuts and that as well.” But none of this did the sorry seadogs see: on he drove them, that peg-legged rummy, right through the centre of the town into the very Metro station. Even there they made no landfall, though their throats were as lined with salt. Fair Cop was ready to cast himself adrift, and would have too, had TreesAre thrown in with him. But they stuck at it, and ran through, then changed tack south into a footway all a-grown over with trees and suchlike green stuff.
This course bore them into Northumberland Park. Here they were truly benighted; ‘twas dark as the inside of the gloryhole! They fumbled their way to the northmost gate and there became all of a certitude that they knew their course, aye, most were out on the street before you could say Shanghai. ‘twas Cinderella who found the right tack and took all the wind from their sails. Back through the park they went!
By now the Hash were ripe for mutiny. Atwixt tired legs and thirsty throats there was a length of hemp a-fixin’ for the hare. “Shipmates!” he wheedled. “Bear with me, stay yer course but another turn o’ the glass, and there’ll be booty and drink and pig fat.” “A ROPE,” they cried, “AND ON THE YARD ARM WITH HIM!” But order prevailed, they lent ear to his promises, and r*n on into the backside of North Shields.
Soon they were upon the shoulder of the rise where stands the old lighthouse, a fine square old sight to a seaman. Abaft of it lies a little parkland and here they were directed to pay their mean tribute at a statue of Stan Laurel, a much funnier man than the beer-breathed scoundrel who laid the trail. Here he made them his final promise: “Mates, the beer lies but a few fathoms below…”
And so it was, Jim lad! Down the steps they slid like eels from the Sargasso, and slithered into the Salty Sea Dog that adorns the quay. There was grog aplenty, and jades for the takin’, and a posse of local grips for pressin’.
The Ship’s Cat stood hard by – there the voyage ended. They circled, pressed booze on the godforsaken hare, and sang shanties. Virgins were revealed, Jim lad! Dabtoes, two of ‘em, a Sophie and an Ian. A hand who’d learnt the ropes was given a name in honour of his granddaddy’s whalin’ career – Moby Dick they dubbed him, and bathed him in beer. Fair Cop presented a shirt from the Greek Islands to one of the green hands.
‘twas then they discovered a stealthy junk had been in hot chase all along: Five Quai Headjob was late to the Cat and dogged the steps of the crew til he finally ran them aground. A lantern for that man!
And that’s the tale of how a crew of lily-livered landlubbers sailed right round an Admiral and got into a Salty Sea Dog by the back stairs!
“This is a rare treat. We’ve located a large pack of hominoidea hashii in their natural environment. This crowded, beer-smelling cave is known as the Left Luggage Room, and it’s the ideal place to begin tracking the movements of this fascinating group of animals.
“Here, we see them engaged in what appears to be some form of organisation. One of the hairless silverbacks – they call him Pimp, judging by the vocalisations – is attempting to command the attention of the pack, with occasional success. He appears to be making shapes on the floor with a ground-up plant substance, a remarkable instance of tool use and arguable communication amongst these unusual anthropoids. You can see that not all of them are paying attention to Pimp, and some aren’t even there, having gone to hide their personal possessions from the depradations of local scavengers.
“And suddenly they’re off! The speed and agility of hashii varies enormously from specimen to specimen. This pack is unusually large, especially for the time of year, and there is evidence that a related group of lesser simians – Monkey Runners, cacamouth seatonii – have associated themselves with this group. Here we see further evidence of their attempts to communicate: marks left on the ground, apparently by Pimp, which the hashii are examining and attempting to interpret. Their vocalisations are loud and repetitive, calls of ON ON and CHECKING being most common. There are intriguing moments when the sounds they make almost resemble human swearwords. The ineffectiveness of their communication is apparent from the frequent confusion and changes of direction in their movement. A division is clear between the front of the pack, casting about for prey, and those at the rear who spend much of the time standing still and scratching themselves.
“Their chosen route takes them roughly south. The pack spends some time running through streets, and you can clearly see the primitive awe with which they contemplate large human structures such as detached houses. At some prearranged signal they divert from well-lit areas into the darkness and mud of farmer’s fields. This is their natural environment, and it appears they even have a vocalisation for it: many times they make a noise like “shiggy”, often in a questioning tone. As you can see, Pimp continues in his attempts to keep the pack organised, directing loud calls at the stragglers and those who lose their way.
“They lope through fields for more than a mile. For the most part they stick to paths, though eventually they abandon those altogether to cross a ploughed field; their objective is the level crossing at the Metro line, an object which Pimp indicates with the sound ‘bridge’. Another silverback, apparently referred to as Sab, replies with ‘level crossing’. They display a surprising degree of coordination in shepherding the slower members of the group away from the relative danger of the train tracks, almost as if they understand what they are for.
“This brings them to South Wellfield. The tiredness of the hashii can now be seen from their lolling tongues and dragging of knuckles. They’ve been on the move now for almost an hour without food or drink; surely they will soon run down some prey, or descend upon some forage, to keep them going.
“And there it is! They’ve identified a pub called The Beacon and invaded it en masse. The bar staff seem a little disconcerted by the irruption of two dozen red-eyed, sweat-dripping primates. Deciding that cooperation is the safer approach, they hand out beer with only slight reluctance. The hashii drink rapidly and greedily, and soon their Pimp is calling them together again.
“Once again they mill out into the streets of Monkseaton. Now their spirits are high: you can see how they spread across roads, calling raucously to one another, paying little heed to the risks posed by vehicle traffic. At an individual level hashii are poor navigators, but in a group they seem always to be aware of their destination and their distance from it, even though the powder trail they follow is inconsistent and impressionistic at best.
“They return to the Left Luggage, tired but animated, a little over 80 minutes after they left and gather in the car park outside. It’s believed that this grouping, known as a circle, serves some sort of ritual purpose in the pack life of the hashii – unique vocalisations which almost resemble music are used in this event. More beer is consumed. Ticks are picked off.
“We still see Pimp attempting to control the pack, with limited success. A younger specimen, referred to as Ion Dick, plays a sort of supporting role, whilst another silverback they call Counterfit disburses objects of interest: primitive clothing, for the most part. Pimp attempts to distract the louder members of the group by handing out scraps of ribbon, a tactic which works well on these simple-minded creatures. The origin of the ribbon is poorly understood, though it seems likely that Pimp has scavenged them from wherever it is he’s working this week.
“It becomes clear that one of the hashii has travelled from a pack very far away, having somehow migrated from Australasia. The lesser specimens, the seatonii, are separated out as a group and forced to drink beer whilst the larger primates produce a remarkable imitation of music, almost resembling the theme tune to a popular 1960s TV show.
“Perhaps the most intriguing detail is evidence of numeracy amongst these creatures. It has long been argued that only members of genus homo possess the intellectual ability to count and use mathematics, and yet it becomes apparent that at least two of this group have been enumerating their activities. This is evidently related to a belief in the significance of numerology, as Pimp is seen to claim a round number of r*ns under his leadership, before Counterfit pisses on his chips by correcting his maths.
“Consumption of alcohol continues throughout the night. Some of the hashii have identified the strongest available source of ethanol, a beer known as Very Bad Kitty, and proceed to consume every last drop of it, making themselves incapable of normal behaviour in the process.”
SHIGGY HASH MARINADE WITH SLIPPERY SAUCE Just in time for Autumn we’re going to whip up a Shiggy Hash with Slippery Sauce, a delicious treat for those drizzly days. We’ll be cooking this one up in Prudhoe, using the Adam & Eve as a container. Here’s what you’ll need: 1 Slippery, mostly sober1 Cockatool Half a dozen Hashers (Counterfit and Innconts, maybe a Frogsporn and a Chafing, Bedtime Story and Nickerless if you can find them)Rain (drizzle will do)1 riverNettles and brambles to taste1-2 pubs (depending on Hashers)As much mud as you can lay hands on First, hurl your Cock.
The river is ideal for this purpose and gives you a chance to soak the beer sweats off your Cock before you begin. Shiggy trails may include unusual challenges. You can motivate your Hashers by offering a prize for whoever completes the most stupid tricks en route; the prize should be a token item of lesser value than any Hasher’s self-respect (if you can’t find anything that cheap a box of chocs and a buff will do). Next, stick your Cock in a tunnel.
It should come out looking like this:
If it doesn’t you may have put the nettles too close to the end – reorient, and drag him out by the feet if necessary. Remember that your Shiggy Hash should stick close to the riverbank as much as possible to maximise the wetness of the terrain. Position your checks near faint footpaths for best confusion, and be careful not to add too much flour to the trail. Once you can taste the frustration of your Hashers you’ve probably got the balance right. Loud swearing is a useful indicator. Multiple river crossings can be used to keep things interesting. Hashers should be encouraged to attempt unusual, daft and frankly dangerous crossings where possible, e.g.
Trunk slides will be attempted by a Chafing if you have one, he’s used to losing the skin off his bollocks. Mad pointless climbs are another good inclusion, and if you can trick your Hashers into thinking a bonus steep descent is in fact part of the route you’ll get the whole lot of them down it. By now your Cock should look something like this:
If he’s picked up a ball it’s a sign that he’s enjoying himself and is thoroughly marinaded. By the time you get him to a proper murky river and challenge him to swim it he’ll be in there like a rat in the bairn’s cot, though he’ll probably be the only one. Your Innconts should be chugging away nicely throughout. Be aware that your Cock may get up behind him at some point:
A decent clearance should be maintained to prevent Cockatool planting muddy handprints on the rest of your Hashers’ man-tits. Depending on how much rain you’ve obtained you may find parts of your route un-Hashable. This is fine, and should be treated as an opportunity to divert into open and waterlogged fields. If you can find a freshly-ploughed field that’s basically a rice paddy without the hats, send your Hashers through that – mud is best when it sounds like Frogsporn’s fetish (knee-deep). By this point the Hash should be thoroughly marinaded and about ready for a beer. Add strong liquor if no beer is available – don’t let your Hash get too dry or they’ll break up. Bedtime Story is a particular risk here as his knowledge of local terrain may allow him to identify the White Swan as the beer stop and bugger off with Chafing before you can stop them. You’ll know your Shiggy Hash is done when your Hashers r*n eagerly into ankle-deep puddles just to get their trainers clean. If you’ve allowed enough rain you’ll find the circle brief. Beer can be poured over Slippery’s head for extra flavour. Watch for Frogsporn farting while the GM’s talking (be sure to down-down as appropriate). Deposit your Hash into the Adam & Eve and let them order good beer and excellent Sunday roast. Handwashing is optional.
It’s a late start tonight at the Lonsdale Hashional, several r*nners claiming Metro delays, bit of a hold-up trying to get Cinderella out of the toilet. Conditions a bit more promising now, rain’s stopped, but the going is expected to be pretty mixed. There are three hares here trying to get the r*nners in line, some being pretty mulish, possibly spooked by the crowds of students. There’s eighteen of them under orders, you can see Misled there wearing about fifteen layers, Jo looking really keen, Cinderella being careful about where she puts her bag this time.
And they’re off! They’re away in a big pack straight into the Metro underpass, they’re hammering past those crowds of students, no collisions as yet. Out onto the streets and they’re all over the place, nobody sure who’s in front, looks like Chafing has doubled back for some reason. Woof Woof’s put them right now, they’re into the back streets and starting to spread out, early lead from Inncontinents as they come out onto Highbury for a r*nning check. It’s onto the Moor and they’re heading for the first water jump.
Think it surprised them a bit, they’ve not really cleared it, more of a plodge to be honest, but they’re across it to the corner with just a bit of minor grumbling. Looked like Frogsporn was leading again there but I think No Relief might have pipped him to the Great North Road. Gripper and Chafing off in the wrong direction again, now they’re all being marshalled over the crossing by the hares, no collisions with traffic as yet.
They’re onto the Town Moor now and the going is steadier here, just a few big puddles, I can see Sab and Innconts chasing No Relief in front, Treasure Chest’s in there, Less Cargo is making a break for it, Chafing’s coming up from the back but he’s stopped at a fence – in fact it’s a gate, he’s holding it for some reason, and the rest are just streaming past him – and what’s this coming in from the right? A pack of serious r*nners is on the course, no idea how they’ve got there, somebody’s allowed them onto the course at a crucial moment, and they’ve all stopped amongst the Hash as they’re trying to work out how to cross a road, this is a shambles. Someone’s shouting ON ON and Sab’s on the other side of the road, looks like Om has caught up to him, and now the hares are getting the stragglers across, bit of beeping from the traffic.
They’re on the Dukes Moor now and about to hit the second of the water features. Bit more extensive this one, it’s basically the entire moor, and they’re a bit surprised by it, Sab’s out in front somehow, No Relief chasing him down, Treasure Chest is down! TC falls, she’s okay, she’s up and r*nning straight away, Purple Vein nipping past there, there’s five or six of them sploshing their way through to Kenton Road, and the pack coming along behind there, I can see Rover and Out, Frogsporn, Jo, Misled, Counterfit, and it looks like Totem’s thrown his rider Bella and she’s trying to chase him down.
Lots of comment from the r*nners here, I can hear Chafing worrying about the golf course. Woof Woof’s taken charge though and has directed them across the Grandstand back onto the Moor. It’s bike track here, it seems like they have firm going, and I can see Less Cargo, then No Relief, then it’s Chafing, and they’ve all hit an FRB! That’s it for them, the pack are thundering past, looks like Totem doesn’t trust the tarmac and is sticking to the grass, Bella’s still trying to get back in the saddle. No Relief has made another break and hit another FRB, and what’s this? Five Quai is in the lead despite being the hare! I think someone’s having a word with him, looks like Chafing’s telling him about the front-r*nning-hare rule, and I don’t think it’s going down well, but Chafing’s hit an FRB anyway and Quai drops back as the pack storms past to a stop check.
There’s some discussion here – I think one of the hares is suggesting a non-shiggy route? It’s been disallowed! The pack are off again across the heath, they’re heading for Cow Hill, I can see Sab and No Relief in front but they’re going in two different directions, Cinderella’s not far behind, Purple Vein’s on her tail, they’re all attempting the hill now and it’s like r*nning on oil up there, the mud is liquid. I can see a stumble or two but no actual falls.
They’re on the hill, Sab’s found a check – that trained nose of his can sniff out flour even in these conditions – and they’ve all stopped for a photo! TC’s getting a snap, they’re shouting at r*nners on the other hill to hurry up, they don’t seem to realise they’re not with the Hash, and I think Totem and Bella have gone off in another direction altogether.
They’re off down the hill now and this side’s even worse going, it’s impossible to stop once you start, I can see No Relief in the lead, Sab and Chafing a bit slower behind, but they’ve stopped! They’ve both stopped at the bottom to watch the rest come down, I think they want to see somebody fall over. There’s lots of lights bobbing uncertainly down that slope but no actual falls, they’ve all made it across in one piece.
It’s a right turn here and they’re heading onto Claremont Road – Chafing’s got stuck at a gate again – Gripper and Cinderella have gone right, the rest have gone left, left is right, there’s now three at the back chasing the rest across Claremont and into the backside of the Newcastle Uni buildings.
Innconts and Sab vying for the lead at this point, Om briefly ahead but overtaken, No Relief has taken too many wrong turns, there are confused students all over the place trying their best not to notice the sweaty r*nners shouting ON ON at them, it’s too wet for the flour. And now they’re out, they’ve found the check on Claremont Road at the roundabout and they’ve got the bypass jump ahead of them.
Quite a range of different styles on display here, we can see No Relief getting on with it, Om trying to manage the traffic, Gripper and Jo blatantly jayhashing, few horns beeping there, Woofers tearing her hair out. And they’re back on the Moor, heading for Exhibition Park, pack very spread out now, lot of them don’t really look like they know what they’re doing. Past the cafe, lead taken by Innconts and Sab as No Relief and Chafing get distracted by the chin-up bar, I can see Less Cargo leading Om, Misled and Gripper closing, it’s a slidey moment through the underpass into Brandling Park – and what’s this? Totem and Bella have somehow taken the lead! They’re already there, I can hear John McCrirrick calling for an inquiry, words like ‘shortcutting’ are being used.
Some discussion out on the course right now. Woof Woof has held up the pack to warn of bad going ahead, she’s giving instructions about a slippery back alley where Counterfit came a cropper – I can’t unsay it now – and they’re all off again, skating on leaves dressed with engine oil, they’ve paid so much attention to their feet that they’ve all r*n straight past the turn and into the dead end! Some of the front r*nners don’t actually believe it, they’re taking turns to check a door like it shouldn’t be there. On the right trail it’s chaotic, it’s Purple Vein from Misled and Jo with Gripper just behind, and I can hear them complaining about the lack of beer, as if they haven’t had enough wet for one night.
And what’s this? They’ve hit a BN sign and they’ve found beers! It’s the back of Five Quai’s house and his beloved Katie is out there handing out cups of beer! The entire r*n has ground to a halt and dived into liquid nosebags. The red flag is up. They’ve got completely distracted in discussion of how to pronounce Tsingtao. We’ll have to see how long it takes the hares to get them under control and back on track.
Just a few minutes’ delay there, and they’re off once more! It’s the final furlong and it’s almost as if they don’t care who’s in front any more, they’re just bumbling along full of beer with a pub two hundred metres away. It’s a remarkable finish to one of the soggiest races I’ve ever commentated.
Some delay before the circle is brought underway, I can see Treasure Chest distracting them all with cakes before she does her first solo RA of the season. The hares are being called out for shiggy and weather, clearly their fault, and No Relief’s being called out for forgetting his own name, Jo’s got a T-shirt there and so has Mindphuck! Out of the blue, she’s walked the course and picked up one of the prizes! I can hear Five Quai raising something with the officials, he seems to think there’s not enough Hash gear on display, but then he was the FRH so there’s very little sympathy. And with that they’re On Inn!
Is it a coincidence that many a discerning hare chooses a hash venue with links to the golden age of steam? In the last year alone: The Left Luggage Room, Station East, Platform 2, The Waiting Room and Bar Loco (okay maybe not that one) …… and maintaining the tradition on Wednesday evening the hashers gathered in The Railway Tavern. So it was all on board the 7:07 (Delayed) from Rowlands Gill stopping at Shiggy Puddle, Muddy Incline and Moist Bottom.
With the hashers choosing to eschew the media image of your typical railway enthusiasts, there was not a bobble hat, anorak or pair of thick-rimmed glasses in sight, indeed Pop was still sporting a pair of natty shorts to reveal a fine pair of pistons which would have made the Reverend Wilbert Awdry shed a tear. And so we rolled out of the Railway Tavern into the autumnal gloom with the healthy rolling stock of 13 hashers: some sleek diesel electrics, a Sprinter, a fine looking Pullman, a Flying Scotsman (thanks for showing-up Ion Dick) and a couple of old shunters. Locomotion No. 1578 was on the way!
Maybe not the rural idyll of Betjeman’s Metropolitan Railway with sepia views of the rural lanes of Buckinghamshire ……… but the beautiful Derwent with soaring kites and views over the valley – pity it was so bleeding dark. With the melancholy sound of evening bells the Hash train was chugging along the turnpike road with G2S (not to be confused with HS2) showing a full head of steam through the quiet streets of Rowlands Gill ….. behind curtains drawn.
Taking the branch line ever on upwards through all points to the rarely explored Sherburn Towers (a backwater which would have had a puzzled Portillo fingering his Bradshaw – oo-err). Then next a whistle-stop visit to the park and all aboard the HMS Venus for piratical japes (Where’s Treasure Chest, Salty Dog & Roger the Cabin Boy when you need them to bolster the storyline?).
And then leaving the garish yellow street lights suddenly we plunge down, down ….. with Counterfit leading the way into the dark tunnel of Sherburn Woods with a mighty puff ….. but would he come out with a tender behind???
With Highfield and Low Spen moment by moment becoming smaller and smaller until they became but a tiny spot of light ….. and then they were gone. The Hash locomotion roared on through the dark ……….. a flooded line, shiggy, the wrong sort of leaves, a landslide ……… an escaped panther at Friarside Junction!!! Would anything curtail the Hash Express going full throttle? Well just The Pimp emptying his boiler tubes (not in the station), and InnContinence right up the junction with his directions at the holding check.
Finally leaving the branch line for the mainline and hurtling down the Sherburn Woods Incline, back towards The Gill ……but, wait ……. we’re losing steam, the wheels screech to a halt. An abandoned station? A dark siding? No, a bridge and a beer stop! And an opportunity for Slippery to retrieve an abandoned scooter from the burn and for Cinderella to show her prowess at hops, flips and backslides whilst avoiding the attentions of Brewdog chewing at the wheels.
Time to refill the boiler and cross-examine Tom for a possible Hash name …… Tom, a Vlogger and a YouTuber on the subject of Serial Killers!!! Well that’s going to be difficult! Beers consumed, it was back on board for (Serial) Murder on the Rowlands Gill Express?
Then back to the Railway Tavern ……. form a turntable. Charges delivered by our new RA (The Pimp) and a naming …. Tom ….. now Hash name The Geordie Ripper (or Gripper to his friends). A cracking evening. Well done Chaffing for recceing a fine trail and the hashers for turning out on a cold dark night.
Finally ….. the train wheels won’t turn without lubricant …….. and the w*lking train wouldn’t have rolled at all without our Lubric*nt. Well done Lubri the solitary wa*ker!
Anyone for a pint of porter?
Hash History: Wor’ Nanny’s a Mazer
Wor Nanny’s a mazer is a famous Geordie folk song written in the 19th century by Thomas “Tommy” Armstrong, in a style deriving from music hall. It is regarded by many as one of the classics.
The song tells the tale of a husband and wife setting out on a train trip from Rowlands Gill, a village in County Durham, to “toon”, presumably Newcastle upon Tyne – to do some shopping. The trip starts to go wrong when they miss their train. The pair end up in a pub where the wife becomes “a bit the worse for wear”. We are left to assume no shopping was done and no clothes bought.
You’ve got to imaging Counterfit singing this (NOT Babe Magnet obviously)
Verse 1 Wor Nanny and me myed up wor minds te gan and catch the train, For te gan te the Toon te buy some claes for wor little Billy and Jane; But when we got to Rowlands Gill the mornin’ train wes gyen, And there was ne mair te gannin’ that way till siventeen minutes te one. So aa says te wor Nan, “Its a lang way te gan,” aa saa biv hor fyece she wes vext; But aa says, “Nivvor mind, we hev plenty o’time, so we’ll stop and gan in wi’ the next” She gov a bit smile, when aa spoke up and said, “There’s a pubbilick hoose alang heor, We’ll gan alang there and hev worsels warmed, and a glass of the best bittor beor” Nan wes se’ stoot aa knew she’d not waak, and she didn’t seem willin’ te try; When aa think o’the trubble aa’d wiv hor that day, If aa liked aa cud borst oot and cry.
Chorus Aye, wor Nannie’s a mazer, and a mazer she’ll remain, As lang as aa leeve, aa winnet forget, the day we lost the train.
So away we went te the pubbilick hoose, and when we got te the door, She says, “We’ll gan inti the parlor end For aa’ve nivvor been heor afore”. So in we went and teuk wor seats, and afore aa rung the bell, Aa axed hor what she was gannin’ te hev, “Why,” she says, “The syem as yorsel” So aa caalled for two gills o’the best bittor beor, She paid for them when they com in; But after she swalleyed three parts of hor gill, She said, “Bob, man, aa’d rather hev gin.” So aa caalled for a glass o’the best Hollands gin, And she gobbled it up the forst try; Says aa te wor Nan, “Thoo’s as gud as a man” She says, “Bob man, aa felt varra dry.” So aa caalled for another, and that went the same way; Aa says, “That’ll settle thee thorst.” She says, “Aa’ve had two, and aa’s nee better now than aa was when aa swally’d the forst.”
She sat and drank till she got tight; She says “Bob man, aa feel varra queer.” “Why”, aa says, “Thoo’s had nine glasses o’gin Te maa three gills o’beor.” She lowsed hor hat and then hor shaal, And hoyed them on te the floor; Aa thowt she was gan te gan wrang in hor mind, So aa sat mesel close by the door. She says, “Give iss order, aa’ll sing a bit sang” Aa sat and aa glowered at hor; Aa thowt she wes jokin’, for aa’d nivvor hard, Wor Nanny sing ony before. She gave iss a touch of ‘The Row in the Gutter’, She pleased every one that was there. There was neebody in but wor Nanny and me, and aa laughed till me belly was sair. She tried te stand up for te sing the ‘Cat Pie’, But she fell doon and myed sic a clatter, She smashed fower chairs, and the landlord com in, And he said, “What the deuce is the matter?”
Verse 4 The landlord says, “Is this yor wife, And where de ye belang?” Aa says, “It is, and she’s teun a fit Wi’ tryin’ te sing a bit sang” He flung his arms aroond hor waist; And trailed hor acroos the floor, And Nan, poor sowl, like a dorty hoose cat, Was tummelled oot-side o’the door. There she wes lyin’, byeth groanin’ and cryin’, Te claim hor aa reely thowt shyem; Aa tried for te lift hor, but aa cudden’t shift hor, Aa wished aa had Nanny at hyem. The papor man said he wad give hor a ride, So we lifted hor inti the trap: But Nan was that tight, she cudden’t sit up, So we fasten’d hor doon wiv a strap; She cudden’t sit up, she wadden’t lie doon, She kicked till she broke the convaince: She lost hor new basket, hor hat and hor shaal, That mornin’ wi lossin’ the train.