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Report 1448
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WHEN BLOOD BE NIP’T AND WAYS BE FOUL.....
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And Marion's nose is red and raw.... Actually I have no idea what her nose looked like by the end. We held a very strange and select circle; had all the others, Marion included, gone home, or to the pub, long before, or were they all still out there somewhere? We had a handful of cheerful children, the dozen or so enthusiasts who had done the whole thing (115 minutes...) and enjoyed the mulled wine, and a most interesting group - Strumpet and her Ear Trumpet, for example, - who were there courtesy of IcePyck.
A new paragraph in honour of the bizarre behaviour of our resident Dutchman. He began by drawing attention to himself by fondling a female rump, and then at an early but crucial check went off at a tangent, refusing to follow the cries of the pack. He took with him Popeye and Glasscruncher; now, Popeye is quite capable of adding in such diversions and nevertheless doing most of the true trail, but we never saw Glasscruncher again. In fact Popeye took advantage of Icepyck's defiant deviation to find the in-trail and so confirm this to have been a right hander, which later allowed him to solve the Difficult Check, at which the pack came apart.
How? Why?
Well, for a start the flour was not in the direction anyone else expected, so we were all looking elsewhere. Dissa disappeared over the horizon, so fast that I stopped backing him up and dejectedly rejoined the keen-as-mustard brigade, led by the unpunctual but talented Atalanta, who were pursuing Popeye. Most of the pack kept hoping the solution would prove to be in the direction they intuited as correct, and either made no attempt to follow the front runners, or did try but could not maintain the pace. A few of these last, Strumpet etc, were then given a lift back by IcePyck, by this time changed into smart
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clothes and at the wheel of his chariot. WHERE HAD HE BEEN?? WHAT HAD HE BEEN UP TO?? He
was too sheepish to tell us....
All very mysterious. Let it be said that the trail after the Difficult Check was greatly improved - before that
there had been far too much black, but then we were able to enjoy some scenery and get our trainers filthy,
frost or no frost, in the wet wild woods. Not to mention the mulled wine.
Frost, I said. Well, yes, and what colour is frost? Quite. And flour? Exactly. Once SH3 could expect a
polychrome trail on days like this; O tempora! O mores!
As it turned out, the most difficult aspect of this confusion was to spot the check circles, so that the front
runners would shoot past without realising that they were in effect checking forward. As most of you will
doubtless agree, front runners never were especially bright, even on a good day... (It is SCBing which calls
for the old grey cells, though the Surrey hash can boast SCBs even more brainless than the FRBs.)
As stated, there was a Circle of sorts. Once again, no GM, no JMs; and Hash Cash seemed more
concerned to serve drinks than to run. So the stand-in GM stood in, singularly ineffectively, as Rainman
kept complaining; not even a large mug for the hare’s down-down. (So he happily swallowed 3 ordinary
ones instead). And such comments as had occurred for the speech were saved for this report instead.
Anyhow, could the Onsex be rude about one another? A wag wished to know what sex turned the Onsex
on; the answer is obvious, Hands-on Sex.
In came the RA, doing his best to imitate the absent GM, with such success that I lost track of his multiple
accusations against poor Stilton, and never did recover my wits enough to realise what Hard Nuts or Body
Shop had done. Either that, or what must surely have been a very long trail, run at great pace, had left your
aged scribe exhausted.
FRB.
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