Run 949 - 19 Nov 2006
Run 949 - Mijas mountains
Marks 8
Sunday 19th Nov
Hares: Septic Scrotom & Tight Arse
Jack the dog scribing for the first time – if Flakey reads this; quite possibly the last.
Shaggy drives erratically, I put up with this malarkey for the sake of a decent hash around the campo. I get to sniff the other dogs’ bums and round up a pack of t-shirted ne’er do wells whilst shitting along new paths on the way.
I circled the circle, Tight Arse & Septic Scrotum – looking rather smug with them selves. Shouting orders in the circle. Ugghff!
I was off barging past these slow wits looking for an F in Flour. There might as well be a sign with BEER STOP hanging from the top mast on the mountain - Septic set it for dog’s sake.
Climb, keep climbing listening to this lot talk shite on the way up – I gave up on Shaggy, Spittoon would round her up for me – his mother must have been a retriever.
Why can’t I have Streaky – minus the lurchers – that’d show the young pup who’s boss on this hash.
All that way to the View Point - was I the only one to find the Guinness??? … a glorious view, piss on the rock and lie back with pint of the black stuff to revive me. Thanks lads.
Mummy’s Boy was mad enough to think those two comedians had really set up their stall at the top – we’d covered this mountain on foot, paws in puke and just about on every path last week (yeah Septic) – EVERYONE knows getting down involves bad knees and back ache. So I left him to it – keep climbing sucker.
The fast guys gave me a run for my tin of dog food – Glyn Kindergarten Kop, Limp Toed certainly aint limp.
Back at the circle, I was last dog in again : I need to ditch the bitch. Doesn’t Shaggy ever think to bring water for me. Turd on a Rope has UP yer Bum under control. Water: hoorah!
One Hung Low was shooting away at everyone so I slunk over to his car and cocked a leg – what the hell I’d already fouled the trail.
Next, this guy they call the RA (more like Father Ted’s deranged cousin) came home from exile in Bangkok emerged with some crack whores knickers on his head. Claiming he was 45 again – the religious git had picked up Alzheimer’s on his travels.
There’s no cream for the number of runs he’d done, still the whole circle celebrated some fact with a Birthday cake. I started growling and barking, well frankly I was bored – what beggars belief is the number of down downs they can get though without so much as a thought for my welfare.
So Septic got a well earned virgin hashers 8. Was I wagging my tail?
I was dragged off to the van once again whilst the smell of roasting pork and marinating chicken drifted out on a chilly autumn night. All I could hear was “pork, tripe, pork who wants soup, hands up for food.” I fell asleep dreaming of a doggy bag, and police cars chasing this pack over the hills.
On On (grrrr)
