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NEXT RUN N°800 11/10/2015

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Run Report 799 San Remo, Italy

Hares Cumalot and Undergrowth (and a dash of Jobsworth)

For all the British people we have the equivalent of, Not the Nine o'clock News.


For all those not blessed in this way, we have..............

Not, The Away Weekend.
Not, The 800 th. run
Not, The Porquerolles.
Not a discovery run. ( You need the minutes of the A.G.P.U. meeting to understand that reference.)
Not in France.

Or the Goldilocks run.
Not too hot, not too cold but just right.

We have a small window of opportunity here, of about three runs, where all the moaning people can not complain. (You want a bet, Ed.)

Last run it was too hot. and in three runs time I expect there will complaints that it is too cold (Although there were a few complaints about the number of steps.)

This probably explains why we had a good turn out in Italy. (Not the steps,Ed.) Or, maybe it did not.

We had local resident Wuff Diva and new pooch to accompany her and a local Virgin, L. Ina (Say it with an Italian accent as I do not know how to spell it.) introduced by Toss Pot.

At least there will be no more need for any of this..................

So, we all meet up at the correct place, at the correct time and without any problems even though we were given cryptic directions to the start location.

(Maybe the usual suspect never even made it to the start, Ed.)

Even the antipodeans arrived in time to buy Padre a pint before the start.

I think it was a cunning stunt, (I think I have that the right way around) to slow him down to Suck On's speed. Maybe we should show the following to Suck On...........

So, off we go, on time but missing Padre, but as he is always insisting the run starts on time, who cares to where he has disappeared?

The runners chug along the seafront, with the walkers going in the opposite direction into the town centre to look at the shops, or whatever it is the walkers do, led by the press ganged Undergrowth. When we, the runners, reach the end of the road we are faced by the choice of an open gate leading onto the beach, or a right angle turn into the town. Now we have a problem. Straight onto the beach will probable be a dead end but an opportunity to see the poor people who can only afford half a bikini or turn left heading for walkers.

Those that chose the beach made the right choice. There was some serious Italian bling on display here.

The Pilchard putting all his military training to good use was first onto the beach to reconnoiter. and, not sure he was going the right way took his time crossing the stream looking left and right and up and down and then looking some more.

At least he did not take his shoes off this time.

No Satisfaction looked like she was on a high wire 2000ft up given the way she gingerly transversed over the ragging torrent, in her mind, but in reality. a gently stream (He he) suitable for Pooh sticks, if you know what I mean?

At the end of the beach we swing up the incline, into the rabbit warren which is typical of all the Italian port villages and follow a meandering trail in and out of the public parks heading back towards the city centre. We are now looking to go inland but the devious Hare has us continuing along the sea front, so all his false trails are run, plus some of those not marked. It was about here we lost contact with Suck On but as he has previous form nobody worried about where he was heading. His Australian compass obviously had not been re-calibrated Have you ever wondered why runners appear skinny?

You see, it is an optical illusion, they weigh the same as the fat people. I digress. If you know San Remo we are now running towards France past the Russian church. (Shurley shome mishtake, Ed.)

Lonely appears, once more, from some strange direction which is nowhere near the trail. I think he was doing his own site- seeing tour of the town at the same time. He probably popped into the church for the Russian equivalent of 10 Hail Marys and a Glory Be.

Another km. and hurrah, we start to go up, which we conclude is the only logical place where the beer stop can be located.

We figured the beer stop was near.

The joy was short lived as we saw the never ending flight of steps in front of us.It felt a bit like this...............


I think this is where Jon Buchan first got his idea for his book, "The Thirty Nine Steps."

I just wished there were only 39 and not 39 to the power of three. How can you have so much up in one place? I bet Little Pinkie wished he had stayed on the Golf Course.

At least he did not have to suffer watching Brentford lose 2 - 0 to Birmingham. If you are reading this, Little Pinkie, sorry for the reference.

Either way, for him, it was a painful weekend.

An ancient saying my Great Grandmother told me as she was recovering in hospital after falling off her skateboard sprang to mind.

Arriving at base camp we find the Sherpas, Paedophil and The Duchess have the beer car in position with the Ladies Walking Brigade already getting stuck into the chips, peanuts and wine. All I want is a cool beer.

Much talk, most of it irrelevant except for the rugby which engaged Prestressed and Padre who were both doubtful if England would even make the next round.

By the time you read this England will probably be the first host country not to make the playoff rounds. I am writing this before the game has been played. I need to get some Castlemain or XXXX beer in. As we leave the beer stop Sadist decided to join the runners, but, as the operation on his knee was not as successful as it should have been and only one leg working, he ran in a big circle around the church to join up, once more, with the L.W.B.

Meanwhile,Cumalot was trying to recruit more new members, specifically Ukrainian ladies to accompany Spanish Fly's friend who didn't speak any English or French. I'm pleased to say that international playboy Cumalot was successful in his mission.

Let us hope The Duchess' new joint works better than this. (Under the knife last Tuesday. Ed.) Let us hope he can now move in straight lines, turn circles and more importantly be pain free.

From here is was more or less straight down the other side of the hill, apart from two or three devious checks which had L. Ina running the wrong way on several occasions with Cumalot laughing gleefully at the virgins misfortune and then a longish run into the finish.

A very enjoyable run, varied foreign terrain and only 10.25 or 10.75 km. depending on whether you took Prestressed's measurement or The Pilchards.

(If you took Lonely's it probably would have been nearer 15km. Ed.)

The circle was a lively affair, which is another way of saying Cumalot could not control Suck On, Padre and Paedophil, or that the participants with fun bumps were continually talking.

How can they talk so much? They had more than an hour to do all that on the Walking Trail.

Proceeding were livened up somewhat by a guest appearance by a renown ex Hasher, although he forgot to take his had out of his pocket and was given an extra, welcomed, Down Down.

We even had a guest straight from the German Beer Festival to demonstrate the correct way to do a Down Down from a New Shoe.

The Shit of the week winner; Padre nominated for something unimportant but anyway, he does not need an excuse for a beer. However, he was stitched up and given a Panache which should have been a punishable offence in my opinion.

Expertly administer by the virgin in the funny hat.

And second place awarded to Wuff Diva. Padre contends that Zimbabwean voting practices were in place for her not to win and that the Panache was intended for her.

Then it is Whacky Races across town to the C*malot Restaurant, (I kid you not. Ed.) to partake of a traditional Italian Sunday Lunch.

The owners of the place have a secret which the hide from their regular clientele which is, they have members of their family which are Hashers.

Hence, we were well looked after. Plenty of wine, all colours, sparkling and still water and good Italian food served with coffee and a smile. Especially for Undergrowth from the delightful Bambino who definitely took a fancy to him. Not sure he even noticed though.

Duchess you may want to correct the Italian here. When I looked at Babel Fish for, "Young girl," it said, "Giovane ragazza."

She did, definitely not, have a Rag Azza.

Loosely translated...

This cookbook does not explain things very well; "For stuffed Guinea, fowl begin by opening the thighs on the kitchen bench", it seems a bit strange.

And so ends another splendid Hash meeting.

Something for you to think about with the clocks changing in a few weeks time.

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R*n 800: NEXT HASH 11 - Oct