Location,Location,Location

GPS set the trail among the Jebels which really pleased Rocky and Hot to Trot. In fact they enjoyed it so much they missed the 2nd trail and followed an old one miles and miles.The elder among us struggled up and down the jebels but the runners revelled in it.GPS remarkably got us back to the cars and our amber nectars. Comments were given by Rick and the spy was Rocky. He got all the ex Hashmasters in the circle and then proceeded to call in Klipe and let us all bucket the old rascal. On On.

1175

Seaweed wound us along long temporary roads to the flamingoless flamingo headland and island. After a traditionally obscured turn on the first trail, the hares performance was oddly impeccable: well marked, easily found, straight lines and *!@#$%* long!
Dangerously Klipe was probably for the last time until he returns to visit made spy. Seemed he was making up for all those chivalrous/misogynistic days when the fairer gender remained unbucketed, though revenge was vindicated on a few fellows too.
The sun set over the sea. And life was good.

The wet and the dry of it. (1174?)

Of course we wouldn't have expected anything other of Herr Tony than a little bit different. The first trail, or what remained after the tide had run the route beforehand, had us through jetsam flotsam, saltsand, and worse. Our hare was not going to let his solitary falsie go to waste, trumpeting the entire hash along the wrong before allowing us to tackle the echt 2nd. Several buglers later we were enticed INSIDE the palatial fence and a challenge -or distance - to find the way in. At the outset the conundrum posed was there is a wetand a dry On In. And so it developed into an almighty sprint/swim finish, those opting for the longer, dry route getting overtaken by the following shortcutters plunging into the sea and In In first.
Biffo talked himself to the top of fat-boy slim's spy list, some personal 'souvenirs' were awarded and GPS got what he deserved for lacing the bucket with ice.
The public promontory was happy as the sun fell red into the ocean.

Long long l..o..n..g.. very very lo.......n...........

Trust Morangie. Or rather, don't.
A moderate length he suggested. HA! Very HA!
We were down by the seaside just round the corner from the vanished palace.
The first trail was long. And soft. very long, very soft. The next trail took us still further out still. Swear we touched the beach club wall.
Kilometres, miles away the next took us knee deep in soft sand never mind the hillocks. Misty murmured never let GB loose with a full tin of paint.
Night fell and we found the 4th which culminated in a swim through fine sand up a tall 25% incline.
I'm sure the dawn chorus greeted us as we passed the picnic site while crawling our way On In.
Seeing the quench still had hours before he'd appear we helped him and administered to the parched.
There was just energy to name names and Misty to bucket the many.

1171: Sandpit

HM VC and Amy set a rather tortuous hash out by the picturesque Northern point of the Dukhan peninsula. Four trails were set on that fateful Saturday before the hash. Unaware were the hares that their efforts would be wiped out by the cruel Eastern winds of the Persian gulf.

The first trail was mercifully short in the face of the onslaught of fine sand making it's way into the mouths and noses of the brave hashers. Little were they to know that the next trail would be set along a calf and thigh punishing stretch of soft sand before ending in the welcome sight of two blue dots. The third trail was a crafty one, cutting diagonally across the field where experienced trail setters expected to find the dots. Hardened hashers of many tens of runs heard the call of the bugle from afar and ploughed onwards though they could not hope to catch the leaders less some great calamity befell them. Gregory, Tim, GPS and HTT forged onwards to find a poorly scrawled ON-IN written on a tyre. Gregory, in triumph called out to the hashers all around "ON-IN" and raced towards the cars. Gregory made it in first but soon it was made clear to him and his troupe that the ON-IN they read was not the true ON-IN but an ON-## placed there by the mischievous hares.

Comments were given by Miss Disgrace who was most complimentary about the run except for the sparseness of blue dots and shortness of the fourth trail.

First in was Scott of the frozen wastes to the North known as Aberdeen. He succeeded despite Cluseau's misguidance in reciting the words required of the first in.

Spy was one of our younger hashers, known either as Chip Stealer of Ella. She bucketed her father for obvious reasons and all of her friends for some social faux pas last week.

A name for Alastair Justice was chosen out of "The Doctor?", "Fatboy Slim", "Goatee",Some muppet character who played the trumpet http://muppet.wikia.com/wiki/Lips, and "Bell Boy http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quadrophenia. By majority vote, Fatboy Slim was chosen due to his shrinking belly.

The new hash quench learned a few valuable lessons about the alcohol capacity of the average hasher and we all made our merry way home.

Until next week hashers.

Don't have sandmares.

HTT

1170 SURVIVOR

Most that did were under teenage reflecting their exalted recovery powers. Phil (no longer a teenager) took the first live trail with the enthusiasm of a man possesed. Finally VC and Rx persuaded him to check in before we all died of dehydration. Momentarily 'Mike' brought us back - down and car wards - but turned us uphill again. Biffo the Blade (if I remember) had hardly any less mercy as the sun got hotter glaring its menacing heat off the bright sand. Twas still and the slithy hashers wilted in the borogrove. Thank goodness for the Palm Tree Fan who got us back in one piece.
We all wanted the bucket. Some were found stealing it as drinking water.
Thanks again to those wonderful hashers who get up the morning after the night before and tidy up all the mess of the night before the morning after.
On On

1169 The Camp Soixante Neuf

V.Comet and the newly anointed Hash Mattress led us a merry ankle snapping trot at our beach camp south of the picnic site. The humidity drained us of energy as we failed to find the on in. Until we did. On On the hares.
Suspicions were aroused as Klipe having chosen the site scarpered faster than you can say down down.
GPS and Chips led a lively and novel quiz, despite the attentions of the Wolfman, and all ended (by my reckoning) in a resounding draw.
Kluless followed his traditional chuckins with some bum-charades. Special mention has to go to the amazing(?) Snoop Dog.
The night, the beachside, the company, was magical. One by one we went to sleep; most abandoning hot steamy collapsed tents to snuggle up al fresco in the sand. The wind whistled and the hash snored.
Thanks to everyone.