Welcome to our website

 

The Hash has been described as a drinking club with a running problem which requires from its members only running shoes, a sense of the ridiculous and half a mind.

Hashing is healthy, energetic and fun. It is a sociable way of spending a few hours a week, enjoying the local scenery, the flora and fauna and indulging in the Hash rituals, known only unto Hash members.  

There is great amusement to be had among Hashers - special Hash names, funny routines and antics ranging from the comic to the utterly barmy, added to which, various forms of liquid refreshment make it all extremely palatable, not to say addictive.

Follow the highlights of the last Hash in words and pictures and learn more about the history and the current membership, ably led by the current Hash Honchos. You are welcome to join in the fun. You won’t regret it!          

 

 

CONTACTS :-

 

HOLLOW LEGS - GM

PHONE        

0066 (0) 32 442 141

MOBILE      

0066 (0) 87 932 332 7

E-Mail djvincent@yahoo.co.uk

 

 

DAVE THE RAVE - RA

PHONE        

0066 (0) 89 872974 6

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Find some pix at Hash Pix

Would you like to hare a hash?

See Old McDonald and offer a date!

CHA AM HASH HOUSE HARRIERS

The Hash took place on Saturday 5^th April 2008 at 5pm in the vicinity of Wattana Gardens near the Springfield Dams.

Hares: Cannonballs, Long Ron and Dave the Rave

 

The day was hot and humid as we all foregathered in our usual random fashion around the elegant shelter commemorating the royal initiative behind the construction of a network of reservoirs, one of which sparkled and glinted blue and silver before us, as it lapped the shore, framed nicely by the smooth green hills, a wild terrain, which stretched from the shore opposite to the Burmese border. The motley aggregation of heterogeneous personalities of all ages, races and creeds which we collectively describe, somewhat loosely, as hashers, wearing their usual makeshift disharmony of clashing, hashing gear, communed, in a form of disorganised chaos, around the meeting point and were somehow transported to a different level: The level where conversation, bonhomie and the ties that bind our common humanity all trickle reluctantly into one perhaps hesitant, perhaps wayward, but nevertheless not entirely repugnant tide in and around this beautiful spot. The Circle was called.

The Hares were Cannonballs, Long Ron and Dave the Rave. The idiots guide to trail markings had been etched dutifully in the grass in flour and Cannonballs amazed himself, and quite possibly all other creatures within hearing distance, by rehearsing, with a degree of coherence never hitherto attained (by him), the fairly obvious instructions, with the help of his newly acquired Aussie whistle and a Blue Peter doggy bag full of twigs, blue ribbon and coloured paper squares which had been carefully prepared for him earlier). Branches pretending to be snakes would be much in evidence on the trail but their bark was far worse than their bite (get it???!!!). Also we have never been able to curb long Ron’s inclination to cover everything he encounters with chalk arrows (one imagines that his house is thus copiously decorated, as well as his beautiful but long suffering wife, and possibly his clothes) and today was no exception.

The Hash juddered, or rather clunked, like a clapped out Heath-Robinson juggernaut, into action to the novel but welcome braying of the kangaroo horn, which Long Ron has been keeping in mothballs in his bottom drawer for a rainy day but has now brought out, much to our gratification, for Hash use. The Hash cranked up as only a cranky Hash can crank, with many a canny runner walking coyly and many a cunning short-cutter, adopting a holier than thou, ‘watch me I’m a model hasher’ facial expression, which failed completely to fool the RA: up a hillock and down a dip and then off into uneven bamboo forest, picking our way and running or walking on gravel and leaf-mould, which was slithery underfoot. Very little relief was afforded by the shade as the day was windless and steamy. Onto a wider track, skirting a little pond and then back into the forest setting, threading our way through close set bushes and trees with the occasional boulder or rocky outcrop. The trail had the wildly meandering pattern of a hasher who hares with a severe hangover from the night before, although this was vehemently denied by all but one Hare, the others claiming that meandering is good and, rather than a sign of insanity or, even worse senility, is more an indication of sophistication and Byzantine subtlety.

As we reached a wider track the trail divided in order to pander to the false pride and over-large egos of the runners and kid them into thinking that somehow the uphill precipitous, not to say downright hazardous, hill climb over rocks and through more bamboo, set for them, was somehow more challenging, demanding and, yes, superior to the easy peasy, mamby pamby little Sunday afternoon nature walk back to the Circle, set for the walkers.  This proved a teasing little diversion but not enough to slow down the avid front runners as the trail led through the colourful Wattana Gardens where the Bougainvillia was a riot of red, white, pink and gold, causing poetic rhapsodies in at least one hasher’s heat-fuddled half-brain, the source of poetic inspiration residing in most hashers somewhere above the head or below the ambulatory appendages – but not in his case. The ON IN sign, leading the hashers home along the blossoming banks of the klong, proved easy meat to the runners and meat and drink to the walkers, as all were spurred on by the tantalising prospect of amber nectar galore back at the Circle. And no one was, as usual and thanks to an excellent Beermaster, disappointed.

GM Hollowlegs roared for the Circle and then bestrode it like a raging Colossus, downing the Hares for a passable, if short, trail for which Cannonballs later pleaded a hot flush, brought on by the forthcoming prospect of his and Piste Again’s return to the Isle of Man where 75,000 alcoholics cling to a rock in the Irish Sea whilst a few sheep wander nervously about. There were a number of female Hash Virgins, always a sight to delight the jaundiced eye of the hardened and the cynical with the familiar male hasher’s half-brain in trousers syndrome. Visitors were downed, as were Returners. The RA then cited misdemeanours, including Cannonballs for breach of his promise of early morning tea, latecomers who must in future be on time, Mickey Mou for short-cutting, who then performed another of his Ice Shows with sang froid as well as aplomb and a distinctly frigid posterior – our famous Cha Am Ice Shows continue their summer programme - is there no end to Mickey’s frosty talents and ice cool demeanour, not to mention his frozen appendages? Then the GM bade aurevoir to Piste Again and Cannonballs and allowed him to present a rechargeable torch and whistles to the Hash, as well as a rather fetching yellow bandana to the GM who thanked him with a roar and then a somewhat coy, come hither fluttering of the eye lashes. The ON ON was announced to take place at a nearby hostelry and a good time was had by all.