Having arranged the red-eye flight, Daffadildo, Bastard and Jenny promptly missed it and had to re-arrange for a more appropriate time for hashers – 4.30 in the afternoon. This gave them ample time for a full English breakfast, liquid lunch and another chance to make it to the airport in time to actually catch the plane. After landing, they walked around the airport for a while before they figured out where the train station was. The instructions from airport to Torremuelle, were pretty straight forward even though none of the collective spoke Spanish. Daffy marked a trail with chalk for the less capable hashers (all of them!). The next day dawned bright and bleary and a trip to Malaga was planned. Daffy and Bastard surprised Jenny by actually wanting to go see some culture! So we did the Picasso museum. It was great to see some of the masters’ finest works like “Willyman”, a picture that almost got us thrown out ‘cause we were laughing too hard over childish comments made. Like all true hashers, the pull of the bar (any bar) became too great to bear.
On returning to the Hotel – kindly organised at a good price by Spermaid, our Lady in Malaga, a posse of hashers were spotted – Muthatuka, Goldflinger, Potty, Taxidermist, Penguin and the Earl & Countess of Pampisford - and things started to get seriously liquid – except for Taxi who had trained so hard he couldn’t drink any more! Actually he claimed to get drunk and sober several times through the course of the meal of dinosaur. Taxi also attributed his overall well being to the healing effects of the digestif called ‘43’, something that was introduced and enjoyed by all and sundry who had to agree to the point of self-destruction!
Friday started well with another trip into Malaga where we managed to meet up with the Brigadier, Benghazi, Great White Hope and Yellow Peril stumbling along the road. Suddenly the heavens opened and we were forced into another bar to take refuge (although rumour has it that GWH was rescued by the timely discovery of a bin liner to stop his pacemaker getting wet and shorting out!). After 3 hours of serious refuge it was decided to risk the world again – silly really as the rain was not to let up for quite a few days. Daffy and Mutha had the right idea and went ‘team drinking’ - without their coach! We all managed to meet up in the oldest bar in Malaga where the Malaga Boqueron Hash were already ensconced. This bar is famous for its wine – but don’t ask me why as it reminded me of my brother’s homebrew! Daffy surpassed himself as the prettiest girl in the bar came over to chat him up. Sadly, he was so drunk on absinthe that she gave up almost immediately and turned her attention to Mutha and Bastard (so, there is a god after all!).
Saturday – raining again, so the swimming pool is closed! Apparently if you swim when it’s raining they have to clean the pool out. The weather had eased off by 4pm so it was OnOn to Malaga as guests of the Malaga Boqueron Hash. An interesting trail through storm drains that were full of, well, storm and building sites and what probably passes for shiggy in Spain. The highlight for some was fording a creek next to the brown grey sea, in what transpired to be the local gay pick up point. As they say ‘If the vans a’rocken then don’t come knocken’. This really works in Spain I can tell you (although their version is different!). Wobbly Bob conducted the circle, ensuring he got Mojacar back for last year. Then it was ON back to the Hotel to prepare for the meal. This was where it all started to go a bit blurry for me (so I managed longer than last year!). One thing that I do remember is don’t leave your digital camera unattended around Hashers, you never know what will show up on it. Especially if there is a hen night going on in the same room with Daffy and various members of the Malaga Hash deciding to brighten up their evening with an impromptu version of the Full Monty (he just had to get his pecker out!).
On Sunday we set off for Mojacar by any means necessary but most of us drove. The majority of us booked into the Esquinica on Taxi’s recommendation. A quaint little place that leaked and flooded when you took a shower. This was especially the case for Goldflinger who stayed in an indoor swimming pool with floor mounted electric heater! He didn’t sleep too well unfortunately, his room flooded while he kipped, soaking everything he possessed. There was much laundry hanging on the roof the next day. It took him days to dry out. The upside was the cheap rent so there were no overall complaints by the end. Registration was at Gordon’s which caused - more blurry bits – can’t even remember eating anything (probably because we were drinking)! Most managed to consume some food in Mark’s Bar, one of the few places opened. This was where Penguin met Cecilia and persuaded her to come running with us – what a coup! We felt sorry for the girl because she was sandwiched between Potty and Penguin all evening. This was one of the last sightings of Potty who spent the rest of the time drunkenly trying to seduce various (old) locals whilst surviving on a purely liquid diet. Did anyone actually see him eat anything? Tootuff over-trained and passed out on the comfy concrete bench next to his in-laws. Steve’s young son, Harrison, got extremely pissed and tried to pick a fight with everyone in Mark’s Bar and then proceeded to try to seduce Smuttley’s daughter. Later, Daffy and Benghazi managed to wake everyone up in the Esquinica at 3:30 in the morning by singing “Oley Oley” at the top of their lungs; at least we all slept better knowing that they got back safe!
Monday and it was breakfast and lunch at the Esquinica – fortunately I could look at last years photos to make it all come back! The Brigadier and Benghazi had surpassed themselves with a wonderful run through the hills outside the village and the weather even risked some sunlight – but not too much for the pasty skinned Brits. Most of the front runners got to the circle with their legs cut to ribbons by the local fauna. The SCB’s definitely showed their intellect by getting to the circle first and in one piece. The circle was held beneath the radio mast and went on for hours. Taxi was dressed as a snake, Potty had found the costume hanging in his wardrobe and it was ‘borrowed’ for the festivities. There were many down-downs for various misdemeanours. Goldflinger regaled the last of the pack from his vast horde of hash songs. The evening finished with a curry at Gordon’s and music from Ekhart and his chum. Much beer was probably consumed but memory seems to fade. It was Chikki's turn to pass out at the bar tonight, what is with these hashers from Quorn? Can’t manage to stay awake at the pub!
Tuesday and it was breakfast and lunch at the Esquinica – see previous paragraph. Mutha and Cecila managed to slip out in the early hours and headed out into the great unknown, which was the local spaghetti western set for her - and hashing Madrid for him. This apparently deserves its own chapter, but roughly involved conspicuous consumption and watching hotels being blown up from a bar TV over breakfast.
Most of the assembled masses managed to do some drinking and sight seeing during the day. Then, at 3pm the Harriette’s, in lovely pink t-shirts provided a killer hangover run that went all round the village – mostly up I seem to remember. Finally we arrived at the terrace at the top of the hill where the Brigadier handed out down-downs for the most spurious reasons. Penguin serenaded us with a fine song and Puff did his fire eating tricks again after being snowed in yesterday (this was Spain don’t forget).
By Wednesday it was almost warm and our clothes were nearly dry. It’s hard to believe that it only rains in this part of Spain about 10 days a year. We managed to be there for four of them. We all walked down to the beach for a late lunch and then came the now traditional boules a la Taxidermist. A great farewell dinner was held in the Desert Wind. And everyone swore undying love etc before buggering off home to get over the hangovers. Our motley crew returned to Malaga to find a cheap hotel for the night for our flight the next day. We discovered the best restaurant of the holiday where an enormous meal was ordered to the dismay of the patron. Eventually Potty rolled in to join us and we invited him to risk some solid sustenance for the first time in a couple of weeks. At this point el patron came over and enquired whether we were being hassled by ‘il vagrante’! We ashamedly admitted he was with us and he was allowed to finish his scraps.
All in all a splendid event and just how hashing should be – although circumstances mean that my view is more than slightly rose-coloured.
