Ronda 2000th Away Weekend Run # 2000 & 2001 17th & 18th January 2026
Run 2000 & 2001
Location: Ronda
Hares: Saturday Sir Flakey & El pulpo & Ruad
Hares: Sunday Blanka Wanka & From Behind
Visitors: plenty
Virgins: Two
Pack size: 120+
Score 9.9 For the whole weekend
Sunday Morning = The Hangover
What follows is my best attempt to reconstruct the events of the Mijas Hash House Harriers’ 2000th run.
Nobody quite remembers what happened as everyone woke up confused and blurry. Hotel rooms had inexplicably changed floors and room numbers appeared on different doors.
Hash shirts were abandoned along corridors along with mismatching trainers, phones, keys and glasses missing.
Empty bottles of cava everywhere.
Snoring… and occasional singing… drifted from open windows onto the quiet streets of Ronda.
Somewhere, a lone voice called out tunelessly:
“So goooood… so goooood…”
If you got naked, are over 60, and attended this weekend, I will now attempt to alleviate your amnesia.
If you were there and don’t want to know. STOP READING NOW.
NB. Although I tried to gather eyewitness accounts, most witnesses were still drunk, so this report should NOT be relied upon in court.
It started when the original hares of 1989, decided to convene in Ronda as if answering an ancient and deeply absurd prophecy. One that spoke of beer and very poor decision-making.
Sir Flakey (our esteemed stalwart of nearly 40 years) summoned forth:
El Pulpo
Rat Up A Drainpipe
Five Mill
Salmonella Rushdie
Dipper
…and various other floundering members of the Mijas Hash who should know better by now.
The weekend’s trails were entrusted to the hares and dedicated committee members Blanca Wanka and From Behind, who confidently assured everyone they had planned a very average weekend. This later proved to be an outright lie.
The International Hashers’ Invasion of Ronda is now documented by the blurry eyed.
Before the chaos, Ronda in January was peacefully hibernating. Locals were in bed by 9pm. The Guardia Civil played cards with nothing to do.
Then 120 hashers arrived.
The hotel was almost entirely taken over by a marauding pack of degenerates, predominantly of the geriatric variety. Arriving from Portugal, France, Morocco, Sweden, Switzerland, the UK, America, Russia…
…and rowing in on long boats, the Vikings. There are always Vikings.
And the Germans because when one German drinks, all Germans drink.
Blown A Seal and Alex Alex (who the fuck is Alex?) brought their dog into the NO DOGS ALLOWED Hotel and briefly attempted to establish a puppy farm in the basement car park.
Titanic duly obliged by producing her puppies who immediately pissed and shat on the valet’s shoes. Ronda never quite recovered particularly, after the Friday Night:
Pre-Lube
Hashers lubricated themselves enthusiastically with Spanish vino and cerveza, making themselves known to every local hostelry. By nightfall, the Irish Bar known as Heaven had been stormed and drunk dry.
The pre-lube pub crawl, degenerated into a roaming street circus featuring:
• smiley-face stickers on foreheads and faces
• sunglasses worn indoors
• people shouting “ON-ON” at confused tapas waiters
Some staggered off into campsites with no tents.
Several were last seen heading toward Airbnbs they would never find again. Most sensible hashers booked the hotel so they could form a human chain, holding hands to locate their rooms.
Friday night alone guaranteed Hangover Number One and by Saturday morning.
Purses were lost. Passports lost.
Minds were lost.
Marbles were completely mislaid.
Meanwhile that morning… The Hares plotted the trail.
While harriers were still arriving, the two elderly masterminds Sir Flakey and El Pulpo were busy getting confused.
“How do you want to fuck them over?” asked Flakey
“Well,” replied El Pulpo, “that vertical drop looks like a good start.” and off they strolled, while the hotel manager phoned the local hospital to ask whether the mental ward could accommodate an imminent influx of patients wearing hash shirts.
Several priests were placed on standby.
Saturday: The Circle of Lost Sobriety
Out on Plaza del Cono or Pussy Square for those unfamiliar with Ronda, locals looked on in horror as hashers attempted warm-ups.
GM Sandra Bollock, in her fiercest Scottish accent, called the circle to order and threatened all of us 120 clowns with her Glaswegian Kiss.
As she demanded Hash hush, astonishingly… we obeyed. Our eyes were blurry.
The hares directions meaningless.
They were still arguing over where they’d marked the trail, despite allegedly marking it.
Suxit couldn’t see anything anyway, thanks to smiley stickers plastered across his glasses.
The Vikings (already accustomed to swimming naked in Rick O’Shea’s pool) proved once again that when one Viking drinks…all Vikings drink.
The Run Itself (or Something Like It)
The trail led over the bridge El Pointe del "Conyoooooooooo! and down endless steps into the valley below. Runners and walkers paused to look back up at the town clinging vertically above them, wondering which life choices had led here.
The scenery was spectacular and the hares attempted to throw us off the ravine and onto the rocks below.
El Pulpo, who had only just set the trail could not remember where he had set it…even while standing on it.
Sherry from Jerez was imported by mule and ferried down the ravine and the Hashers descended upon it like rabid dogs on a fresh camel. Demands for more followed and the hashers staggered willingly to the next Beer Stop.
Manchego cheese, healthy crisps, vino, cava, beer and cider sustained the pack on the climb out. Although, if it were summer, casualties would have been significant and hospital beds filled.
Those with the strongest constitutions wandered toward Santiago de Compostela, or at least a nearby Camino, where Septic Scrotum and Cums More Often compared their near-death experiences.
Eventually, the slowest found their way back to the circle, and the down downs escalated along with the jokes. Thank goodness for international diplomacy!
The Germans received the traditional song:
Two world wars and one world cup.
The French were honoured for their cultural commitment to no knickers.
French Erection confirmed what Kinder already knew.
Kenny Rogers from Sweden sang lustily with Radio KaKa, setting the scene for later events best not detailed with two more blonde bombshells.
Butplug, 69 years young, was ceremonially waterboarded with beer and asked for more. He has signed up for the next hash event already.
Dipper produced his cock , unseen for many years, including by his wife Gobichov.
Prompting several hashers to volunteer assistance with pre-lube duties for the evening’s karaoke.
Clonk confessed to entertaining his future ex-wife Gangbang in the back of a pickup truck while the puppies howled into the night.
More debauchery ensued along with beer, laughter and more beer.
Saturday Night: ON-ON
At 19:00, cava appeared.
Thus began the ON-ON.
If Heineken did Hash parties, they still wouldn’t come close to a Mijas knees-up. From the sumptuous surroundings of our internal basement complete with soundproofing, padding and padlocks, we extracted every last drop of frivolity.
Even the Spanish Inquisition could not have forced more merriment from that room.
The singing got louder.
The dancing violated several planning regulations.
Hospital staff were rotated onto overtime.
Hotel staff hid under tables.
Self-induced down-downs continued until details became unreliable. Accounts vary.
What truly happened will never be known. Unless our intrepid newscaster BJ from a DJ has the classified file.
Crooner 19 and Two Dogs Fucking became legends for the night and are currently negotiating contracts with Simon Cowell and Andrew Lloyd Webber as I write.
The Aftermath
Despite the mass hangover, friendships were formed and stories were created. Mostly, fabricated.
Our global family was reminded why we do this ridiculous thing called hashing.
United by beer. Bound by bad decisions.
Proud to be part of it all.
If this is what 2000 runs looks like…Let’s get it on for the 2001st.
