Run - 2009 - 15th March 2026 Paddy’s Day & Mothers Day Run
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https://loc.wiki/t/254367401?h=3z5ldgy8pq&wa=sd&la=en (Mijas H3 St Patrick's day run #2010 Torreblanca)
Run 2009
March 15th 2026 Paddy’s Day & Mothers Day Run
Hares: Breast Stroke & Sir Flakey
Pack Size 51 + 2 Hares
Virgin: Jojo
Anniversarios: Just Emma 5, 3 Minutes Puttitat 15, Little Big Horn 30, Niagara Fanny Falls 60, Cums More Often 85, Rick O’shea 185, Pisster Bradwee 195, Jerry Can 400, Karma Chameleon 540, Kinder 615, Stiffanny 635, Sir Flakey 815, Mummys Boy 890.
St PADDY’S DAY(ISH) HASH
SUNDAY 15 MAR 2026 LOS PACOS/TORREBLANCA
HARES: BREAST STROKE & SIR FLAKEY
PICTURE the scene: with all the typical characteristics of premature ejaculation, the Hash met two days early to squirt itself abundantly over the Torrewanker countryside. A motley crew, the vast majority sporting suitably (and in some cases unsuitably) green attire. (Noteworthy here for his Oirish colour blindness was Mr McKenzie (name check) who was subsequently pilloried in the Circle for his shameful lack of participation). Indeed, Rick O’Shea had gone so far as to disguise himself as a living leprechaun, albeit one with a gaping crotch - no doubt to facilitate access to his viridescent dick in case of emergency.. Many wore headgear closely associated with a famous Irish drinks brand; though your Scribe was rather nattily crowned - if he says so himself - by a generously wide-mouthed bullfrog, in honour of some theme best known only to himself.
Anyway, the usual introductions dealt with, off we all dribbled into the blazing sunshine, down dale, then up and up and up and up etc, etc, over the road bridge, then more up, to a cunningly conceived checkpoint, which gradually led through verdant and vibrant campo to the traditional platform at the midpoint of Torreblanca where the cognoscenti of many years’ experience verily expected (or more properly, hoped) to find the Beerstop.. Did we? Fuck did we!
Those manic hares dragged us on yet more up, before looping the pack down to the motorway where a veritable feast lay spread before us (no, not just Stiffanny and Sarah Bollocks) - including, though not exclusively, sausage rolls, gluten free sausage rolls, gluten filled sausage rolls, vegetarian sausage rolls, vegan sausage rolls, cheesy sausage rolls, fifty-seven varieties of crisps, cava, wine, bolstered by sweetmeats of every hue and consistency..
[SCRIBE’S NOTE: FFS, when did the Hash become so fucking PRECIOUS? When I were a wee Hasher, all we ’ad was beer, maybe a drop o’ water, and a bloody great bag of stale crisps from t’week before . Bloody nonces!.] But I digress.
One slightly amusing anecdote I recall at this point was the fuming Frenchie who was clearly apoplectic at a group of evil ‘étrangers’ daring to enjoy themselves outside his bijou hovel, and made a deeply ostentatious display of calling the local constabulary on his outraged cellphone.. But I digress further.
Duly replete with poofter fare (OK, so it was rather delicious ), your Scribe burst manfully into pole position - geddit? phnoooaarr, phnoooaarr - and nobly led the belching pack through the few mortal remains of virgin countryside in Upper Torreblanca, by trails and shiggy measureless to man, whilst gallantly helping (the horniest) maidens down cliff faces fit only for mountain goats. What a star! But once again I digress.
Perhaps you will allow your aged Scribe another aside at this moment in time. Thirty seven years ago it would have been impossible to crisscross this same area north of Los Pacos without encountering at least one Finn totally bolloxed on vodka wandering about in complete and utter stupefaction. Indeed, they would often stare bemusedly at our beer stops until offered a drink themselves. What has happened to this worthy generation of Finnish pissheads, your Scribe wonders? Oh well, such is cirrhosis of the liver, he supposes.
Back at the Circle, that sexy little minx Sandra Bollocks did her thang, followed by Colonic with his ice cube and Rick O’Shea with his grotesquely swollen fly. And something about Mothers (fucking?).
Happily though for you, dear Reader, your Scribe had by this time imbibed one too many of the black nectars and the entire process became somewhat hazy in the Fog of War [SCRIBE’S NOTE - many thanks to that nice temperate Mr Hegseth for reminding me of that one..]
Yes, I was very, very, drunk…
My chauffeuse then took me to a highly dubious Oirish outpost on the seafront where more dark nectar miraculously appeared and disappeared.
Full marks (well, 8.7 according to MB, our human computer) to the Hares for a most spirited afternoon.
But most of all, many thanks to you, my loyal readers, without whom none of this would have been possible. I love you all.
Your Scribe,
DIPPER
PS Your Scribe may temporarily have mislaid the stats but will endeavour to upload these as soon as humanly possible.
