Yes, we know it's a picture of the 2009 committe,
but this year's committee are far too ugly to show here.
As usual it seems as though half of the pack has ended up on the committee. Hopefully at least one of them
will be able to organise the proverbial drinking fest in a place that actually makes the stuff. Here are
the unfortunate victims that have been pressganged voted in for 2010.
The guv’nor, big cheese, fat cat. The guy in charge who takes all of the juicy bonuses, then retires on a big fat pension when the whole stack of cards comes tumbling down.
Seemingly an appropriate title for the hash. The Joint Master gets to take the juicy bonuses when the GM is not around. These are sometimes known as the left-overs.
Need a social life? Then Social Sex will organise one for you. Christmas Parties - any time of the year, they don’t care. Trips to the theatre - including ones outside Soho if you so desire. Wine tasting/guzzling evenings (the sort that Tango would never miss - except for hospitalisation), and away weekends spent under canvas / under the table / under someone else.
Yes, we take religion very seriously in London Hash. Our church is The Circle, and the RA is the most holey of holey ones. Every hash he whips his congregation into a frenzy of hymn singing (classics such as and Bullshit and Born Illegitimate). The noble duties performed by the RA include the bestowing of down-downs upon deserving members of his flock, and the sprinkling of virgins with enlightenment (light ale) in sacred baptism. Gratefully they receive the hash names that they will cherish close to their hearts for the rest of their lives (like Butt Plug and Ratshit).
Our Hash Cash are wizards of the highest order. Like a wisp of smoke they will sweep around the bar room, casting spells and weaving charms. Like magic that pound that you were going to spend on a beer will vanish from your hand, never to be seen again.
The On Sec is our email fairy. Casting electronic words of wisdom into email boxes far and wide. Kind words of hope and pity to potential hashers, promising that we are their salvation. Runlists promising joy and fulfillment and hope for the future for all that read them.
Our haberdasher is a small hunchbacked goblin that we employ to sell our hash wares. For a handful of stale breadcrumbs, and maybe a shilling if she promises to wash, she thanklessly drags with her a large bag of hash T-shirts and sweatshirts. Her wares really are very good, and sometimes, as a treat, we put her outside where she can torment the rats and the hoodies.
The treasurer is our wicked witch who guards our heap of hash gold. It gleams in flickering torchlight in a vault deep in the bowels of the Bank of England. Here he cackles as he stoops over his bubbling cauldron, with a large rat crouched by his side. With venomous threats and evil curses he fends off the pleading Gordon Brown who begs him to let him use our precious gold to bail out the economy.
The Hare Raiser is our master of persuasion. Cloaked and masked and wielding a blunderbuss, he will steal your name and score it onto a tombstone. From then your soul is his, until your duties as a hare are over. Then he will cast you aside and ride off into the night with a hollow laugh and a crack of lightening.
The abacus is the preserve of our Hash Stats. With giggles and glee he hunches over his prized device and flicks the beads run after run. Fifty runs, a hundred runs, two hundred runs. No anniversary will pass him by, and into The Circle you will go.
Our Edit Hare was once the terror of the murky streets and sinister alleyways of victorian London. In those terrible days she would sink her scalpel deep into soft white flesh still warm from the kill. Now she mercilessly hunts down run reports wherever they may hide, sending them screaming from corner and closet. With a slash of her scalpel she smears their intestines into the gruesome and perverted art that we now know as On Paper - our hash magazine.
Our Webshite is bloke with a big white bushy beard that sits on a cloud and casts thunderbolts at all who cross him. He is responsible for the maintenance of our web presence, and is a connoisseur of talking absolute shite - see all of the above.