Oxford HHH 570 observations

I don’t normally delve into anthropology of primitive cultures but I have had several brushes with the groups, worldwide, known as Hash House Harriers and my recent move to Oxfordshire has, once again, put me in harms way.  Documentation for posterity seems the only responsible action.

This was my second encounter with the social primates that label themselves ‘Oxford Hash House Harriers,’ and I must admit to more than a modicum of apprehension.  This was not least due to my guide’s chosen meeting place, a burnt out pub down the notoriously violent Southside of Oxford where gangs of marauding academics on their two wheeled suicide contraptions speed by regularly, all menace and doom.  I was greeted there by another of this tribe, one who called himself ‘WebF@rt,’ kitted out in the sort of running attire more often donned for humourous effect by denizens of Birmingham or the less toney parts of Essex; however, there seemed to be no irony in his grim countenance and I merely nodded agreement with his almost too obvious assessments of the weather.

Lit as a cathedral might be, or a third world prison, or a hospital for the criminally insane, I found the Fox and Hounds as covertly instructed by Far Canal

A motor vehicle arrived and the driver gestured strangely and furiously for us–could it be?–to enter his vehicle and we both instinctively did so.  The traffic light changed and the driver immediately plowed onto the pedestrian pavement in front of the defunct boozer and backed the motor against the wall, stating that, ‘we have to wait for pink pussy, here.’  Blimey, I thought, what have I gotten myself into now?  It seemed best to introduce myself and I was relieved to find that the driver was indeed my local host, Far Canal, and that said Pink Pussy was another member of the extended family unit in this ‘kennel,’ as the collective name for hashers appears to be.

The long and strange journey that followed the arrival of Ms. Pink found us deep in the Oxfordshire wilderness in a village called Milton.  I shall recount the drinking establishment’s pro’s and con’s at another time, but suffice it to say the publican seemed stunned at the invasion of 20 to 30 oddly attired (even more so than Mr. F@rt) members of this, erm, I’ll call it a society for lack of a better term.

Sidling up to a table of the assembled membership, I was surprised to recognise so many faces not only from my initial foray with this lot but also from a weekend reacquaintancing with the rituals I managed to make it to with the Bicester HHH on Sunday.  Prima face, one might be forgiven for thinking that there is a bit of cross pollination implied, but the odd behaviour and the grunts and howls that make up the rudimentary language of these creatures bring one to the realisation that incest and not diversity is the order of the day.  Suddenly, I felt more comfortable.

This comfort was not to last, though, and the crowd arose without warning and headed out of the drinking establishment and soon I found myself dashing about the nearby industrial estate screaming with the others at any signs of flour (indeed, cooking flour) left on the pavements or, eventually, in fields and alleyways.  Quite mysteriously, we came to a halt in the awesome and ominous glow of the Didcot power station’s cooling towers and milled about a circle drawn in the weeds with yet more flour.  This denigration of baking seemed especially odd at the time, but I later learned that the use of grains and yeast has a far more important purpose to these cultists.

Fight or flight, the terror (and the powerful thirst) keeps you going

The mock hunt that seemed to carry on endlessly was wearing thin when I discovered a trail leading along the walls of a stately home.  As I emerged from the far end of this path, I found a number of the original pack, bathed in the security lighting of the manor house, gathered about a cauldron of some sort of soupy commestible.  The one called ‘Gadget’ offered me a paper bowl of the gruel which immediately wilted the bowl; ‘you have to put your hand under it,’ he barked at another celebrant and I have to assume (for my own peace of mind) that he was referring to the floppy bowl and not some part of the anatomy.  This repast was especially delicious, though, and I suspect it was laced with some sort of neurotoxin because after consuming it and washing it down with several of the canned beverages on the portable altar nearby, I began to feel strangely relaxed.

But, nothing lasts forever with this odd band and as soon as the last of the wayward members found their way back to the feast the food was ported to a vehicle nearby (I had just enough time to grab a chocolate filled berliner and note how much it, in combination with the warm beer, made me nostalgic for home: ‘just like mom used to make,’ I tearfully reminisced.

What followed was strange and delightful in equal measure, with people called before the assemble court and rewarded for acts of heroism, punished for crimes against the hash, and sometimes for both.  Each incident was serenaded with song, and unlike some of the similar groups I have seen here there was a variety and even an appropriateness to the choice of each chant.  And then, it was over and the crowd retired back to the pub and the members metamorphosed into almost human forms discussing such civilised topics as home and work (one member, a ‘Rasher,’ was rumoured to have entered some form of indentured servitude and this was toasted heartily).

Magnificent beasts!