Sydney Hash House Harriers – SH3

Back to the Future with an Aerodynamics Genius and a Fanatical Financial Money Magnet _______________________________________________________________
It’s a real wonder that we can enjoy such varied and contrasting runs around Sydney. But it also takes sizzling minds and dubious brains. In fact it actually requires mad geniuses and fanatical money minders, just as we had last Monday.
The venue was once an agricultural small holding with a homestead or ‘ranch’, as the Yankee Doodles would call it; later being rebuilt into the El Rancho….a watering hole and food barn for the low life of inner western Sydney-siders. Then it POSH’ed up its image and renamed itself The R A N C H for the growing number of “effluent” residents in the neighbourhood. My My, how impressive is that?
This was also run in memorium for our late and loved mate Coupla Weeks who was to have been our hare for the night. Luckily our very own mad Aerodynamics Genius stepped in and added his high flying touch for the night. But more on our mad genius and his money magnet mate later.
And with the witching hour of 6.30pm, 45 to 50 hashing libidos, egos and buckets of testosterone trundled their way into the dark across wet shiny tarmac, as there had been a sprinkling of rain shortly before the run start. Even the walkers looked intent of doing something like perambulating for the best part of an hour.
S Bendzzz tried to imitate, as closely as possible, the purposeful stride of Johnny Walker, famed of Scotch Whisky, but really, the spreading weight and not having a top hat or cream breaches was a dead give away.
The others pretended to run, until just out of site from the start, where were they were lured into a pedestrian underpass under the Epping Highway with the thought that they might be going back to Uni…Macquarie Uni. with the a choice of spunky lasses in their dreams of their youth. Sadly it seems that not many wanted to go back Uni,…. hardship living with only a few skimpy dollars in their pocket and clapped out bicycles for their transport put paid to that notion. Besides there was a check back which kept them on the south side of the Epping Highway.
The hares had scouted and marked out a trail using a series pocket parks, mini reserves, lane ways and side streets to keep the boys distracted and excercised for the best part of an hour. Sounds a little like the happenings in a cheap bordello, ..what?
It seems most probable that the hares has used a devious aerial device to pick out all the little twists and turns to keep the pack off the highways and byways …Because that just what they did.
Our Mad aerodynamic genius had launched himself into the sky using the most modern sky lifting devices known to hashing intelligentia to pick out the trail for the night. He merely lived up to his name (or is that namesake?). Up, Up and away in a …friggin …….BOX KITE.
Such is the mad genius of this Hashman he even invented the first flying plane using a series of Box Kites strung together and all powered by tying and twisting thousands of prototype heavy duty rubber condoms together to power a couple of little propellers.
Now, like all prototypes there are always those who will muscle in on a claim to make it their own,…… like of course another Pommie bastard called Lawrence Hargrave, who seeing the endless possibilities of opening up this antipodean land, emigrated to Australia, as part of his attempt to develop a manned flying machine.
Hargrave also linked several of his box kites together which he called Hargrave cells, creating sufficient lift for him to fly a whopping 16 ft (4.9 m) off the ground. This it was not nearly as good as the height which our own Box Kite achieved. But funnily enough, Lawrence Hargrave also looks like our own Box Kite when he is sporting his Clint Eastwood styled stubble, which he does from time to time. Refer to “Hash House Wiskas” report of 22nd April 2013.
Box Kite with …..errrr well his very first Box Kite prototype and as Box Kite will look like in a few years time …with a tie
Now…….Constructing box kites and funding a bird’s eye view of North Ryde from this dastardly machine was a deadly expensive venture and of course he required some of the old hard stuff from the bank, didn’t he?
So who did he turn to? His good and wealthy mate the one and only Fanatical Financial Money Magnet or Banker Wanker. We all know that it’s a sport to bag these banker Wanker types….like the following definition: -
Any one of the million or so neat neck-tied New York, Sydney, London or San Fran bankers, traders, and/or fast talking financial types who troll hip, posh bars or clubs claiming to actually be interested in art, culture, and the human condition when hitting on women otherwise way out of their league, but for their singular monetary standing. Usually spawned from one of those toff type universities.
But there is an exception to this rule and that is the Hash House POSH banker …a man whose substantial influence extends all the way to the Federal Treasury itself. Who else could get Box Kite’s personal image plastered all over a $20-00 note? No less than our very own Fanatical Financial Money Magnet or Banker Wanker mate. What a champion, and what a resource to the POSH hash.
And so with a good jaunt behind their legs and no complaints about the trail markings or where they had been, the boys dribbled back to the bucket with barely a bead of sweat between them. And this is meant to be a running club…..right? Obviously they’ve running away from what might be construed as too much hard work and exercise.
Now the cunning of the Banker Boy also shone through. Judging well, he surmised that the average age of the POSH was ………let’s put it this way…in the “Seniors Group”. And so they lined up picking out their favourite meal and the young blond floosy behind the till didn’t even bother to ask most of them for their Senior’s Cards…….she knew instantly that they were soooooo damn old that each of them could easily be her grandfather, or even greatgrandfather, except that young strapling, Plunger who had to borrow a Seniors card to ensure that his meal would not cost more than a handsome $8-50.
Scud, who spat the dummy last week for fear of the price and slow service had to wait…but it paid off big dividends. The roast of the day was piled up high on his plate with so much meat that it counterbalanced all the ‘do goodie vegetarians’ back in Balmain and Glebe. Rotund is a word that might have described him well at the end of his evening’s gorge.
The other half of the evening was just as important as all of the above put together. The Jessup (Coupla Weeks’) family all came out in force to join us. Such a lovely family. The group included, James, Lisa, Sarah daughter in laws, grand children, nephew Richard et al. Presided, of course, by Janice. Most joined us on the run as well as in the restaurant. There were so many, they virtually filled their own table. Sadly Andrew and his son Coupla Days (William) had already returned to France…but the rest were there for us all to remember our lost mate Arthur who should have been the main hare for the night.
S Bendzzzz had raided the hash locker and finding all the hash T shirts that no one else wanted, he decked them out in Pale Blue Christmas shirts with one size fits all. And even if some of the shirts came down to their knees, they all looked a treat and they have become honoury POSH hashing ‘persons’ with a standing invite to join us on any run they wish to attend. They have been implored to experience the real hashing treat during the summer months.
Your Hash Journo
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One Plucked Pheasant & a General de Bawl at Mona Vale
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We all know Rule #1 of the hash…….but can you remember Rule #2 ?
Most of you have probably forgotten, I’ll bet. OK, so when you know that the weather might be a bit dodgy, it’s best to jump on-line and check the met office forecast. It really helps.
Those of you who occaisionally read this weekly bilge will be forgiven for thinking that they have read these opening lines before. Indeed you have, a mere 3 weeks ago for Frenchie and Calici’s washed out run in Lane Cove.
So the old adage that “those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeating it”, is 100% applicable to this run. There must be something about the sea breeze of Northern Beaches that addles the brain to the point where commonsense takes leave of the hashing cranium, and to the detriment of their Monday night hashing mates.
It’s a good stretch to drive out to Mona Vale from the city or the surrounding inner suburbs, so we all made the pilgimage in high hopes that something different would be turned on for the evening…like a romp across Mona Vale Golf Course and/or along one of the nearby beaches or …..something that would at least mark this run apart from the standard suburban jaunts yet to come over the next 3.5 months. So what did we get dished up with?
Absolutely Sweet Nothing. Actually I’ll come clean…Almost nothing! You see the light coastal showers as clearly forecoast for the previous 24 hours was utterly ignored by our old time (dare I say senile) hares, and from the first 20 metres into the run there were virtually no arrows that could be found, other than under the occasional tree canopy or set vertically on a rock. The rest had been washed out by those forecast coastal showers. How easy would it have been to use surveyors chalk and big dobs of flour!
We headed out through an ‘exotic’ industrial waste land. XXXX was found a mere 100 metres from the start as lost as Little Bo Peep who had lost her sheep.. He had been told where the trail was meant to go, but was stuck the wrong side of a 2.4 metre high chain mesh fence in the outstandingly beautiful industrial estate and not an arrow to be found. He wasn’t the only one. In fact the whole bloody pack was in the same predicament.
Luckily our stand in TM, Payling, was the man of the night. He was good enough to make this a virtual live hare run. And so we transited from a bland industrial estate to ubiquitous suburban streets at night.
Mind you, some of the houses were highly desirable real estate and one wonders why more hashmen don’t live along the northern beaches. But one does, and loves it. Spud.
Thus we had two live hares. One who was herding the lost sheep from the back of the pack clutching a soggy map, and the other who guessed at the lowest common denominator where this sublime and suburban run might lead us. And thus we followed our way around several utterly anonymous looking streets. One of them being along the backside of Bayview Golf Course (Cabbage Tree Road) which became Samuel Street, which in turn brought us out onto deafening traffic noise of Mona Vale Road.
Every hashman’s nightmare! From there every right minded hashman knew that it was only a short romp back along Bungan Street back to the bucket at the basement car park level of Coles supermarket for some noise respite and a little refreshment.
It was a pleasure to be joined for the night by Coupla Weeks’ two sons: Andrew and James, nephew Richard and grandson William, who has now been renamed as Coupla Days. What a little champion this lad is. Only 8 or 9 years of age he quickly had the measure of most of us and was able to outpace just about anyone, with rapid sprints to make us feel even more aged and decrepid. Throughout the run the Jessup company was an absolute joy, just as their Dad (uncle and grandfather) had always been.
The On-On next door at the Mona Vale Hotel was decidedly up-market for us impoverished hashing wallas. Steaks at $32-00 a pop was the first horror shock, although there was a supposedly generous $10-00 discount for Monday night. It was cold comfort for some, like Scud, who understandably spat the dummy at the slow service and high prices and went home for a hot shower and a home cooked meal.
Those who stayed on had to raid their Super funds to pay for the exorbitantly priced beer. A light beer and a schooner of James Squire came to a whopping $12. Pleeeeease bring back the restaurants where we can bring our own wine and beers!!!!!
Andrew Jessup was awarded with one of Last Card’s “carded” and collared T shirts (you know that tasteless pale blue number; the one that only a few select hashmen dare to wear in the dead of night for fear of being seen as utterly out of date and a total dork by the general public). Doubtless it will be a high fashion accessory back in France where he lives with his champion little son, Coupla Days.
Apart from the run drubbing, most who turned up enjoyed the evening and our usual camaraderie and so the POSH hash lives on.
Although next week’s On-On is in another hotel, the food prices will be very affordable, especially as a Senior’s card will be accepted for special tucker food discounts. And please give another warm welcome to all the Jessup family who are likely to attend.
Thereafter all hares are urged in the most strenuous terms to arrange their On-On’s at a restaurant or suitable location where we can bring our own beers and wines and eat handsomely for the standard fixed
price of $25-00 per head
Your Hash Journo

Poly Unsaturates all over himself with Ayatollah around The Field of Mars _____________________________________________________________
Starting From and Imbibing at Ill Bolognaise,
What would we do without the ‘Great North Walk’? It has become a spine for numerous summer runs over the years, but didn’t anyone tell the hares that the clocks went back at least a month ago?
It was lucky that no more hashmen were lost this week as we dived across the commuter traffic on Pittwater Road to the start of the run, taking us down Park Street straight into the dark and dampened woodlands along the upper reaches of the Lane Cove River.
Those without torches earned little sympathy, although I didn’t see any. Nor did we see too many checks either. (You can’t excuse yourself “that they are in the mail” anymore as it is nearly all on-line these days). I guess that on a linear route of Boronia Park woodlands and the Lane Cove River estuarine waterfront and mud flats didn’t provide many opportunities. Your Choice stumbled over the numerous roots in the dark. So without any real surprises we eventually landed up in Buffalo Creek Park. Now here was a real opportunity to really take the pack into a tail spin. But conservatism was the hares’ mission for the night and it didn’t take much sleuthing to work out that the Field of Mars (woodlands) was our next night running sortie. The front runners ploughed their way uphill whilst the walkers would have crawled their way (like Brian the Snail) along the boardwalks adjoining Buffalo Creek.
The more adventurous including Nautilus, Your Choice and Kitty Litter kept ascending to the notable Italian real estate for the dearly departed. Marble clad mausoleums the size of your average Masterton Home, were inscribed with more Italian names than one might find in all Mafia roll calls put together. A testament of the post war migration along with the plastic flowers around the heavily vaulted and padlocked doors. And so we soldiered on not fearing any ghostly apparitions, but following the regular arrows planted earlier in the sunlit day. A well planned trail should always bring the walkers and the runners back together towards the end of the run and sure enough the runners caught up with an army of “Brian Snails” hobbling and gossiping their way up the suburban streets to home. T’was a half decent summer run, but perambulated in the dark, with not quite enough checks (at least that we saw) so that the pack was pretty well spread out. However everyone had a chance to stretch their legs at their own speed for the night.
The On-On was quite different. Our restaurateur Chelso gave us our own dining room, and SBenzzz rocked up with loads of beers and top wines to wash down the food which rolled in, and rolled in some more. Plate after plate and very soon the boys were filled to capacity. As it often is with the hash, camaraderie was at its best. SBends was anxious to remember our good mate Coupla Weeks, and the feeling was spontaneous that we should have our own thanks for his wonderful companionship and valuable contribution to the SH3. We shall miss him deeply.
Polish Joke was the Joker in the pack for the night. Not that he ran or even walked, but only came to fill his belly and tell a joke or two. Has he lost his touch after all these years of boycotting his true hashing mates? 51 hashmen thought not. 1 hashman went to sleep. No less than Mr Sleepy otherwise referred in the hash as WC.

Your Hash Journo

Tall White Master & His South African Man Servant
Serve it Up at Hunters Hill

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“The Moon Shines on the Righteous”…or at least it does with POSHmen on clear winter nights. Mind you I’m not sure that includes the hares, …but what the heck ..…Why not include them as well….but only just this once!
We all know Hunters Hill Peninsular, so there weren’t too many surprises, if any at all, but we’ve not trodden our hooves around there for at least a couple of years so it was relatively fresh, and besides, the water front views on both sides of the peninsular are by any measure pretty spectacular, so let’s not get too blasé about what we can enjoy around Sydney. In fact there were a few residential piles on this north side which breathed quiet and serious money….not like your flash shit around Double Bay, Rose Bay and
Castle Hill. We soaked them in without looking too closely at our humble bank accounts for fear of developing instant inferiority complexes.
So basically we made our way out westwards along the northern side of ‘Unters ‘Ill Peninsular overlooking the Lane Cove River and then criss-crossed Woolwich Road very close to Uncle Joe Hockey’s substantial and spreading mansion (my heart bleeds for him, .poor rich bastard) making our way down to the sublime waterfront of Pulpit Point with yet more serious dollars floating in the water there. At least the hulls were waterproof and the topsides were immaculate. It’s a real pity that there was not one
new house that fitted into the Sydney Harbour waterfront in this gauche estate development.

All new buildings were in the American collegiate architectural style and are bad taste schmuck, and as alien as a bowler hated pin-striped banker with his proverbial brolly strutting his way through in Timbuktu.
Thereafter we worked our way uphill and then across to Kelly’s Bush. Again no surprises BUT, having  deluged the Saturday before many of the steps and tracks were now mini-swimming pools and the fearful in the ranks were horrified at getting their pristine $240-00 running shoes and socks a little wet and muddy. Boo Hoooooo! The Shame and Gutless… bottled out and walked back to base along the road.
No I tell a lie. Walking is far too good a description of their perambulating leg movements. It was more like an amble in slow motion. It was so friggin slow that Brian the Snail (Remember Magic Roundabout?) would have had no difficulty in keeping up. It seems that there is a growing rank and file of not just nonrunners who for medical reasons and physical limitations have taken to walking. That in itself is no shame…But what is the point of walking so slowly that you don’t even break wind let alone break into the
slightest sweat. And to top it all, it seems that there is a growing ethos to see if they can shorten the already expurgated version of the run. Now I won’t name names right now but the culprits will know who they are. As a tip, some fast walking effort is warranted to get the most out of the evening, and also to acknowledge the work input from the hares.

Now compared to the run that our South African refugee dished up last September (25th to be precise) the Tall White Master had taken great pains to teach his man servant how to lay and read a trail.. It seems his ‘boy’ still cries for freedom, so much so, that he even wrote an “agony aunt” type book called….yep you’ve guessed it ….“Cry Freedom”.
One would have thought that this African native would have learned the hunting arts of tracking n’ all that, but sadly it seems that this wannabe White Shit lad was from the urban ghettos and had to wait until his Tall White Master Boss gave him studied lessons. Even then I heard him (Tall White Master) say that it took a Rhino hide whip before the lad had learned the true ways of his master’s instructions.

Not only were the arrows exclusive to our running group on Monday, but they were set at regular intervals interspersed with recognisable and sizable dobs of …White Shit (aka flour), and I’m advised on very good authority that the run map was exemplary. Graphically perfect in fact. But as the Tall White Master was coupled (so to speak) with his South African Man Servant, of formerly sullied reputation (from 25-09-2012), any end of year accolades will be held in reserve for further adjudication by the appointed and
assessing jury.
For the second week running we had the steak deal on a Monday night special of $12-50.
An incredibly low price for this blue chip locale. Which instantly gives rise to the old saying that “there’s no such thing as free lunch”
Goonshow’s indomitable critique research reveals the following….. It should be noted that the Sydney Morning Herald foodie supplement yesterday attempted to explain the
philosophy of the pub that failed to sell any wine under $32 a bottle!
“Anthony Medich (any relation of the murderer???), MD of the Medich Corporation which owns the Woolwich Pier Hotel believes the secret is “providing a unique and interesting experience. It’s not just about cold beer and loud music. We’re very much a food-orientated venue, so providing good quality pub food while still providing
value is critical. On the drinks side, you’ve got to have the right range of beers and wines (sic ..to make a fat profit) while offering some unique and interesting drinks too. We’re always trying to evolve our cocktail list, for instance”.
All too true…the cheapest ($32-00) red piss that one could purloin from behind the bar was not worthy as sink cleaner let alone washing back with a juicy steak. A bottle discreetly carried into the backroom of the pub from a certain hashman’s private cellar was the exception for the night, and highly appreciated by three at the end of one table. This was a lesson learned with stealth at the Christmas in July bash (many years ago) at the Jenolan Caves dinner when more bottles from external sources were cleared at the end
of the dinner than the hotel even had in their own cellar.
And this is a lesson for future hares this winter …..check out the price and quality of wines when we host On-On’s at licensed premises
Your Hash Journo
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A Combo of Drug Running & Biological Warfare
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We all know Rule #1 of the hash…….but can you remember Rule #2 ?
Most of you have probably forgotten, I’ll bet. OK, so when you know that the weather might be a bit dodgy, it’s best to jump on-line and check the met office forecast. It really helps.

It was lucky that good old Lane Cove has been a stomping ground for 40 years, so the territory was generally familiar but the options were pretty varied. Anyway about 5 or 10 minutes into the run the heavens opened and all the carefully and lightly laid chalk arrows and mini dobs of flour disappeared “pronto – like!”
The front runners started calling each other for moral support, not least the ever vocal Goon Show. Not that gave him or his running mates any idea where they were until good old Salty showed up with map in hand and (dickhead) torch on head, and from thereon it was essentially a live hare/TM run for the rest of the night with Salty laying down fresh chalk to keep us all together.
It’s amazing that with all the “you beaut” LED torch give-aways in the last 3 or 4 years just how many POSHmen reckon they have military styled night vision. For instance Chastity and PayLing walk around with such flat batteries that they wouldn’t be able to find their own crotches for a good scratch. Major Disaster steps out every Monday night sans any illumination…on Principle. Others just have weekly amnesia.
But let’s get on with the run. It was a good combination of a few parks, reserves, laneways and quiet streets to lose ourselves in, and we worked our way round in a rough circle, returning via Gordon Street passing God Knows’ esteemed chateaux; but where was God Knows? Well, God only knows!
I was thinking to myself “Ahhhhhh…. Time for a quick shot of port or some other enriching liquid substance”…but the lights were orrrff and no one at home. Neither was God Knows with us for the night.
Thinking that we were within spitting distance to home we plunged into a dark and damp urban woodland and now being ahead of Salty ’and without his careful guidance’, it was hard to know if this was truly the trail home. Flour was almost non existent…but a little later we saw funny smatterings of white stuff half way up tree trunks…or was that just some kind of fetid fungus?. There’s always some clever “know-it-allbugger”
who knows exactly where to go on winter runs……..Well this time they weren’t with us.

Grape ‘urged’ us up to high ground…”You can always see where you are going and where to go to” Prophetic words they were, as this brought us out onto Mowbray Road with just a short jaunt up the road and back to the bucket.
Wagga Rod showed up just before the run start with a young offsider called “H” or was that “Haitch”. Both showed us that as a hash group we have all become that bit older and slower, but because our ailments et al are all relative to each other we hadn’t noticed our loss of pace over the years.
Six Foot Dick (an unsubstantiated brag of a name) and Candlestick from the North Shore
Wanderers……also infiltrated our ranks. But they were sufficiently outnumbered so as to make no difference to the Monday night chemistry.
A good run, about the right length, enough variety en-route, but pity that God Knows hadn’t set up a table outside his pad with Port or Whisky shots to keep us going to the bitter end. Also, had the hares laid surveyor’s chalk knowing that heavy rain was imminent and placed bigger dobs of flour, then the trail markings may well have survived the downpour. A good lesson for future hares.
The On-On in the Great Northern is always a guaranteed standard. Steaks aplenty, at $12 a pop with chips and salad and Frenchie had wrangled for us to buy our wine in the bottleshop, then take it into the dining room and thus avoid the corkage. Good one! But what Frenchie and/or Calici failed to do was herd the hash mob to the allocated dining room area to sit altogether. Instead it was every hashman for himself who chose their own tables scattered in the public area and solemnly watched Adam Scott trounce the ever sexed Tiger Woods in the US Masters. That put paid to any down downs and other
POSH On-On nonsense. Next week’s hares should learn from this fatal administrative stuff-up.

Your Hash Journo

Kitty “Litters” Himself with Captain Bligh’s Commands
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The Master Commander & the Rat Catcher rowed ashore from their good ship The Bounty to set the mutineering rabble a shore run with the finest of views of that safest of harbours, in the heart of Sydney town. This ploy was to stem the ugly mutinous mood that had been festering onboard for weeks as they travailed the coastline, surveying and searching this mysterious uncharted land of “Terra Nullius”.
The Master Commander & the Rat Catcher rowed ashore from their good ship The Bounty
After almost six months without gentlemanly civilization, and only rough hewn tracks through prickly antipodean bush of the Great Southern Land to run through on their weekly shore runs during the summer heat, the crew was itching for pastures green which is kind to the soul; akin to their beloved motherland, that fair green Isle of England. And Ohhh for a professionally prepared repast in a sit-down food or ale house for the old salts, served by comely wenches, whose smooth silken thighs could be glimpsed under
the flouncy petticoats as they bent over to serve the bowls of steaming food. Alas my hearties, such temptation for starved and eager eyes!
And so it was that the two disparate shipmates marched and minced their way (respectively) uphill from the harbour foreshore to a hilltop which they (well Captain Bligh actually…who constantly uses the ‘Royal Plural’ for all his actions and ideas) named after his favoured London locale; a place where he romanced his bride Elizabeth Betham, in the early days of their courtship. The hilltop was to be named St Leonards. “And a fine name if I may say so myself” uttered Captain Bligh, inflating his puffed up chest yet once more.
In fact when the “hares” announced to the motley lot as they gathered under the boughs of the spreading Eucalypt trees, “How is it possible for us to create a shore run so close to the limpid shoreline of this fine harbor where 60% of it is on soft velvety grass, along romantic trails and tree lined pathways and almost all of it free of horseless carriages?

This territory may almost seem familiar to some; perhaps even similar to your
loved and much missed English Parklands, but we hares have employed an ingenious method of “read the- settlers maps and connect-the-green bits. The undulating course is varied and picturesque even in the autumn darkness and finishes with a killer incline to a Bucket held in a special ‘Royal Box’ overlooking the expansive Sydney Harbour, the Habour Bridge and the illuminated city skyline of Sydney.
This is high calibre stuff for the beginning of winter runs that will be difficult for successors to follow ”
With exaltations like that, our hares immediately put themselves under enormous pressure to deliver. But did they actually deliver? ….Read on to find out.
At the appointed hour we tip-toed into the night across St Leonard’s Park. How overreaching their self inflated claims had been. Within 150 metres of the start the pack was scattered like headless chooks in search of anything that might resemble a trail or markings of any kind. The noise of horseless carriages surrounding the park boomed in our ears making the exchange of calls impossible to hear. Only sight of our “seek n’ find”
brethren by the glimmer of gas street lamps offered us the way forward. And it didn’t get much better until we mustered as lost sheep are wont to do over in another pleasant rolling park with a sign saying “Cameray – Gentleman Only Ladies Forbidden. Or Golf for short.
About here, and sensing danger with the pack now truly stretched apart and time running out, our ankle biting TM came to our rescue.
The microscopic little dobs of flour on the velvety green surfaces and most of the equally small arrows chalked at Gulliver’s steps apart (compared to us mere Lilliputs) on numerous hard tarmacadam roads did little to assist the progress of the run. But being true to the cause we stayed the course and persevered with TM Salty “pissing off” the checks as soon as he could get to them.
Our in house musical talent, curiously named Music Man, whinged that not enough front runners where calling him on, irrespective that they too were running lost in the dark.
Tic Toc was conveyed to the run start in someone else’s carriage, and hey presto…he made it on time! This must be a first for the season.
The Master Commander and Rat Catcher kept their promise and guided us through generally familiar but picturesque landscape on a very clement night. A combination of green bits from the map linked by roadside perambulation ways climaxed with a long haul of steps to what has to be a look out point of eminent distinction. A special ‘Royal Box” as the Rat Catcher had described it. Knut (Plunger’s good mate and brother-in-law) was overawed. It took him several mugs from the bucket and a few spring rolls to soak it all in.
…”It’s not like Honey Bay (translated of course) in Norway …just one tower would be 3 times the size of the night illumination my home town”.
The views from this ‘Royal Box” for us 18th century deckhands from The Bounty looked into the far distant future (in fact the far distant 21st Century to be precise), …across the expansive Sydney Harbour, the ‘Abour Bridge n’ all that. Wot we saw was ‘Wall to wall humanity all twinkling in fairy lights’.
The run was well conceived……they chose a wonderful evening, but clearly these two hares had spent far too much time aboard the ship and had lost the secret art of practical trail laying which can be read at night. 3 to 4 times the number of arrows and decent sized dobs of flour would have made this a hard act (or is that cat?) to follow.
They then led the 40 hands or so into a nearby oriental Tavern…purveyors of Korean delicacies, noodles, kim-chi and other exotic delights. And lots of it too. For impoverished deckhands and junior officers this was heaven…and all copiously washed down with lots of “Red Medicine” as the ship’s doctor, the First Mate, Mr Ess-Benzzzz would like to call it. Indeed, it seemed to work a treat as drinking goblets of this fine liquid
resulted in an ambience of merriment and joviality.
And even some old ship mates who had been shanghaied from a previous voyage several years ago were found along these pleasant shores. Those noble savages of this intriguing land had renamed them in their local dialect which loosely translated are “Bunny Trapper” and Irish due their fair complexion and obsession with their European heritage.

But how did this Master Mariner, Sea Commander and Royal Navy Captain establish a relationship with such a humble Rat Catcher from the slops and bilges of the fine sailing ship “The Bounty”?
It so happens that during one of my regular research visits to the Maritime Museum I stumbled across an old sea chest with a few sepia parchments relating to the said Master Commander and his overzealous disciplinarian ways. I have published these letters in totem so that you will understand how these two seafaring characters came to set a shore run together. The rest, as they say, became very strange history indeed.
Dear Master Commander Bligh
All my hashing mates (well, actually I only have one or two) and my even my best girlfriend back home says I have a personal problem. I have been a member of POSH hash for 12 years now and my friends insinuate that I am unable to keep my hygiene habits up to their impeccable ship-shape standards on your good ship ‘The Bounty’.Each Monday night during these 12 long years after the weekly shore run I, need to have a little
poop on the deck, in the fo’castle, in the galley sink, in a seaman’s hammock or even on one of the junior officer’s bunks, just to make a little room in my belly for the On-On meal.
The smelly lumps stick to my anal fur and my little paws, and I find it hard to clean the hardened yick off my cute little feet. And then I’m told it’s very whiffy and not just a bit smelly by my shipmates.
As a hardened English Maritime disciplinarian from the finest English Royal Navy, I wonder what I should do to keep my mates on side. If I set a landlubbers run with you, rather than go sailing in your small cutter with a sextant, four cutlasses, and only several days food and water (you know how us cool cats hate being so close water and swimming n’ all that… ) would you be so kind as to whisper into my cute, furry little ear
what I should do to clean up my personal peeing and pooping habits?.
I hate that small cutter with only a sextant, four cutlasses, and several days food and water
Meowww ….Purrrrrrrr
Felix …..You Small Time Ship Bound Rat Catcher
And Stand to attention when writing my answer to you!
Alright, just because you’re the finest (and only) rat catcher on this vessel, I‘ll take you ashore at our very next port of call, which just happens to be Sydney, that vile penal colony which my very good and exploratory sailing companion Captain James Cook discovered a few years back when looking for a few Tahitian beauties with whom to satiate his lusty ways after many months at sea without female company. But you shouldn’t have any problems in that department as I instructed the First Officer (Fletcher Christian) to take you down to the veterinarian for the proverbial “snip” shortly before we set sail. This was to keep your mind off licking your groin and howling after your numerous furry girl
friends in heat, and to keep you focused on catching those infectious vermin on this good ship.
And so my best and only advice to you is this: -
Get yourself and good sized tray, fill it with dry fly ash and/or small granules of gravel (purloined at the next port of call) and when your bowel and bladder movements get the better of you, do your dirty business in that pile of absorbent material. And when stepping out of the tray, be absolutely sure to wipe all four paws on the hemp matting which I shall instruct that impudent and insolent officer, Fletcher Christian, to provide you with.
Now….as I think that this another capital and most splendid idea of mine for keeping you, and all other feline rat catchers of the fleet nice and clean, I will name this revolutionary idea “Kitty Litter”
In fact in the name of his Majesty King George III, I will go so far as to rename you after this damned contraption. You have no choice in the matter, so get to it and make good haste.
And whilst you are about it bring me my tot of rum which I also named after myself. Confound it young Felix ….bring the whole damned box and bottle
Yours in Absolute Command of His Majesty’s Sailing Ship ‘The Bounty’
Captain William Bligh.
FRS RN
Your Hash Journo
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Ayatollah Shares a Date at North Ryde
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As always dependable and always assured Ayatollah laid on a great joint run for the athletic, the infirmed the Sheilas, also loved by their true name the Harriettes, and a few sundry. There are number of options starting out from North Ryde RSL, and of course being a lovely warm evening Ayatollah led them gently down to the Lane Cove River passing under the Epping road and quickly by the local flour and starch factory, and thence besides and tranquil waters. If you didn’t recognise the Lane Cove National Park trail, then where the hell have you been for the last 30 years?!!
But that’s not the point. The real point was to keep the loving runners and walkers, boys and girls, all together in loving proximity…some going forwards and some backwards …all of course, in complete unison. So the greater gathering of smaller spotted and greater striped hashing “persons” wound their happy way up stream, initially along the boardwalks and foreshores of the river and later just past the golf course where mysterious death of Dr Bogle and Mrs Chandler in 1971, who having stripped their kit off off to have a passionate and loving “encounter” had unwittingly lain in a hollow after the event where hydrogen sulfide, arising from the estuarine sediments, and being heavier than air, had accumulated. Now, if one is going to ‘pass away’ without warning, what nicer way to do it than whilst dreaming and fondling after a damn good bonk with your best mate’s wife.
But our heroic and loving hash persons didn’t stop for anything of that kind of exercise, but kept on going. , Doing a “Uey” under Fullers Bridge and returned along the other side of the picturesque river in the fading autumnal light.
Returning home to the car park Ayatollah (a true ladies man and romantic at heart …as you read in a moment) had lots of cold beer and Champers ready and waiting, but the best of it…he had procured from somewhere crystal goblets for the ladies (aka Harrietts) from which to sip their beloved champers and intoxicating bubbles. Romance took him a step further …….as the daylight slipped into full darkness he flicked the soft lights on from his trusty old Land Cruiser and there the group of 65 plus imbibed in the fading headlights as the battery slowly run flat.
Thereafter he led them like a good shepherd ( a skill he learned from the nomadic Bedouin tribes of the Middle East..also read more later ) into the RSL dining room where for an amazing $15-00 per head there was a choice of 3 types of lasagna followed by more Pavlovas than XXXX can dream of.
T’was a top night for the 65 hashers or more who made the effort and were duly rewarded with another of Ayatollah’s hospitality and full consideration for the POSH and other visitors.
But stand up if anyone actually knows about the real Ayatollah? I mean really know him and where he came from? I doubt it.
He likes to call himself the “Date Trader” which harks back to the time when he made regular sojourns to the Middle East, donned his turban and kaftan and played the Middle Eastern trader role to a ‘T’. Or so I’m told.
And as one learns more about this quiet hashing enigma, the more one learns about his secretive trading past. About his savory nuts and dried fruit, palm dates, camel racing, hubble-bubbles, Turkish delight, and a 101 Arabian Nights in and finely woven Bedouin tents full of indulgence with intoxicating and perfumed harems to keep him company during the long mystic, starlit desert nights. But most of all about his refined palette for exotic nibbles and spices.
A well lubricated evening (red wine is usually involved…lots of it) with Ayatollah is nothing less than a revelation of another distant fading world. A world of sumptuous plates of tantalizing morsels, of exotic aphrodisiacs of time immemorial success, again, all from his personal experience when mixing a little business with pleasure on his trading sojourns around Asia Minor, Turkey and Persia.
A 101 Arabian Nights with intoxicating perfumed harems during the long cold nights in the desert
Among many things Ayatollah can also tell you the difference between Old Ginger and Young Ginger. Now there’s a claim! Old Ginger, it seems, is to his preference but if we look closer at the pros and cons of this claim, I wonder if the rest of the hash will concur?
For example Old Ginger has a stronger more acrid bite to the taste. It is definitely more expensive in many ways, not least in taxes and GST etc.
“This may very well be the case so I put it to you, M’Lud, and fellow hashmen by way of the following circumstantial evidence and we shall let you decide whether Old Ginger is to be preferred to Young Ginger”
Now….would you prefer Old Ginger OR………..
Young Ginger ? ….this is the question ……and I’ll leave you to decide
Your Hash Journo
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Major Takes Disasters to New Heights @ Hornsby

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There is a well known Buddhist saying which is…”Expect the Unexpected”
So never presume a disaster will not happen on a Major Disaster run. Major is never far away and he has an uncanny propensity to make the unexpected …well …Downright Bloody likely. But that’s the intrigue and adventure of a Major Disaster Run. You never can tell.
And the unexpected was that was that it was all good! In fact… Very good,. OK, it was generally familiar territory to many, but if you only visit the fire trails and tracks of Berowra Regional Park just once a year then it is fresh each season. And so it was. To be sure, to be sure! Major D. only had a couple of weeks notice but made the most of it.
We droned our way out from Stewart Avenue and headed around the firing range. Everyone assumed that the place (firing range) would be empty so were shocked and all dived for cover when there was sudden and very loud rapport, like the rupturing bowels of the earth. Now, if the mass of anatomy and noise are proportional, then Centre Point has to be up there with the best. A fart like a thunderclap heralded danger to come for the evening. Recovering themselves, our shell shocked hashmen made their way deep down to the bottom of the valley where the darkness was already closing in. Baron von Drut trailing at the rear asked me how long it would take to walk around the trail. “Depends how fast you walk” was the reply. Seeing that not even a bead of sweat has formed on his furrowed brow I wondered at the purpose of his question.
As far as I can tell the walkers trail soon merged with runners and we all kept plugging on together through the picturesque valley savouring the last of the summer season of ‘sizzlingly’ good runs. Boooo Hooo!.
All the hares this summer have put in the hard yards and set some absolutely T’riffik runs. Likewise the committee, and the JM’s in particular, have worked tirelessly and have served up some excellent On-On meals, the likes of which surely cannot be matched by the restaurants, clubs and pubs this coming winter.
But back to the run. A rocky, twisting but well established track led us parallel to and upstream towards the Benowie Walking Track.and as we did so the dark descended and looking back down the valley to the stragglers their torches looked like a line of glow worms in the forest. But have pity on these stragglers…including Drut, WC, Sheep Dip, Tyre Fruck and a few others. Centre Point’s thunderclap turned liquid, and seeing yards of dunny paper trailing from the trees, grabbed handfuls of the stuff and ducked into the bush several times to clean up his doings. And with that the trail markings disappeared, leaving the back of the pack wondering where the hec the trail went.
It turned left off the main trail and went up, and uphill, and not without a puff and a pant, culminating in the steel ladder leading up and over the cliff and onto Manor Road leading to Mt Wilga Hospital, from whence it was a short stretch home on the road. A well set run even if the last third was essentially in the dark.
Meanwhile Fox Face and Molly (an ever willing stand in JM) had cooked some first class sirloin steaks, with the usual array of salads etc. Pee Dub was utterly impressed. He loved the slight pinky juicy bits as he nibbled into his portion. (Don’t we all?). And as a few steaks were extra over at the end, some lucky bastards near the BBQ got lucky with seconds including Peed Dub & Mr Neat.
Our ever ebullient MC, S-BnZZZ called up the usual suspects including Major Disaster for their well earned and perfunctory down-downs.
The truth be known, Major Disaster would love to take you down his schoolboy fantasy alley all those bygone days ago. Try to imagine a young Major D. (from stayed hashman he is now) to the small strapling English schoolboy, with an eye for adventure and always buried deep, reading about his favourite a comic strip hero, Captain Disaster and other “penny dreadful” super-heroes. As he grew into his teens and early twenties he donned a superhero costume and dabbled in the dark arts of leaping from building to building, electrifying and creating havoc and mayhem wherever he went.
“Why can’t life ever be easy?” mused the young Captain Disaster. (It was only later in his career when he joined the BSAP that he was promoted to a Major).
Now, it shouldn’t immediately be assumed that just because Major Disaster was different from his peer group that this was the only cause of his problems. This was only the start. He was generally a little cack-handed always mild-mannered, indeed gentlemanly in good company, but a “bit different” from the others to say the least.
His favoured form of fantasy transport back then, if you could call that heap of scrap metal a ship, was called ‘Disaster Area’ by his mates. It was a particularly appropriate name. All along the hull, there were dents to mark the areas where numerous collisions had taken place with other ships, cars, meteors, flying fish and even small satellites. Not to mention the blackened areas that commemorated various laser blasts at his ship from angry road users. He had a name for each one of them (the dents as well as the road users). One was called “Enterprise”. That one came from an armoured security truck when he inadvertently cut into them outside a high street bank.
However the largest burn mark on the hull on his much loved ship (intergalactic code # JAG -AZA 35G) was called ‘Mum’ from the time his mother shot him down in flames for leaving the gas on at home while he nipped down to the local shops to buy his superhero comics.
His early youthful exploits became ever more daring and the bane of genteel English society and after causing a few problems around London and Tower Bridge…see Reuters photo below, was deported from UK to British South Africa, later named after his other hero, Cecil Rhodes, or as he prefers to call it in his very proper accent ….‘Rhodesia’.
Major D. as a strapling schoolboy to Captn. Disaster with the power & will to reap havoc
(Before he was promoted to Major Disaster)

On arrival in Salisbury (now Harare) he joined the BSAP (British South African Police) as a trooper in the hope that he would be promoted to Major and wield his uncanny powers and influence over the local natives there. That was until the Authorities caught up with his disastrous exploits and subsequently shipped off him in shackles to that vicious penal colony eastwards across the Indian Ocean. Landing in Sydney by mistake, rather than in Van Diemans Land, he had lost only a touch of his youthful powers, but not his attitude and so brought his adventurous spirit to the POSH SH3.
Ever since he has caused consternation with this hashing mob, but has mostly confined his misdemeanors and dark arts to losing himself in the dense bush…usually at night. Gone too are the powers where he was able to light up his finger tips, and instead relies on co-conspirators at the back of the POSH pack, like Tic-Toc to illuminate his way home, usually well after the bucket is drained dry and packed away for next week’s run. But his deeds are never far from his next, and our POSH adventure. .
…….And now for a quick message to Darwin.
Like teenagers we were quick to come and celebrate Darwin’s Birthday which wasn’t actually last Monday but last Saturday.
Polish Joke has written in to say that now Darwin has reached the esteemed age of 90 that his aim in life should be being issued with a substantiated paternity suit from a gorgeous 25 year old! .
Go Darwin ……GO!.
Your Hash Journo

Darwin Don and his Cecil B. DeMille’s Cast of Thousands
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A call to arms a few days before the Big Night brought out long lost hashmen from the woodwork of the lower north shore. It was weird to see them in Terrey Hills, so far from Moocher HQ. But nonetheless it was great to see them for the night of celebrations. Even the long lost Legless showed up. However he had to wear the hash trackie uniform to convince the ‘best committee that you’ve had all year’ that he was once a real POSH hashman. Had he not done this, he would have been kicked out for “bumming around”
OK,…. so you were told a Porkie last week. We were all advised that it would be Khyber and Bumcrack setting the run. Truthfully, can you really see our BC striding out and bashing his way through the bush hoisting himself over craggy stone cliffs and unraveling miles of dunny paper on his merry way?. In the immortal words of our Hollywood hero John Wayne …….”The Hell You Can!”
Instead young Wrappa threw his hand into the fray and set out to “Boldly Go where No hashman has gone Before”. Well not quite. It’s all familiar country out there although some of it hadn’t been hashed for almost 10 years, and it’s well known that nature will quickly seize back our favourite hashing trails if not visited regularly. Like annually.
In fact the start of the run was the antithesis of a Brazilian. It was like the hairy crotch of a Middle aged, Middle Eastern woman. I once remember Jungle coming back from a prolonged business trip from that part of the world and when asked about his “hairy exploits” whilst there, he quipped “You soon get used to it, …..especially if you need it”. Prophetically spoken words they were. Indeed we soon got used to penetrating our way through to the meat of this run.
And as we did so, we burst out onto a fire Trail…the relief being palpable. And that’s when the pack settled into its stride each jogging along at their own pace.
Helll….We woz infiltrated on Monday! Although this was a POSH only event we had two Northern Beach(es) bums gate crash th eparty. Their Grand Master, Next Week and his sidekick Crumb. Both waxed lyrical about the wonders of the bush, and also running there. It beats me whey you wouldn’t do it there more often, and by way of example, it’s bloody obvious that the POSH has its priorities right.
So we all followed a series of familiar but far from exhausted or exhausting trails and we all trickled in as darkness lowered its mantle across the woodlands surrounding the golf course. Good work boys. Nicely laid in true POSH summer style.
Along the way there was a war of words..but absolutely no Aggro I’ll have you know. Not in this hash at least! No, it was a competition of velocity and verbosity. The event brought Bruce the Goose side by side with King Arthur …whose stupendous top hat was filled to the brim with more spare meaningless words than Tony Abbott and Julia Gillard could muster collectively for the all of the 9 month election hustings. And who won?? Well,….Your guess is as good as mine…but believe me you couldn’t have slipped tracing paper between the two.
Back at the Ranch…..quite literally ….the committee had set up camp in Lightning’s super-dooper big horsey dome, and early arrivals were privileged to watch the pedigree of the week going through its paces. Darwin’s Big Nine Zero Birthday plus Bum Crack’s 40th year of hashing. BC’s hashing career was not entirely with the POSH. He enjoyed a sojourn of 12 years odd with the Hong Kong mob HHHH or just H4.
The grand dining room was bedecked with red table cloths, the chefs were cheffing, at least Chastity and Fox Face were …First up the snags with bread n’ sauces n’ things….just to keep the wolves from savaging the mains, which were lamb backstraps of extraordinary quality with lots of nice salady things, plus a selection of brown and white bread rolls. Our sommelier had laid out his usual high quality offerings from the cellar which were soon snapped up.
The party had begun. Bonhomie flowed as did the jokes with….. surprise surprise Legless stealing the show with not just a joke or two but a running jocular commentary utterly upstaging poor old Pee Dub, whose scraps of paper looked more redundant than a pregnant Nun.
And let the party begin…………
SBnZZZZZZZZZ Our MC for the night then moved in introducing yet once again our revered Pressie and the world’s oldest active legendary hashman. After a few words and praises and without too much further ado the massive cake was wielded out for all to see. “90” was written in candles and when lit, the flames glowed across the horsey mega-dome.
Ahhhh haaa so will he blow all the candles out with just one puff? This question was soon answered…..a mechanical leaf blower throttled into life and with a single sweep of the machine the flames were blown into next week…and not even a trace of whispering smoke was to be seen. And there was plenty of cake for all 70 of us. The calories burned off by the run were quickly restored to our spreading waistlines.
The mega cake with the numerous candles extinguished with a single sweep of his leaf blower
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So onto Our Heroes for the Night …….
The Legendary Darwin Don……
Legend Hero Icon Grand Master El Presidento Global Elder of Hashing Entertainer
Traveller Soldier-Paratrooper Panel Beater Statistician Lover Enigma Evergreen
So mush is previously unknown about our true hero of the night. Originally from Perth our Darwin Don signed up in the AIF in 1941 for WW II and was assigned to the second eleventh 2/11 Battalion, with his first commission in Egypt. For some reason army his mates called him “Gypo”.
Returning to Australia in March 1942 (before most of us were even a twinkle in our Dads’ eyes) he joined the paratroopers where he stayed until his discharge in November 1945.
He initially forged a living as a panel beater but due to back and knee problems he gave it away. He then studied for a BA from 1959 to 1963 and became a statistician; moved to Darwin where he worked with Aborigines. It was then that he joined Darwin SH3 who adopted his army mantle of “Gypo” and this moniker stayed with him until he wisely moved to Sydney for a more varied, intellectual and stimulating life with the POSH hash. It was then that his legendary status was bestowed in the form of Darwin Don.
The Legendary Emperor Darwin Don tells us all……..?
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Bum Crack ……40 years of athletic hashing
After 40 years of athletic hashing our finely honed Bum Crack should be rightly proud of his name. After all it has connotations with all that ishighly desirable in today’s emancipated and fashion orientated world. Most especially amongst his broad minded hashing mates.
BC as we often refer to him is actually the acronym for Buttock Cleavage. This is the minor exposure of the buttocks and the inter-gluteal cleft between them, often seen because of low-slung, loose trousers or sloppy hashing running shorts. It is also most commonly known as side cleavage, sidewinders or sideboob
The crena is another formal term for the cleft between the buttocks. It may also come under “other private parts” in Australian Law, although indecency generally covers the genital area. However this depends on the eyes of the beholder…and eagle eyed hashmen when it comes to a fancy looking cleavage.
In the early 2000’s it became highly fashionable for young and middle aged hashmen and harriettes to expose their buttocks this way, often in tandem with some other parts of the nubile female body.
So who can say that our stand-in model for our famed hashing mate below is in anyway indecent or unfashionable? Far from it!! ..Would you “stand up” for her?
So stand up Bum-Crack and be proud of being the fashion trend-setter that you became so many years ago. You are to be counted as an original trail blazer and for bringing years of sheer delight to the POSH.
However, there are just 2 or 3 teeny-weeny differences between our gorgeous and voluptuous stand-in model and our beloved BC. These are Age, Gender and just a little bit of Collagen. That’s all.
Buttock Cleavage proving that he is only a pubic hair’s God knows toasting and boasting that he is hot on Darwin’s age trail
width away from looking like his stand-in model
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S-BnZZZZZZZZZ, our ever ebullient and irrepressible make believe Sommelier has treated you once
again with some of the finest wines from his personal cellar and of course being the magnanimous
bastard that he is, he’s just busting to share his wealth of knowledge on his pet subject…So on with another …..

’Wine of the Week’.
Mt Monster The Back Block Shiraz 2010
I keep saying the same words… the 2010 is a cracking vintage… boy does it
deliver! This vintage is being compared to 98 and its not hard to see why! Like
a teenager coming of age and starting to converse as opposed to grunting….
This wine will make you smile all day long. (And that is in short supply!)
Throw some of this Monster into a glass and it will reveal a deep purple colour.
A swirl or two and the vibrancy comes through; sprinkles of red brick flicker
through, dancing around under the light. A quick sniff and the aromas are lifted
dark cherry, black pepper and spice with floral notes with ripe blackberry and
plums coming together in a crescendo of flavour and aromatic heaven.
It is Limestone Coast at is fullest, and that comes through on the palate as well,
displaying the stereotypical fruit driven style that this region is famous for.
There are forest fruits coupled with spice and a touch of tannin that caresses
the sides of the mouth. These soft tannins are a great compliment to the fruit
and come to a crescendo on the finish, leaving the mouth feeling full and
satisfied with a generous finish.
Rating: 95 (High as)
Your Hash Journo

The Alchemy of Sheep Dips & Maximus at Deep Creek
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‘An Apology’
This apology is not in any way, nor should be confused with the word “SORRY”
I learned these weasel words from Jackboot Johnny Howard, way back when so we could avoid any form of libel and subsequent financial settlement with the other male ‘brethren’ down at Deep Creek last Monday night!
So this is to apologise to all those “horny” young and middled old aged men who like to cruise and meet others of the same persuasion down at Deep Creek ‘per chance’ that they may fall into manly love…whatever that means. Well that was made pretty damn obvious by the graffiti in the male toilet wall…..”Cock Sucking at 3pm daily…Don’t be late! Continue reading →