On September 17 Soft Stiffy and Doctor Doolittle held their wedding hash. We met at Orwell’s at Bloor and Islington on a fine late summer day. Because it never rains on a wedding, right? The pack was asked to dress formally, considering the occasion. Shampoo, Backdoor Buzz, Casket Case and Wet Pussy all had the same brainwave and came up with the blazingly original idea to wear the same powder-blue-tuxedo shirt. Perhaps they all slept in the same room and got dressed in the dark. Hats were also requested, and a variety of chapeaux and bonnets were to be seen. Twincest sported a Will’n’Kate-worthy fascinator, while FLAB wore an outfit that could charitably be termed “Novosibirsk Prom Queen”. Moon Man wore a beer can helmet, the better to avoid a nasty case of sobriety.
Once under way, the trail seemed to feature several long, dull, monotonous trudges in one unrelieved, unchanging direction, lacking any hint of variety or escape from the tedium. Kind of like one’s post-wedding sex life. After heading north on Islington, the trail went through the park and then followed a long stretch of hydro corridor, because we surely need a good dose of electromagnetic radiation. Then after a bit of residential streets, a clever check saw us taking an unexpected direction – up the off-ramp at the Dundas-Bloor spaghetti junction, taking it to the other side of Royal York, then crossing Dundas to the north side – thus maximizing our chances of being hit by inattentive traffic. Unexpected, potentially dangerous and likely not to be repeated – call it the hashing equivalent of bagging a bridesmaid.
A quick sidestep off Dundas saw the pack screech to a halt just short of plunging off a cliff en masse, like the lemmings we are. Besides scaring us, the purpose of this was to have our picture taken in a group grope around one of the babbling fountains there. There was also a tree with little green apples, so we had a hard time hauling Wet Pussy out of the tree. Recrossing Dundas, finally the trail took a long hike through the park alongside the Humber, but not actually including the river crossings the hares had threatened us with, going all the way to Bloor.
There was no beer check; instead there were Jell-o shots in a not-so-secluded spot behind the Old Mill, with the occasional observation by a startled hotel guest. And it was also time to consummate the hash wedding. Moonman, in his capacity as acting GM, was most pleased to hear this, believing that among his responsibilities was what is termed “the right of the first night.” However, given that one of the couple was dressed like a prospective Sally Bowles auditioning for a high school production of Cabaret (that would be Doctor Doolittle) and the other was wearing a white wedding dress showing a lot of leg (that would be Soft Stiffy) he was more confused and less horny than usual. Add to that noisemakers, paper hats, Christmas crackers, confetti and soap bubble hoops – it’s a wonder only two or three of us lost an eye. Then it was another 2-km run back to the start, at least if you were one of the dumb ones like Shampoo or Dead End, instead of just taking the subway.