Much like the mob, LVH3 is apparently impossible to escape, even if you travel across the Pennines and pretend to bury your head in academic work. Morticia’s increasingly threatening phone calls, all the finger tips in the post and a constant fear that Bitter or Twisted will turn up in York to kneecap me has finally prompted this token write up.

The run took place at some point over the festive period, in some obscure village in the no-man’s land between Lancaster and Preston. Britain was of course coming apart at the seams because an unusually large amount of snow had locked up the infrastructure, so the turnout wasn’t huge – most Hashers were too busy stockpiling cheap lager and oven chips, then climbing into straw-filled cardboard boxes to sit it out until the spring. Those that did make it had adorned themselves with tinsel and santa hats, which Baldbrick had strangely allied with a Harold Shipman beard, presumably to ward off errant pedestrians who might cross his blundering path.

Once assembled, the hares invited us to set off down ‘dog shit alley’, which was a sheet iced route out of the village and into the open countryside, where exciting new varieties of frozen water awaited. There was soft and deep frozen water, slippy frozen water, melted-but-still-very-cold frozen water, crunchy frozen water, as much frozen water with no dry land as you can fit between two styles and a few other varieties besides. After what seemed like a long time experiencing these, the Hashers finally emerged at the beer stop for a mini-roll and the chance to stand around and get a little bit colder, before finally heading uphill and back into the village.