R*n 372: Hornby

I really didn't want to put myself through this, but my trauma counsellor thought that reliving the events of Sunday in writing might be somehow therapeutic, so here goes.

Sunday morning. It should be eleven o'clock, but it can't be - Lurch and Morticia are already here. Amazingly, given the Libyan situation, it had been decided that the r*n could go ahead with only minor modifications to the route. Personally, I thought it was a bit risky, but what do I know.

A glance at the hares' footwear told us all we needed to know about what lay ahead - Off His Trolley had laid the trail while White Noise recced the Royal Oak. OHT gave us our instructions while WN stood obediently by his side. When finally permitted to speak, she told us all to remember the Highway Code, which had Highway scratching his head in bewilderment as he didn't know he was supposed to have a code.

Wimps and Rambos departed in opposite directions, and when the Rambos were steered towards the river, we suspected it could be several hours before we saw the others again. We were right.

Here, the trail took the form of an inverted V and without warning Baldbrick, who had been about a hundred yards to my rear, suddenly rematerialized half a mile in front. Incredible, I thought, the guy has mastered the principles of telekinesis and folding space; either that or he's an SCB.

We crossed the main road, overtook the Wimps, found some shiggy which the hares had, rather carelessly, forgotten to remove, and eventually reached the Beer Stop. To minimize queuing, the hares had thoughtfully arranged for our arrival to be spread over a thirty minute period, which was nice.

Seconds away, round two, and a scare: Twit, one of the FRBs, had disappeared off the radar. We feared the worst. Twot just couldn't speak, he was totally silent for ages. We needn't have worried about him though, he was just calculating the life insurance payout; as soon as we pointed out to him that if Twit had been swallowed up in some foul bog, he would be spared the cost of a funeral, he cheered up no end.

Speaking of ends, we finally got to it. GM "I am loved by all my people" Morticia decided to deprive the sullen masses of their circle, insisting that we eat and s*d off home. I sense revolution in the air. Down with the tyrant! Death to the despot, and her tall accomplice! Tomorrow, we march on Kirkbeck! Where Tunisia and Egypt have led, Caton and Brookhouse will follow!

On on!

(DOCTOR'S NOTE: At this point Sir Tom Tom was dragged away from his computer screaming and foaming at the mouth, but he did ask me to welcome new r*nners Carol, John and Katherine - do come again folks! - and to thank the hares for a f*n r*n).