R*n 888: St Michael's on Wyre

I write this with a heavy heart, scarcely able to hold back the tears, having just discovered that I've been passed over for the New Year Honours list yet again. I was so sure that, with so many of you having nominated me for "services to hashing" (16.17% haring average, 12.98% scribing average etc. etc.), this was the year it was finally going to happen, and that henceforth it would be Sir Sir Tom Tom. No such luck.

To add insult to injury, this was my second failure to achieve recognition in just a single week, the first being yet another defeat in that annual ritual, the B&T Christmas Costume Contest. There was a lot at stake here - a Terry's Chocolate Orange, no less - and with my red-and-white Santa hat I should have been a shoo-in for the victor's podium, but no chance. Beaten by a knee-high-to-a-grasshopper junior so young she makes even me look old! Do people not realise that my hat is the genuine article, lovingly hand-crafted by elves in Santa's Lapland workshop, and not some cheap, supermarket-bought imitation? I would have protested, but Bitter was standing guard with demon-dog-from-hell Fang, ready to pounce and quell any murmurings of discontent.

Dejectedly, I hit the trail with the other Wimps, under the watchful eye of Twisted and Lancashire's answer to the Hound of the Baskervilles. Finding the trail was slightly problematic, due to most of the arrows pointing the wrong way! Confusifying and complexicated, to say the least, and even mini-Rottweiler Fang had difficulty picking up the scent. Apart from that, though, there were no serious incidents to attenuate our enjoyment of the day. Someone told First Class Stomp that mud-baths were good for the skin, so she dutifully hit the deck to find out. Also, a new way to keep the pack together - make the front-runners carry the drinks buckets to the Beer Stop (chez B&T, mince pies included)! Beats your checks and fishhooks any day.

No time for a circle, as we were dangerously close to the pub shutting its doors at 2.00 pm (it was Boxing Day, after all), so snouts straight to the trough. I had an excellent big breakfast - two rashers of bacon, two sausages, two fried eggs, two slices of black pudding, two hash browns, mushrooms, grilled tomato, baked beans and toast. Fiddler On The Hoof initially had nothing, as Twisted, concerned that he might be getting morbidly obese, had omitted to submit his food order, out of consideration for his waistline. She's so thoughtful....

Another grand day out, thanks B&T!

PS Forgot to mention the naming formalities, undertaken over lunch in the pub. John now becomes The Chaser, due to his perceived (at least by Baldbrick) resemblance to a participant in a TV game show. Baldbrick really should get out more.