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Run No:- |
1071 |
Date:- 29 September 2003 |
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Location:- |
Bang Plee Par 3 Golf Course |
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Hare:- |
Mike Burgess and Som |
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Scribe:- |
Alastair 'Beefeater' Atkinson |
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The traffic thundered along the Bang-Na Trad, expressway. The air over the expressway and over the surrounding fields and villages began to fill with water vapour. The skies bruised, lesions appeared toward the horizon. The air cooled gently as a breeze softly kicked dust from the car park into the air, settling itself within a few meters of the Bang-Plee Par Three Golf Course. More lesions appeared in the sky and in the far distance, a cloud ruptured and let fall a fine sheet of rain. The earth darkened as the clouds approached; the earth darkened yet more as a blanket of mosquitoes journeyed toward the highway, replete with eateries and hashers.
The hare and co-hare were still in the bush. Perhaps it was just the hare that was in the bush - while the co-hare ran the length of the khlongs. The excessive lethargy was combined with limbering up. When combined, the sight is pathetic; Walter Matthau in the film 'Grumpy Old Men'. The excessive use of legs and mouths drew people's attention away from the time. "Fuck…ON ON!" was the immediate response given by the GM when he realised it was already 17:31.
The pack marched toward the driving range / practice field; drawn is if by a magnet. As we ran along the tree lined field, AKM was reminded of one of old Mr. Scott's First World War stories about his time in India and the Sudan. The golf balls rained down and their gentle thump into the ground only meters away from the flowing hasher's feet mixed poetically with the distant thunder from the now badly bruised clouds that approached the ever keen hashers. After the weeping trees along the field, the pack vaulted the wall and flowed gracefully toward the khlong - no surprises so far. There were a couple of pre-emptive attempts to fox the hounds, however the forward thinking pack checked and checked and checked and finally moved forward along the khlong. We were on the Khlong and off the Khlong and on the Khlong and off it again; finally turning inwards toward the flatlands of Bang-Plee.
I felt a chill along my spine as I recalled the recent Channel three soap opera which highlighted the fact that the Bang-Plee Flatlands were indeed the Badlands of Bangkok; the place where the women of the Chonburi mafia bury their victims and do their killings. The pack ran along a lonely road, deeper and deeper into the flatlands. I could hear the faint sound of an Italian opera drifting softly in the air. The pack ran quickly past a stationary tuk tuk; inside the tuk tuk a passenger sat solemnly behind the driver. A third person, standing upon a grassy knoll, urinated into the lush greenery. The pack turned a corner and ran into the distance; as the opera drifted away on the breeze I heard the gentle crack of a .38
The trail took us away from the mafia execution of a poor tuk tuk driver whose road tax had expired and delivered us competently into the living room of unsuspecting local non-hashers; it took us along more paths and sodden flatland roads that were soon to become flatland streams. As the final tracks of light ebbed from the evening sky, the pack approached a series of three checks. The first two took us right, while the third cunningly took us left and led us to the ON IN. I had checked right and had already found the ON IN, but hearing the ON ON cry of 'The Flying Fin', I doubled back and onto paper where, a minute later, I ran over the ON IN sign for a second time.
The circle was memorable for its lack of memorability. Nordic humour is obviously only funny when in Nordic climes: I still don't know whether it is 'a tom' cat or not. AKM attempted to revive the headless chicken of a circle, and it reached some dizzying height; a phoenix reaching from the flames of despair; a moment of hope and tranquillity, before it fell back to earth and died. So too did the supply of beer die; for such a small pack, it was muted that there should be another case in the back of the van. The circle abandoned the sinking ship and found dry land at the ON ON ON, fit, no less, for a Siamese cat. AKM was asked if he wanted a Siamese pussy. A round of high fives from the non-Norse Gods signalled the drunken hasher's understanding - for all the Nordic hashers, here I'm using a metaphor: lovely Siamese Pussy = lovely Thai Pussy.
There appeared only slightly more beer than at the circle. The array and make up of the food sets engulfed the conversation of the middle of the table of ON ON ONers. We talked about the food. Indeed this was all that we could do with the food, as all that did arrive found its way to each end of the table. Each end of the table was amply supplied with food, sorry, chicken. Sugar Daddy stepped into the role of Henry VIII, and began devouring chicken bits and throwing the bones over his shoulder; the Siamese pussy loved this, however the Thai pussy was not amused: (Another use of the metaphor in order to facilitate a gently chuckle, for all the Norse Gods). 200 baht was demanded from everyone and while I downed a glass of Heineken I found contentment in the fact that at least the women paid as much as the men; or at least that's how it appeared through the bottom of my beer glass.
Epilogue.
As I retired for the evening, I wondered whether the magic of David
Copperfield existed on the hash. Did one and all pay 200 baht, or was it
just a clever optical illusion: the Hash Façade. As my eyes closed I
allowed a beer wash of calm to descend over me; it took hold of me and
guided me, uncaringly into an ocean of sleep.
***
On Monday 29 September there was one virgin and new boot
from Scotland, the boyfriend of Jenny “Ant Hills” Fry.
He (Andy) was also named “Hand Job” by the RA Bo Minus 10.
We were only about 15 people, not surprising with the run at the tail
end of a major thunderstorm. We
had three Andrews from Scotland out of our small group.
