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Run No:- |
1073 |
Date:- 13 October 2003 |
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Location:- |
Krungthep Kreeta Road |
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Hare:- |
Bo Eskesen |
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Scribe:- |
Alastair 'Beefeater' Atkinson |
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People chatted quietly amongst themselves. I drove the vespa carefully over the five feet drop that signalled the change from bridge to solid ex-swamp land. Now dried up, it resembled more a pan-handle river bed; the road was simply dust.
Lightening streaked across the sky to the west and people looked on in awe toward the fading evening firework show as it continually and momentarily became purple. The wind stirred. It busied itself between the hashers; between their conversations and between their bodies. As I parked the vespa and removed my helmet, I sensed fear in the air; my olfactory sense picked up the slightest hint of Nordic vengeance. I looked up and saw Odin himself striding in toward the piss truck. Bo marched five leagues each stride. The ground shook and signified the approach of Odin, and the little fish that were in the pond beside the car park / field, flicked from the surface and scurried in to the depths below. The fish were afraid: they were very afraid. Odin spelt death for these poor little fish, or at least it would have done if fish could read.
The pack panicked like wildebeest sensing fear, Odin's testosterone was panicking poor simple female hashers and they scampered off toward the Khlong. We followed and found ourselves on paper; we also found ourselves following mammoth Nordic footprints left in the concrete paths. "The beast has been this way". Frank was on his knees examining the footprints; he looked concerned, his eyes flitted about, he was careful and alert. The locals were more afraid than the fish, more afraid even than the hashers themselves. I continued to note the odour of fear in the air and then it struck me that the APEC summit was in town and more than a few locals were shitting themselves. The locals, the fish, the hashers, the community all sensed the change; all sensed the fear. Laughter was a thin veil for the local's fear; the masquerade to hide the truth.
Over the road and toward the golf course. "We can't go into the golf course" said Mr. Happy. Fortunately we didn't, we doubled back, jinked right, then right again and then went left into…the golf course. George and I fancied several of the holes we ran past. The chances of getting in under par would be slime to remote, I thought.
After a swift back check, the run began to get interesting. The cunning Norse God was now actually forcing us to place one foot in front of the other, and accordingly my left foot went in front of my right and I found myself actually running. Damn clever hareing.
Several brave souls ran along the fields, then back again, then across both diagonal planes. Odin was paying homage to the British Empire in an incredibly unique manner. Only I, with my in depth knowledge of Busby Berkley musicals noticed that if view from above, the trail did in fact journey along the axis of the Union Jack. Thanks Bo, your salute to the Empire and the Queen did not go unrecognised. I have written to a Queen, care of the Nana Complex.
Anyway, we tapered from what is now apparently known as Empire Grove and moved swiftly along the newly named Buckingham Palace way; formerly known simply as the 'Khlong Alai Wah'. We doubled back and jinked once more and came into Horse Guard's Parade, and with a swift running motion, we conjoined the two waterways. The Flying Fin and I had a healthy lead over the straggling pack and managed at one point to spend a quiet moment at the Cenotaph. After a moment of silence for those that lost their lives during the Great War, that is, 'The War of the Rose Garland Vendors', we continued on along The Mall and ON IN.
The circle began and fire was seen to pearce the sky. It darted from the crimson sky and into the eyes of our very own Odin, the Norse God supreme.
I was issued a down down on some trumped up charge. Apparently I had in a previous write up, advertently scoffed and poured scorn, with some aplomb I might add, on to the Nordic sense of humour. Surely no one could possible think that I, Beefeater, man of leisure, man of honour and principles, man of the people, man of the bottle, man of…well, whatever, would ever make fun of anything Nordic. Odin was in charge and I innocently looked at the debacle that was being acted out before me. "Arhhh bless him, he's very trying…sorry really trying…sorry…trying" said Lion King's sympathy (Words in italic added for comedic effect by Beefeater.)
Frank looked on. The sheer awe of running through such a regal setting was beginning to generate acid flashbacks for the old Superstar Supremo. "Buckingham Palace….YEAAAA BABBBBBYYYYYY." So much was Frank affected that he had to release the beast from beneath his towel. The beast fell to earth quicker and harder than David Bowie. Several, long established, beast support workers then assembled the beast and strapped it to Ms. Chaubert's umbrella. Its metal cross member only just held the weight; Frank's now cross member was beginning to rouse itself from a thirty year slumber.
"IT'S ALIVE!!!!!!!!" Exclaimed Frank.
"And it's attached to my brolly" Retorted Ms. Chaubert.
Down down after down down flowed and the Nordic world rose and applauded the dizzying heights of avant guard humour at its finest. More down down's flowed and people laughed until they cried. Still the down down's came. Hashers rolled on the ant infested ground, holding their sides in pain. More down down down down down down's; several people could take no more and dived head first into the pond and drowned themselves in order to spare themselves anymore pain of laughter. More down down's and death have no dominion…dead hashers they shall be one, with the GM in the wind and the west moon; when their down downs are drunk dry, and full down downs gone, they shall have scars at elbow and foot, though they go mad they will be sane, though they may sink into a Khlong they will rise to drink down downs again; though hashers be lost hashing shall not; and death shall have no dominion.
The ON ON ON was refreshing. Love Canal attempted to surf on a table, the table twitched and jinked beneath him; but he was glued…man…he tubed it…man…tube city. His dismount was not simply graceful, it was poetic in the bp Nichol manner.
From this juncture, the restaurant seemed to change character. It veered more toward becoming Pandemonium, the capital city of Hell, in Milton's Paradise Lost. I wonder what Milton would have called some of the smaller villages of Hell, Milton Keynes, perhaps?
Shithead decided to play the Devil in his home town, was it by coincidence that he was wearing a red dress? In order to prevent the ON ON ON turning into a David Lynch film, we ordered more beer. Shithead in a red dress began singing songs of love and romance. So moved was I that I recounted with fondness my own days of romance; standing naked on a table after a rugby match at University….arrrhhhhh the romance…..arhhh Baudelaire.
More drinks were purchased, food was eaten and people smiled. I looked around and I sensed their happiness. Bo regaled us with several of his 'one Norse God goes a travelling hitch hiker's song book' tunes played on the guitar. Rabid bitch was harangued off the stage when he tried the same, to return only with his tail between his legs for another crack of the whip; George Formby still lives and is now teaching Physics at Pattana. Yet in all of this I sensed a contentment and joy. Perhaps this is best how to describe the look in Spinning Dwarf's eyes as he saw the approach of several more lovely green bottles.
***
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.
