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Run No:- |
1086 |
Date:- 12 January 2004 |
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Location:- |
Wat Yai |
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Hare:- |
Neil "Weedeater" Biggadike |
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Scribes:- |
(1) Lem Morgan and (2) George Morgan |
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When the CEO fails to deliver the quarterly returns and the shareholders are left in the dark as to performance, then it takes a disgruntled shareholder (or group thereof) to come up with a report. So here is what we think George meant to say had he found the time to tell us.
You will be relieved to know that there was a run last Monday - and a good run it was. I am certainly relieved as I'm in charge of this bloody ship. I was not, as is my wont, early, and so I was informed by impeccable sources that devious falsies were included in a half road, half bush, 50 minute run.
Neil Biggadike was there of course, although he did not run - he set it! Todd Wilkie was also there and inter alia he took the cash. Bruce Marks turned up and so did Bob Rayner (you do know about Bob?). Actually, Bruce came to escape the heat in the Middle East and Bob came to escape the cold of Canada. I can tell you who else turned up but you can find their names in the list of returners below. I should mention that Bob Boulter ran along with (but not together with) Rod Turner. For some part of the run Bob Boulter did run with Bob Rayner, (sort of two bobbing bobs!) that is until the former Bob having warmed up, put down the pedal and left the latter Bob to eat his dust. It should not be omitted to record that Steve Furst ran at his usual pace and that Finn Sorenson ran in a somewhat subdued fashion. So much so that more than one hasher actually passed Finn on the run and not as is normally the case, at the beer table. Tim Wienands lit a fire, and so did Bruce Weeks. (I must say that I am enormously pleased that our current committee live and die by their Hash name).
There was a circle at which Bob Rayner received back his tattered and torn Hash dressing gown, which he had passed to Rod Turner 50 years ago and for some unrecalled reason, all the teachers (Ian Slater, Alistair Atkinson, Linda Sharpe, Tinker et al) were called in. The pates of Todd Wilkie's Dad, Erik Ravn and Tom Sorenson were then paraded in the circle at the POTW vote, but it really came as no surprise that Bob Rayner got the award - in kind only. On the way to the ON ON, we hear that Pam Carter did her best to shunt Bob Rayner into a ditch but our intrepid Bob emerged with full mug of beer still in hand. What a guy…. What a hasher….
****
Write Up of Run no.1086 as seen by George of the Jungle
I arrived at the entrance to Wat Yai in time to encounter a column of hashers already gamboling along under an angry grey sky, clearly on the point of tipping yet another unseasonal bout of the incontinence from the gods on to the hapless mortals below. Damn! The bastards must have taken advantage of the temporary absence of the GM to start early again. But wait! Not all had started early. Despite his important responsibility to find the trail, newly appointed Hash Sniff, Flying Finn, had decided to give them a head start and was busy answering a call of nature by the side of the road. Your scribe spent a few minutes readying himself for the run and took off, noticing as he did that Hash Sniff was still dispensing litres of the foaming saffron liquid onto the Nonthaburi turf. The hash's most eagerly sought after young bachelor must have had a very boozy lunch indeed.
Soon your scribe found himself cantering through scenes of such unrivalled bucolic charm that he longed to sit under a shady bodhi tree by a refreshing brook and pull out his rustic flute to accompany the young local swains, Khee Mao and Kin Neua, recounting their lilting idyls of loves lost and won, of nights without rest looking for a stray lamb and guiding her back to the fold with a straight A grade, all in perfect iambic pentameters and Arcadian dialect.
A harsh inner voice jolted your bard from this sweet reverie. "Keep running up front", it exhorted, "This is not the set of a blue movie version of Vergil's Georgics. You're running with the Bangkok Monday Hash and you've got to do the write up for this week's run too. So you'd better not bloody well quaff too deeply at the cup of ambrosian nectar either." "Yes, kind Sir!" Jolted back to the task in hand your scribe became conscious that he was running down an idyllic avenue lined with beautiful pine trees. Pine needles had fallen on to the path creating a luxuriant mossy bed that sweetly softened your scribe's size 12 footfalls, evoking images of the rare examples of silky montes veneris, as yet unmown by the barber's sickle, that can still be sometimes found even today in Soi Genghis by eagle-eyed botanists.
Despite giving them a headstart, it was not long before your scribe was overtaking bands of stragglers ambling along the same luxuriant pubescent path at a walk without a care in the world. The trail then went through some shiggy amidst brilliant verdant green rice paddy. This involved some agility, crossing streams and muddy patches, together with an awkward balancing act on a small log. On the other side of the shiggy, your scribe was taken aback to find himself overtaking yet again the same bands of stragglers, who had miraculously crossed the shaggy without getting any mud on their shoes, and were still walking. They must have floated across! At that point the entire pack was stretched out in front of your scribe and he watched as it weaved back into another muddy shiggy through the rice fields and looped around for about a kilometer only to come back on to the paved road only 100 metres ahead of where it had turned off. A brilliant strategem by the hare, Weedeater, to keep the pack together.
From there it was an easy lollop back to Wat Yai and the circun which the gods, seemingly pleased with the bizarre events below, had finally decided to anoint with a mere sprinkling of their excess waters. Down downs were awarded to two of the SCB ring leaders, Bimbo and Jumpstart, pour encourager les autres. Raincoat, a distinguished returner from freezing Canada and a former hash cash of many years standing entered the circun to toast himself. At that point the Bug popped up and made a presentation of an item of clothing to Raincoat, saying that he had been entrusted with it as the raincoat of office by Raincoat along with the hash cash treasury seven years ago. Hash historians will recall this unfortunate turning point when the hash, after a golden era of surpluses and meticulously kept records under Raincoat, nosedived into a period of unprecedented financial profligacy and accounting scandals. It later had to be rescued by Spinning Dwarf who imposed a humorless regime of fiscal sobriety on the hash when he took over as chancellor of the exchequer. But back to the present. The "raincoat", formerly a bathrobe, proffered by the Bug was a wretched rag full of large holes, covered with nefarious looking stains and emitting an evil aroma. It had clearly been liberated many years ago from a short time hotel and then put to work by the Royal Thai Customs at Don Muang for cleaning up the room used for the administration of enemas to Nigerians apprehended while foolishly attempting to travel in an advanced state of impregnation by heroin filled condoms. The foul stench of the rag evoked cries of "Burn it!" from the enraged crowd that grew to fever pitch until the mob began to demand that the Bug himself should be burned along with the detestable bauble. Luckily the hash was brought to its senses by the realization that the Bug could not be burned as it had so far proved impossible to dry him out, despite many attempts by various detoxification sanitoria of international repute.
From that point it was on to the on on on in a nearby
hostelry noted previously for its dislike of hashers and its brazen habit of
adding a farang supplement to the bill. However, on this occasion the
management seemed to have changed tack and was actively courting farang
customers, a crowd of whom were innocently sitting at a nearby table when
the hash arrived to shatter their calm. Within seconds serving wenches with
ma thee nee eyes were stepping up to the table to deliver snazzy looking
bottle coolers filled with large cold bottles of Heineken. The bottle
coolers were designed to look like ale flagons from a bygone age and did a
good job of keeping the liquid cool in a tropical clime but seemed somewhat
awkward to open when it became necessary to change the bottle. When the
wenches realized that this operation was going to have to be performed
almost continuously, they quickly abandoned the bottle coolers and left them
empty on the table. The food turned out to be quite good and No Meat enjoyed
it so much that she ordered five large plates of fried rice with cashew nuts
and grissly looking fried eggs cooked in rancid pork lard, an essential
ingredient of vegetarian food in Thailand. To mark the return of Raincoat
the hash demanded either a hash song from him or the standard penalty for
default. Much to the consternation of the other table of farangs Raincoat
responded with a song detailing his favorite masturbation methods, a topic
that has of dire necessity become dear to his heart since his departure from
the Land of Smiles when his right hand was obliged to take over the
ministrations that had previously been nimbly performed by Nit, Noi, Mi, Ni,
Moo, Noo, et al. The emotion caused by this sense of tragic loss was almost
palpable in Raincoat's fine baritone during his stirring rendition of the
ballad. The other table of farangs looked aghast, unaware of this terrible
mental pressure that Raincoat has been enduring or, indeed, that they had
been spared the far worse fate of seeing his gnarled ring, had he refused
the invitation to sing.
Finally, your scribe offered a lift to Acharns Khee Mao and Beefeater, aka
Kin Neua, who seemed to be enjoying a private joke on the way to the car. We
rounded the corner leaving the restaurant and the source of the two swains'
mirth became clear as they produced matching ale flagon coolers from their
bag in the fine hash tradition that has seen many an artifact spirited away
from under the former owner's nose, including Plastered's commemorative
1,000th run trumpet now rumored to be in darkest Nonthaburi.
Somewhere from the dank depths of Soi Genghis a cry was heard, muted but distinctly audible to those alert to literary nuances and familiar with Vergil's Georgics. Then a voice in heavily barbarian accented Latin was heard to sigh,"Post coitum omnia animalia tristum est." Your scribe noted to the swains with a wry sense of satisfaction, "At least the barbarian is civilized enough to know that in the case of a neuter plural the verb and adjective should be in the singular."
****
On Monday 12 January we had 26 Harriers, 6 Harriettes, 0 new
boots and 7 visitors, total = 39. Returners
included former Hash Cash Bob" Raincoat" Rayner, Bruce
"Bumbo" Marks, Jim "Bimbo" Edens, Paul "Kickboxer
Katoey" Loke, and Vinai "Oversexed" Seesar.
