January 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
A Series of Unfortunate Events
In the movie of the same name, which is based on the book by Lemony Snicket, whose real name is Daniel "Handler", which I think is a euphemism for "wanker", but am not certain; there is an exchange between Count Olaf and the orphans that goes like this: "Where's the roast beef, children?". "What's roast beef?". "It is the Swedish term for beef that is roasted". Trying to explain to Jangle Balls that a "long" run should be longer than a "short'' run took on a similarly absurd cast on Saturday at Bentuyung.
Later in an exclusive Skype interview from his hideout cave in Tora Bora, Afghanistan, although he insisted that he was not making excuses, J.B. proceeded to tick off a litany of woes that sounded uncannily like excuses. These included co - hare Balderdash losing his prescription glasses after picking up a length of wood, getting covered in ants and flinging himself around like an epileptic Zulu performing a war dance, subsequent glasses search, torrential downpours and attacks of diaorrhea on the marginally more adult hare in mid paper laying. When asked if he could have used hash paper in the bush to alleviate said intestinal problem, a scowl and curl of the lip said it all. Ditto for why didn't he 'fess up at the beginning of the run.
Anyway, despite complaints from certain long running physique Nazis who won't be named only because I have no idea who they are (although the terms "French" and "Bali Hash One" were muttered when attempting to identify them), most hashers seemed to enjoy the outing, even though it was ugly slippery out there. A live hare start muddied the waters and hash pants from the get go. Some hashers swore it was 5 minutes early and some didn't. Who knows on an island where no two time pieces, hand phones or rice farmers agree? Through a bengkel over a pile of sawdust and sliding mostly on our arses down to the trickling waters and concrete paths of semi rural Bentuyung we went.
It's a pretty area and even the asphalt running goes through rather fetching and quiet kampong; we darted in and out of bush areas, past temples and walked in a flowing elevated aqua duct above a pleasantly agricultural scene, then out to the open padi fields with paddling ducks and white egrets flying overhead. All very scenic until (eeeeeek, aaaaarrrghh, blood curdling screams)… the UGLY HOUSE! Jesus wept, this thing looks like a Hong Kong millionaire's wet dream planted smack in the middle of some of the most beautiful padi and palm line territory in Bali. What kind of …only the word "asshole" could be conceivably be used here… would do this? A truly wealthy and tasteless one is all I can venture. Whoever it is should be publicly flogged with live cobras, or at least given community service rehabilitating people who cut tires in half, paint them different colours and plant them in their driveways in outback Australia.
We put this monstrosity behind us and made our way by country path and road past the surprising "restaurant in the middle of nowhere" opposite the aesthetically pleasing "house in the middle of nowhere" and on to the split in the padis. It was at this point that J. B. asserts that due to an intestinal attack of biblical proportions there was almost literally dirty work at the crossroads. Risking certain circle ridicule he rook the shortest route back by padi track to Bentuyung proper, bog paper and a W.C. (apparently an irresistible combination at the time), which is the path we in our turn took, unless we took the "short' (snort!).
Perhaps you think that all things considered J.B.'s indiscretion may have been overlooked or not even noticed. Perhaps you are an idiot. Of course, he was roundly excoriated for this ludicrous, perhaps purposely evil, oversight. He was later, however, philosophical. "I guess I could say that I didn't give a shit, but I quite literally did."
Wooden Eye put in a valiant attempt but the circle was a fairly desultory affair. We stood around in the mud and drizzle of the Bentuyung football field getting progressively wetter and dirtier listening to a Dutch ex – hash master singing dirty hash ditties in English, which was like not quite being able to tune a radio station properly. At least he had a go…Yes, despite a series of unfortunate events, rain, mud, rupturing rice padis and the screaming shits (a good name for a rock band), the show went on on. See you for further nuttiness next week at Bangli.
On on.
