February 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
So, Bangan, huh?
I know what you're going to say: Sobangan, so what? Yes, I know it's not the most sparklingly original run site on the Chicken Rock, but after a series of runs in what can I say? Less salubrious elevations perhaps, it was as novel as a Papal resignation or a disabled South African athlete shooting a super model through a bathroom door. And it doesn't get much more novel…wait, stars shooting at Kazakhstanis…as that.
Yes, an interesting week and an interesting run. Labia sent us off with a dire warning concerning the dangers of running on mossy and slippery concrete subec, and almost immediately flung himself bodily into the sungai as a result of ignoring his very own advice. I must admit to coming close to doing the same thing as I was pissing myself over his so presciently foretelling his own misfortune. I later discovered that others had also come adrift in a similar fashion to the "major and minor" one; in one unfortunate Harriet's case suffering injuries in the exact same area as she had sustained those of 2 weeks before, not though if you're wondering, in the labial area.
It was good to be back in the foothills and drifting past cascading waterfalls of both man - made and not quite as man - made origins, sweeping views, beds of brilliant red and orange cultivated offering blossoms, cellophane flowers of yellow and green towering over my head, newspaper taxis… hang on, that's "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" aahh, aahh, sorry. I couldn't help but reflect meditatively and peacefully on why there weren't any friggin' HHH signs UNTIL WE GOT TO MENGWI for cryin' out loud, even though the hash sheet clearly stated there wouldn't be any coming from the OTHER, Ubud way. Ergo, you would bloody well think… Whoa, big fellow! I said to myself and calmed down again ruminating quietly amid drop - dead beautiful bush and padi scenery on how come even with a live hare start there were still a bunch of Early Girlie starters of both sexes. Wake up and SMELL THE HASH TRASH! I mentally bellowed… sheesh, chill out self, I counseled myself. You need to do something relaxing like go on a hash run in gorgeous, verdantly tropical, almost psychedelic surroundings. Yes! That's the ticket, I advised me. Hey, wait a minute… never mind.
This week there were two and twenty virgins up for the chop. Suggestions such as baking them in a pie were mooted and seriously considered. It transpired that they had something to do with a wedding pâté (correct, non?) of 35 and it was rumoured that many of these were of French leanings. Man! (Perhaps homme!) Were they loud in the circle? Hash Masters, R.A.s and talkers alike were yelling themselves hoarse (perhaps cheval?) to be heard above the din. We were actively wishing that this pâté (right usage, no?) would act more like a Marcel Marceau pâté.
They didn't hang around though, maybe they were all pâté d out (right again, no?). The bride still had her false eyelashes on or so I was told by an alert Harriet. Being of the gender that can't find the margarine in the fridge, I wouldn't have noticed if she'd had a pair of Oscar Pistorius blades on and was taking potshots at bathroom doors. (Note to terrorists: if you want to hide a suitcase nuke, put it in my fridge. Jimmy Hoffa, Lord Lucan and Harold Holt are probably all in the vegetable crisper. I wouldn't know.)
So, hares Parson's Nose, Multigrip, Adeje, Running Stool, Parson's Grip, Running Nose, Stool Grip, Uncle Wayan Cobley and half of Denpasar were given down downs for a damned fine run and we didn't bake the virgins after all, but they got a pretty good roasting. R.A. duties devolved to Col. Bloodnok and Konkorde who did their usual magic trick on us innocent bystanders of making stains appear on our hash under garments and rendering us hysterical. Jangled Balls led us on a merry chase from ill advised in - flight announcements to the novel occupation of rectum stretching and rare erectile dysfunctions corrected by elephant trunk nerve ending transplants, all once again in the impeccable taste such a suave, swank and urbane crowd naturally demands.
Yes there was fun aplenty for Gong Xi Fa Cai and more silly buggars per square inch than you could shake a Year of a Snake at. It was a total gong, dude. See you next week at somewhere unidentified.
On on
