March 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Oirish as Paddy's Pigs
Sure it was a grand day out on Saturday at O'Lungsiakan O' volley ball court just seconds from the O'Fly café (itself) to be sure, to be sure. There were a several gobshite early starters who having asked hare O'Monkey Balls for directions to the paper and having actually received them (yikes!) still got lost and had to return to the car park. Hardy O'Hardy, O'Har, it is to laugh. In less time than it takes to circumcise a leprechaun after that, we were following live hare Barnacle O'Balls out to the open padis. "Follow us" we shouted to him in our Irish manner, "we're roight behoind ya".
I must say, it did start out in a suspiciously Irish manner as we seemed to be running, those of us that weren't busy falling arse over head that is, on the narrowest padi berms available. Yours truly felt the sting of embarrassment and a face full of muck on not one, but two (TWO!) occasions, and there was a trail of muddy destruction in the wake of the F.R.Bs. That behind us though, it turned out to be one of the best runs, if not THE best run of the year. Certainly if a hash year started and ended on St. Paddy's day, (not on the same day you smartarses) it would be. This was truly a (county) corker of a run, to be absolutely sure. I don't think it lacked anything at all, at all. Okay, I'll stop that now, roight now.
The scenery was splendiferous; there was very little garbage (yes, a scattering of the national flowers, the Silvikrin Shampoo Sachet and the Dog Shit, but nothing to get your shillelagh in a twist about), very little bitumen indeed, and adventure aplenty! Some of the more difficult locations perched high on the Sayan valley walls actually had ropes tied to stout woody vegetation to assist hashers in traversing these (actually) quite dangerous sections: very original, refreshingly innovative and helpful. The only problem being is that they were kind of a Kelly green (hmm?) in color almost perfectly matching the foliage and thus all but invisible to the naked eye. Some hashers I spoke to later had no idea the ropes were there "Ropes?" they said eyeing me nervously the way you would look at a man you suspected was about to offer you an exploding cigar, give you a buzzer hand shake or attack you with a rubber chicken.
Never mind, this minor flaw paled into insignificance in contrast to the general excellent quality of the whole shebang (an Irish word, I looked it up). Jaysus, it was a good craique (another one), but I said I'd stop (good fookin' loock wit dat). The circle was kind of in danger of being the overalls in Mrs. Murphy's chowder, though, when at one point the "wrong balloons" were distributed to a circle full of blow job participants who then stood around puffing and going red in the face trying desperately to blow the unblowable while M. Balls equally desperately tried to explain to the gathered throng what was supposed to have happened. It transpired with a certain amount of inevitability that it was all Dancing Queen's fault. Nightjar shrove (shrived? shrave?) oh foock it, he sang dirty songs to some people sitting on a block of ice and it was foockin' foony.
Disco Wanker staged a Papal conclave (I guess he must have been informed that Pope Organ Grinder the First, winner of last week's vote had retired shortly after donning the miter). When the white smoke went up, the fattest bastard won. Kind of appropriate in a way, don't ask me what way though. Jangle Balls told some Irish jokes that he probably shouldn't have, in retrospect, considering the gravity of the occasion and we all flew off to The Fly for more levity, sustenance and most importantly, alcohol. It was after all, St. Patrick's Day.
On foockin' on
