April 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Swimmingly by the Pool
Everybody stop looking! We found Wooden Eye. He was recuperating (leg), convalescing (leg), celebrating (Welsh rugby win over England), drinking (see celebrating) and a number of other things ending in "ing" that Pope Francis (of a sissy) would not necessarily mention when pontificating. Another thing is: I fucked up, mia culpa, I'm an idiot, I fall abjectly on my sword. I ascribed the run two weeks ago at Tunon to Muddy Man whom it of course it was not. It was somebody named Gordon Bleu who I wouldn't know if he bobbed up in my cockaleaky soup (apologies, Gordon, if you are not a Scottish chef). Muddy Man was of course LAST week at the Mambal swimming pool and he lived up to his name convincingly.
Yes, there were some truly disgusting potions of mixed mud and garbage on this excursion that you couldn't recreate if you had a backhoe, a full garbage truck and parts of the British coastline at low tide. Even where we were initially parked by the roadside before we realized we could squeeze in between Pig fucker and a palm tree in the car park, there was a drift of genuinely nauseating rubbish reaching half way to the bottom of a steep valley. It was probably from the swimming pool facility across the road.
You've got to hand it to the Balinese, when it comes to despoiling beautiful countryside they are inarguably in possession of the heavyweight championship belt no matter what the Pasti Kerta posters say about "Bali clean and green"; but let's not talk about the silver back mountain gorilla, legs crossed, smoking a pipe and sitting on the lounge suite, that wouldn't do.
This area is tried and tested in terms of hashing territory and it was a pretty good run. Muddy's live hare act was well intentioned but a tad futile. Yet again the wussy pussy early girlies had already drifted up the concrete steps en masse, spotted the paper and alerted other mutineers using smoke signals, semaphore, Chinese whispers and mobile phones. It's a conspiracy I tell you. WARNING: Night Jar promises to take no prisoners nor spare the rod on his St George's day run for aberrant behavior of this nature. Don't say I didn't warn you, I suspect I have early onset Alzheimer's but I think I just did. Off paper, shoot!
So up the hill and down through the pandanu plants we went, across the padis, a bit of bitumen (uphill –eek!), alongside the widest irrigation channel in Hindudom, a bit of jungle and hey presto, on in. Short and sweet but there are those who like that, though I wouldn't dream of disclosing who they are, Whitebait, would I?
Has it been hot recently? Fuckin' A coyote it has. I, for one was sweating like a bastard and eager to replace those life giving fluids (I wonder why bastards perspire so freely, guilt? They can't help being bastards after all). This week's was a fairly strong batch of Bintang. We have discussed this issue in these pages before and we feel do we not, that The Tang varies wildly in strength from batch to batch? Well I do and that's good enough for me. Some hashers were staggering around as if they'd just gone 18 rounds with Mike Tyson. One poor soul of a visitor unfortunate enough to be down downed by Wooden Eye severally and J. Balls once was hopelessly, irretrievably pissed and supposed to get on a plane to Sydney the next morning. A good chance some lucky passenger was able to stretch out on that flight. Night Jar himself was heard to exclaim at one point "I shay, I can hardly fucking shtand up".
The shircle (hic) was going (burp) quite bloody well when it shtarted (fart), (stumble) bloody well pishing down for fuck'sh shake. Too (oopsh) bad, I was enzhoying it sho mush I damn near pished my pantsh. Umbrellas were produced and the laughs just kept on coming. Only the diehard piss tanks were left (almost) standing until finally the drizzling inclemency plus the melancholy sight of the last empty drove them (us) off to their (our) kendaraan2 reeling and hiccupping, guffawing and giggling all the way to somewhere rhyming with "The Pickled Carrot". As usual, names have been changed to protect the inebriated.
On on, and I'm pretty sure it's Pig Fucker this coming Saturday, unless I've cocked up again, which is evidently a strong possibility.
