April 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Here Be Dragon's Cum
Night Jar pulled out a huge one for St. George's Day last Saturday at Lodtunduh and gave us a great run from possibly the best and most pleasant, functional, shady car park situation we've ever had on Bali HHH, at the Genta Art Gallery. Yes, he mercilessly slayed his dragon and it was a spiffingly what – ho, bloody sterling, tally thingamajig, jolly Roger job and all that Tommy whatsit, by George. He, Night Jar (not Tommy, Roger or George) had a mission statement from the very outset, let it be known in no uncertain terms what it was and executed it as handily as snicking off a dragon's doodle, sorry, noodle.
First and foremost, there was clearly no bloody nonsense to be tolerated in the early starter dept. Fire was well and truly breathed about that, and guess what? There was indeed no poppycock, clap trap, or any of that rot. So… you can actually do it when the sword of justice threatens, my little possums, pray continue to do so. Hares, take heed, this insidiousness can be decapitated so follow Night Jar's capital example and let it be known that none of this jolly balderdash up with which shall be put. Thank you.
Sir Knight of the Jar clearly elucidated what was required of us. It was to be a good old fashioned Hash run with none of this short, medium or long new fangled rubbish and plenty of checks to keep the pack together. A gentleman's word is his bond; home is his castle and all that sticky wicket, and that is exactly what we got. It worked a treat! There were a few moans and mumbles about confusing paper, but isn't that what a check is when we went to Hash School? I, myself and me thought it was a damnably fine effort and all three of us enjoyed it immensely; some lovely padi territory and awfully good mountain views. It was all the more enjoyable because there was always somebody, oldies and newbies, with whom to share a bon mot or two, and that, N.J. has so deftly reminded us is what a hash is all about. It's not an Olympic event; it's not an endurance course. It's a friggin' social occasion; let's not lose sight of that.
Not only did we get a nifty St. Geo's Day singlet for our efforts – eminently more sensible b.t.w. than a tee shirt, but some of the deadliest snifter shots this correspondent has ever, um, experienced, in the form of "Dragon's Cum" and "Dragon's Blood". Holy Smaug, these things packed a punch. The result was a rocket propelled circle - the noisiest and most out of control in recent memory. Some of our Chinese chums were visibly affected and stuck around much later than Bintang alone would have inspired, indeed many of our Caucasian characters did so as well.
To mixeth our myths as well as our drinks, the following brave Knights of the Round Tableau heroically battled noise and unseemly intrusions by all manner of scaly creatures: Sir Labia (The Black knight of Stepney), Sir Disco of Wanker, Sir Janglesalot and of course He of the Order of the Jar. It was a valiant attempt but ultimately futile as the dragon, though slain, took his revenge. This metaphor is now tired of being labored and is suffering, as we all did no doubt the morning after the Hash, terribly.
Our thanks go out to Sir Da Woim of New Yoik, otherwise known as the late David Moss, for allowing us to use his "entrance" or "passage", and to the banana tree without which we surely would have lost Sex on the Desk. Asketh she.
On on.
