July 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Home, Home on the Range
Where the antelopes looked kinda strange, which was because they were Bali cows. Other than that, and the palm trees, ocean, black beach and seaweed factory we could have been in some greenish nondescript U.S. cow - intensive state such as Idaho or Iowa with plains and distant misty hills in the background, competin' in the 6 km mosey and 6mt butterfly and backstroke event. Did I mention that in this idyllic, sylvan, cowperson tableau that it had pissed down raining the night before and most of it was flooded?
Never mind, this was half the fun. After an initial shemozzle on the black beach with bewildered hashers darting off in every direction on the compass and in various clutches in search of elusive paper, we were faced with the choice of either swimming across a deep stream or turning back. A few reckless souls threw caution to the wind and flung themselves in enthusiastically disregarding possible coccyx cracking submerged rocks. Others gingerly groped their way forward, it was bracingly chilly and alarmed testes flew north. Interestingly, there were quite a few back turners unwilling to brave the waters. Some of these folks I've seen traverse churning, wide, swiftly running rivers at higher elevations. This was a bit of a head scratcher, non-swimmers perhaps? (I often wonder why people who don't swim want to live on a tropical island, but then I'm sure most souse chefs have never cooked a souse in their lives).
Sorry, off paper; another somewhat incongruous sight was the plethora of alabaster white, titanium blonde, ice blue eyed Vikings Dancing Queen had brought back from Sweden in his luggage. Understandably they had no idea about hash etiquette: "Have you seen the shreddy – eddy - eddy paper?" they hurdy gurdied at me (they didn't really say that, but they did hurdy gurdy at me), then refused to answer any "are you?" calls. It was humourous to see the whole lot of them wearing "Are you?" tee shirts in the circle blithely unaware of any irony.
This was a divertingly different run, and it must be said, a pretty one as well. We had corn fields, well established walkable and joggable trails, the garbage factor wasn't too bad nor was there too much asphalt. Despite buying a mini mart umbrella, the sun didn't beat down mercilessly on me nor were there any torrential downpours. It was, as hare Konkorde and the Rev. Spooner themselves would have put it, "A nice pant in the country". Certainly more so than what we usually get anywhere near Jalan Professor Doctor Praying Mantis. A sighting of the Loch Ness Seaman Staines was made who appeared as co hare, but this could have been a water overdose - induced hallucination.
Back at the bunk house we were all pleased to see that Spook, around whom rumours swirled of hideous disfiguration due to his carelessly introducing a banyan tree into his nose via his mouth on the Bangli frog hop last week, bore no other mark (Ho) than a slightly nasal vocal quality. Suggestions were mooted in the circle to change his hash name to "Stiff Upper Lip" or perhaps something Latin and botanical, but the Hash master sensibly quashed this rash insubordination.
The circle proceeded at least as swimmingly as the run featuring returned H.M. Labia waving his beery bush at virgins with a reinvigorated vengeance. Jangle Balls delivered "moving" tributes to the 44th anniversary of the moon landing via "stirring" anthems such as "Wanking on the Moon" and "Blue Moon" ("you saw me wanking alone") etc. which after all was the theme of the occasion, wasn't it? Night Jar kept discipline bawling at nervous bystanders then inducing states of helpless giggling hysteria with jokes and Spooner channeling. Konkorde/Tommy Cooper reincarnate brought down the seaweed factory with the ultimate "Titanic" joke (a really big one).
It was all about water last Saturday. Who knew there'd be so much of it in a moonscape or the mid west plains? On on to, oh no, the Mambal swimming pool this week.
Are you? (Hurdy gurdy x 5)
