August 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
The Return of the Return of Barnacle Bill the Sailor
This was undoubtedly the highlight of last Saturday's run at Pura Dalem Apuan at Singapadu, appropriately enough, as Grand Master Night Jar really did sing up a doozy of a version of this hash chestnut. His blistering rendition was delivered with gusto unseen since the First Annual HHH Academy Awards Ceremony held poolside at the Bali Dynasty Resort after run 123 on May 21st 1994, when he literally had them shouting from the balconies (irate holiday makers trying to get to sleep, that is). It was that good.
We'll get back to this breaking news after a word from our sponsor ("Shit!") and dealing with more prosaic matters, such as the run, not that there was anything wrong with that. In fact it was very pleasant indeed and we thank hare Ye Ye, again appropriately enough, son of Uncle Leong, whose memorial run it was. It was a tad panas as we set off into open padi territory but a cooling breeze blew gently upon us from a perfect cumulus stacked crystal blue sky.
For reasons still unclear, Jack Shit, separated from the pack by a rice field or two, seemed to be upset and letting fly with what sounded like aggravated abuse in mid padi. Was it the mysterious HHH2 Rabid Mangy Dog Hash Tourette's Syndrome that seems to affect us all from time to time? This strange malaise creeps over Yours Truly whenever small black hyper active hash hounds are just out of arse kicking range. Perhaps he had stepped in one of their products, but inquiring into the reason for this behavior, I was told simply "Jack Shit", as if this somehow explained everything.
Down to the river we went on a gently sloping road and waded barely ankle deep across and into fairly luxuriant surrounds on the other side. What a lovely amble the whole shebang was: along the embankment, and across the weir, mea culpa, I still haven't learned what these dam (hardy!) things are called, lazy bastard. More fun moments ensued when two huge elephants crossed the road smack in front of us with giggling mahouts at the reins plopping huge turds behind them (the elephants not the mahouts); not something you see every day of the week either. It's just that well… it's not exactly the first time we've done this run (ahem). At 55 minutes for the short it was an ideal duration for someone who had suffered a Plaga chardonnay attack the previous evening, though I would certainly have no idea who this rash individual was.
Back at the club house (Wantilan) the acoustic affect of the tin roof and the intensely socialising crowd under it was doing me head in and I had to get outside desperately. Unfortunately this continued all the way through the circle and was somewhat distracting, what with all the eager consumers and the self created apartheid of certain ethnic groups who needn't be named. This happens every time at this location and it seems the only way to avoid it would be to park the beer truck elsewhere at this site, as we have done on other occasions, or somehow separate the circle and its attendees from the socialising party going offenders at every Hash. Another couple of lampu to place far from the circle would be a good start. Let's admit defeat and try a partition like so many other effective developments such as North and South Korea, Vietnam, Sudan etc.
Once again the circus was a good one; we've had a run of them lately. All manner of exotica entertained us from all corners of the globe. At one point we had a guitar wielding Oxford fellow sing "Stand By Me" in honour of the remembered Uncle; an unfortunate Welsh lassie kneeled in front of Wooden Eye (a mistake at the best of times if you're a lassie) to be christened and ended up with "While You're Down There" to follow her around ad infinitum. Then there was Night Jar's aforementioned vocal coup, and of course Jangle Balls with a Dung Beatles journey from the early infected hits to the psychedelic silliness of "Loosening Their Bowels with Bad Timing" from the Sgt Crappers all bum along with "A Day in the Wife".
All too, too fun making, especially the last song with Comes Up and Mud Flaps' (strange bedfellows) thilly inthtrumeth("I Can Play the Zambian Dildo" etc.) You had to be there and in all honeshty, be a bit pished, whish we were forshunately.
On on to victory, glory and nasi goreng for Muddy Man's Hari Kermerdekaan.
