September 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
“Indiana Jones et La Temple de Ruine” (or words to that effect)
A blonde (at the risk of being branded hair colourist) is interviewed for the position of secretary and the interviewer asks her “How many‘d’s’ are there in “Indiana Jones and The temple of Doom?” The blonde replies “Sixteen”. The shocked interviewer replies “How do you reach that conclusion?” The blonde replies “Da da da daa, da da daa, da da da daaa, da da da da daaa”. That stirring theme reeled around my frontal cortex more than once last Saturday at Pura Ukur Ukuran on the by-the-seat-of-our-pants adventure that was the run which Marco Polo and co. gave us last Saturday. The Frogs seem to favour this site for some reason. Perhaps they have a national predilection for Harrison Ford, who knows? They have shown serious and uncharacteristic lapses of taste in the past, such as Jerry Lewis and Mickey Mouse, who it is rumoured, were the same (alien) being.
Many a Bastille and French Occasion etc. Day has been set from this imposing site but this, it has to be said, was one of the best. The Frogs really pulled one out of the beret this time setting us off with a live homme start who was busy tossing paper skywards in a cavalier and abandoned manner as we followed him down past the spectacle of the large stone structure that looks vaguely like something from Stone Henge (as opposed to Asbestos, Brick and Tile or Weatherboard Henge, and as we know Stone is one of the world’s more important Henges, note: in most countries Asbestos Henges are now illegal). But I digress, the inevitability of the descent into and across the river was tempered by how ruggedly attractive this neck of the woods actually is. You could say it would be difficult NOT to set a pretty good run around here but this one was cherry picked, and it can only be assumed that at least one of these kodok 2 has a very good eye indeed.
The hits just kept on comin’ with view after view and some quite lump-in-the-throat- swallowing gorges that kept dropping deeper and deeper. There were some pretty challenging ups and downs, great river parts and crossings and we got quite the workout into the bargain. The jungle sections were really quite Tarzan-and-Jane-worthy. The urge to let fly with a full throated jungle bellow (ah AH ah AH ah AH ah AH aaaah) and reach for the nearest vine was never far from wherever urges are kept. It was also pretty well timed coming in just under the estimated one hour forty five for the short and the long wasn’t that out of announced whack either. All round it was excellent haring and a hard act to follow, non? Ouie, tres bloody bien mate.
Meanwhile, back at the pavillon de plain pied (ranch) a circle was mustered and virgins were drenched, as were a slew of achievers shirts, with beer mostly. Lucky recipient Jangle Balls had to wrestle his from beneath the Hash Master’s insistent feet then attempt to beat him to death with it in order for it to retain some semblance of a garment worn by humans. Tom Foolery followed, but notably not his French cousin Jean Paul Foolery. Night Jar gave a rousing rendition of “Ship Ahoy” and reminded us that Sept. 7 was Queen Elizabeth the Very First’s birthday. Jangle Balls reminded us that it was Australian Erection Day and that they have one every ten years or so. Odes to Kevin (“Imagine there’s no Kevin”) and Tony (“Suddenly, Tony isn’t what he used to be, now he thinks he’s a suppository”) were delivered touchingly. The reins were handed, perhaps unwisely, to St Tits who managed, as usual, to get himself iced. How does he do it? With him it really is a case of the ice man cometh. Mr. Banglestein made another welcome appearance.
Most of our Gallic brothers and sisters had pissed off well before this idiocy prevailed. Though I’m not at all Franco phobic, it does strike one that Monsieur and Madam Frog’s preferred activities such as dipping a generous nose into a glass of cabernet sauvignon, accompanying this with cheese that smells like somebody’s feet and smoking something with the odour of a burning barn (occupants included) doesn’t really sync well with beer swilling, dirty jokes and bawdy ballads. Perhaps this is why they don’t stick around for much of the circle. And who, after all, can blame them for avoiding those making les fuckeeng eediots of themselves, non?
Not me.
On on.
