October 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Invasion of the Toilet Talkers
There were an alarming amount of my fellow tribespersons at this week's hash at Pura Tangalingalongajingajongjangle, Babakan. (Hope you got all that, it's important in case you get lost). They were bussed in, possibly parachuted from Hercules aircraft or transported in amphibious landing vehicles, because to a sapper, they swore like troopers, and that was just the women and children. Early in the piece I was introduced to a nice young couple from Nah Nah Goon in W.A., Darryl and Nirelle (for argument's sake). Have I been out of town for a spell or has effing and blinding become mandatory in the Lucky Country to the point that you can't obtain a passport without at least four to six colourful expletives on the application form? E.G. "Sex: Fuckin' oath, mate.", "Place of birth: North fuckin' Queensland you c..t".
Dazza was a man of few words but most of them were adjectival and based on roots of a four letter origin. We covered the topics of the "Bloody A.F.L. Gren fuckin' Fornal", the "Stite of fuckin' Origin metches" and of course "the c….s who run the fuckin' government" in fairly short order, after which it was Nirelle's turn to let us know about the "two- gear bloody bastard economy" and how difficult it is for the "everege fuckin' person to get boi these bloody doize." At (much) more length than hubby, though. I swear the air was turning blue and purple around us. An unfortunate cow wandered too close to us and toppled over sideways stone dead as it came into earshot of Nirelle's cavalier use of the "c" word in relation to Afghani and Iraqi boat refugees. I tried to save it (the cow) by putting my hands over its ears at the crucial moment, but alas… We're no angels on H.H.H.2 when it comes to the odd verbal outburst related to bodily parts and functions, but this was, well, fuckin' ridiculous.
The Hash Master bawled at us that the short was of an hour or so duration, and that once again, despite my weekly pleas, the long was to be over two hours (two and a half in other words). At the risk of repeating myself, hares, if you set runs like this, the likelihood of early starters becomes much greater. It's not a marathon or an endurance course, nobody's going to call you a pussy for setting a run with a reasonable chance of making it back alive before midnight. There was a special treat for the early starters this week: the short and long started in different directions – hardy bloody fuckin' bastard har har (that wasn't me that was Nirelle).
The run, at least the short, was really good. The territory around this area is surprisingly pretty, a good amount of thick jungle bits, quite steep gorges and rich green paddies. There was a really cool (in all senses of the word) section about two thirds of the way with a winding concrete path carved out through a hillock lending a mini - jungle canyon air to the whole thing that then led into a short walk along a stony trickling stream; nicely spotted, hares, not nicely spotted hares… Generally speaking not a lot of asphalt and a bearable amount of garbage - a different story on the long though, apparently). As they say in the land down under: "yeah, nah, Orreckon it was a fuckin' bewdy meself".
Back at the Pura Tingaallingalonga, visiting fellow marsupials were coming out of the woodwork. Either a shitload of them started early or all that "fuckin' " and "bastards'' must have resulted in a population explosion while we were gone. It would have taken until the last long runners were back (way too long) to down down all the visiting wallabies and pig footed bandicoots so representatives were chosen such as the koala–ette from Fremantle Hash with the cuddly bum, and someone called "Baboon" who also had a mighty grip on the English language as long as the lexicon employed started with a, b, c, f, p, or w.
It was good to see Wooden Eye back and donning the miter in fine form. Disco Wanker conducted a Miss World contest featuring members of all the major genders for some reason, which didn't matter, religious advice at last that had been sorely missing for a good (bad) few weeks. Hamersley took it up the arse more than a few times. The crowd was deafening so I made my way to the beer truck where I stumbled into an Oodnagalabi hasher who recognised me from a previous visit and was in the stage of inebriation where every sentence actually BEGINS with "Fuckin' " : "Fuckinnn'… ay, it's him. Fuckinnn'… 'Ow ya goin'? Fuckinnn… good on ya". It's when they end in "fuckin' " that you're in trouble, as he demonstrated later when I attempted to avoid his pleasant company: "Fuck off with yer Fuckinnn…", "I don't give a fuck about yer fuckinnn…"
We took his advice and didn't give him the fuckinnn'… but did actually fuck off with our fuckinnn'… right into a torrential downpour on the sunrise road on the way south, a cleansing experience after all the fuckinnn'… Anyway…
on on
