November 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Pun at the Polly Fall Court
As we know, Indonesian polk don't do "f" or "v" or at least they don't do them in the right places, thus we made our way to Bedulu and St Tits' and Bouncing Czech's run site on Saturday arpternoon for a bit of fuffing and fanting amid fastoral surroundings, a pew drinks and a little pun arpterwards. This week we only missed one turn due to a HHH sign at the bottom of a statue which was about the size of a post-it note (the sign, not the statue, but it may as well have been) and we were reduced to asking locals for the general direction (because that's all you're going to get anyway) of the volley ball court. They stared uncomprehending until, grasping at phonetic straws, I tried various combos "Folly pall?", "Polly pall?" I enquired hopefully. "Aahhh", recognition dawned on their features "Folly fall". "Terusssss" they imitated snakes with their hands (this of course means "straight'', as if you didn't know) "kanan" (yup, right).
Look, (I hate people who start sentences with "Look", which is practically everybody in Australia under 110 and over 3 years old now, but) Look, I come in for a lot of flak and ridicule for not proceeding directly, without deviation, to the exact location of the run every week following a map that shows hairpin bends and dog legs as straight lines etc., especially from unbelieving quarters such as our revered hare razor and map maker. Some of my detractors (even Hitler had his) in this area have been going to Bedulu Molly Paul court for hashes on and off for 20 to 30 years. What other earthly reason would you have to go to the Bedulu Bolley Pall court? To see the big game between Bedulu and Goa Gaja? "Shoot", I said to my wife only last week, "We missed the travelling Dutch Masters of the 1500's exhibition at the Bedulu Jolly Tall court. And I was going to drop into the Irish Club for a pint of Guinness in Sukawati on the way home." Not. I wouldn't go to Bedulu from one century to the next, usually. Having said that though, it didn't really matter, we found the run site without much trouble, with the help of the map and the locals were, as usual, vastly accommodating.
Saint Tits clarified (ha!) for us the general character of the run which I believe went something like this: "The short is quite short and flat and comes back on itself and the long on the way back, so if you want a really good run you can come back here and do the medium, which doesn't exist." Having been thus enlightened we scurried away and found ourselves on a fairly dramatic up and down (there was another of these toward the end of the run, but I suppose if you average those and the paddies out, you get a flat run). I think it may be St. Tits' legal background that compels him to keep us in the dark and baffle us with bullshit. But it didn't really matter because as it turned out, it was a really very good run.
There were a couple of great river crossings and the towering section of river valley carved out for the rock therein is pretty dang imposing, whatever caused it. The short was actually quite well timed at just over an hour and the paper and arrows were abundant enough not to be toooo confusing, though there were a few touch and go moments in that dept., a couple of the checks for example, were a bit unhinged but hey – I enjoyed it, as did everybody.
Certainly, once again, our furry best friends enjoyed the shit out of annoying the shit out of hashers, rushing hither and thither with the enthusiasm and desperation of maze rats unsure of the cheese location. If there's one thing you can name about dogs that is endearing, it is their sheer frenetic brainlessness. Unfortunately it's only endearing, to and only gives pleasure to their owners, who don't seem to give a doggie doody whether it gets up anybody else's nose or not. More than once a cry of "Keep the f….n' things on a leash" (not an official hash call as such) went up but I have no idea from whom that issued.
Back at the Wally Wall court we finally had some kind of spiritual guidance from the Right Reverend Disco Wanker who "castigated" an unfortunate repeat visitor in unbelievable pants (the repeat visitor not D. Wanker). Let's leave it at that. There was a silly song from Jangle balls "Get off the Stove Grandma, You're too old to Ride the Range" no wait, that's a dumb country song I think I just made up. It was actually, shockingly, a Dung Beatles song, which I forget. Anyway, everybody had fun until the first drops of the rainy season interrupted our revelry and the piss had run out anyway. We look forward to a return bout of Horny Herring vs. Gudang this coming Saturday which a little birdy tells me is a bit of a marathon, unless I'm completely wrong on both counts.
On on.
