November 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
But which one is he?'
Some hashers still have difficulty distinguishing Organ Grinder from Spook and Vicky Verka. Well, allow me to clear this up once and for all: they are in fact the same person and "some hashers" are cross eyed and drink far too much Bintang for their own good. I have been in possession of this piece of intelligence for some time and I now feel after careful consideration that it's high time it be "brought into the open", "have light shed on it'', and "expose the facts". Certain tapes from Tony Abbot's "suppository vault" have been made available to this office, and…Very well, enough of this gay badinage and silly lightheartedness, the real fact is, depending on the altitude of the run and keg consumption, the Book Ends can merge into one hasher whose hash name becomes, after a few down downs, "Spook Grinder", otherwise known as "Organ" to his confidantes.
The best way to distinguish the two at earlier points in the afternoon or at lower altitudes is to choreograph a situation where one can catch a glimpse of a Book End in profile. If he has a faintly Caesar-like appearance, it's Organ Grinder. Also it helps to have a toga and laurel wreath on hand to dexterously pull over his head and shove on it, in that order. If it's the wrong one, or right one for that matter, you'll soon know.
Before we get onto the run, let me be forthright in stating that there will be no lowly jocular references to male pattern baldness in this paragraph.
The bookend boys really "outshined" themselves on Saturday last at Bentuyung. It was a "blindingly" good run. Hashers were unanimous in acclaim going so far as to "go over their heads" (a dangerous maneuver at the best of times let alone on a damp drizzly North Ubud day) and elaborate to the Hash Master in the circle on what an "all round" fantastic run it was. Enough of this uncalled-for rudeness. In honour of the new Bentuyung signal tower, which we semi-circumcised at the beginning and end of the run, these hares should at least be awarded "The White Dome" (har) for one of the best runs in recent history.
This was the run with everything packed into a run you could reasonably expect. Great paddy territory and jungle sections, terrific scenery, fun as all get-wet river walks and crossings, stairways, ups, downs and befitting a Roman Emperor look-alike, a viaduct over stunningly picturesque patch of paddy and trees. The elevated concrete "yellow brick road" on the return journey south was also a blast and if you didn't feel like donning a stupid costume and skipping on it (the path, not the costume), you've got no imagination. And if this wasn't enough, there was an array of bird life you don't see every day of the week as well: swimming ducks, flying herons, hassling geese and a formation of pigs soaring over the circle (but that was after the hares had done their morphing thing). The paper was plentiful and well-laid and the sign posting on the way to the site was clear, visible and precise, as was the map – well done hares, bloody good job from these experienced and diligent hashers.
Now, sadly, to the circle. Perhaps it was the normally stick wielding German frau berating the Book Ends in the circle for the fate of her friend who had slipped on muddy concrete steps and done some bodily harm to her head that set the tone for the desultory events, or at least reaction to circular events, that followed. Some Westerners seem to bring with them an attitude that their safety, security, very lives are guaranteed by the government, organisations etc., etc. and that systems are in place everywhere they go to ensure their well-being.
As we on the Bali Hash know, there is no assurance that there will be ambulance and medical services on hand for our $6.00 fee, nor is there disabled access to rice paddies or rubberised hand rails available for river crossings, concrete steps or bamboo suspension bridges. I don't want to go too far here, but there's not much P.C. about the hash and our Hash master is not a disabled aboriginal lesbian, not that we've noticed anyway. I think I went too far. We can't control the weather either, but we've never lost a soul.
Basically the circle sucked after that; nobody was interested in what was being said or done. There was mild amusement at virgin inducting ceremonies, but hashers stood around in clusters talking amongst themselves despite Herculean attempts by Labia and others to get them involved.
To add to the above, hash entertainment, as everything else provided on the hash, is a voluntary position. Hash Masters, R.A.s and stand-ins don't have to beat their heads against brick walls to try to get people to sing along to bawdy ditties or crack a funny to a sea of total indifference. Please hashers, do try to join in. If someone obviously wants you to sing along, how much is it going to cost you to do so? If someone cracks a terrible joke, at least react – even a cat call or hoot shows you're engaged, for cryin' out loud. What have you got to lose? Only your dignity and by that time of the evening, it's too late for that. It's pretty depressing for the guy in the spotlight to be ignored though.
Well, enough, probably too much, said. See you next week, bring your jokes, limericks and songs. Put that thing away sir, that's not a limerick.
On on.
