January 2014 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
A “Rash” of R.A’s'
Whaddya whaddya? Let’s hope this trend continues! There were even more R.A.’s last Saturday at Puri Hyang Kelusa (also known to insiders as “Twat Manis” for some reason) than last week. Audible sighs of relief were heard as far away as Denpasar issuing from Labia and Jangle Balls as Col. Bloodnok and Disco Wanker materialised in the crowd. Thank Dai the Post, Dai the Milk, Dai the Griffin and other famous Celtic deities for this duo of Welsh wizards without whom our underwear would have remained boringly dry. There was another Welsh wizard, conspicuous by his abscess, who would have completed the “hat trick”, but his identity will remain shrouded in mystery (Wooden Eye). Hey, who said that? Besides, I’ve never seen him in a hat, let alone three. Who?
Some of us approached Bitch on Heat for a pre-lowdown lowdown. She said quite a bit but didn’t tell us much. Was this a cunning trick? Who knew? The “runs” were announced: a short of 1hr 30 and a long of… shoot, I’ve forgotten because I only ever do the short (sometimes the long, but not on purpose) so I kinda tune out that info, selfish bastard. I should really commit it to memory for my own good in case I inadvertently end up on the long again feverishly pumping Hashers for details that they too haven’t bothered to retain, selfish bastards.
Anyway, I digress (note to self: no shit, Sherlock). The jury’s in and the verdict is: another ripper, five in a row now, I believe. I’m starting to miss crap runs in somewhere like Sanur or Sabah so I can take the piss, but hares, you are making it difficult for me, selfish bastards. Don’t you know the lengths I go to, slaving away in “obscurity" (which is a cave somewhere in Yemen surrounded by camels and terrorists, the distant thud of drones wiping out innocent fundamentalist beardos stoning themselves to death anyway for infidel apostate behavior such as humming the theme tune to “Gilligan’s Island”?).
It always comes as a bit of a shock to me how splendidly wide open some of the views are on Hashes not that far from the crowded and claustrophobic jumbles that are the Jalan Rayas of places such as Payangan. In this case it was a pleasant surprise to see banyan dotted open vistas stretching far into the distance. And that wasn’t all: we had (briefly) a mountainous volcano (most of them are) visible through bamboo stands and in paddys before it was completely obscured by haze and clouds, river and falls crossings, ups and downs both muddy and stony – all the good stuff. Particularly fetching, and handy cover as it started to lightly rain, was the last long stretch of an almost traffic-free asphalt road covered by a canopy of tallish trees above. Well done Bitch on Heat and assistant Yetti, or Vicky Versa, nice spotting.
Well, it had to happen eventually. Some soft cock with a bad ‘tude took umbrage at Labia’s giant beer splashing garden cutting during virgin busting ceremonies, wrestled the offending greenery from the Hash Master’s insensitive paws, and splash back followed. Labia made light of the moment and shrugged it off, thank Christ, or a struggle may have ensued. There is only one possible comment to make on this dire event to the individual concerned: If you don’t like the Hash and its attendant shenanigans, don’t come. You won’t be missed. What did this genital-man expect, broken orange pekoe tea with silver service? It’s the Hash House Harriers for Christ’s sake, not an afternoon with the Vicar and his lovely wife. Fuck off, in short.
I guess we have already thanked, in our own way, the various Hash Masters and R.A.’s for their hilarious contributions, but allow me to say that some of the funniest bits were (as usual) unintended. Labia made reference to Australian “President” Paul Keating, casting a fairly optimistically Republican complexion on proceedings. Disco Wanker mentioned Australian “aboriginalillies”. Floral art, I presume, rendered by our indigenous cousins. Col. Bloodnok accidentally left a giraffe, or was it an elephant, in the fridge at the end of his Q and A session and had his memory jogged by Cane Rat, who is a shrewd observer of life and notices these kinds of things in the fridge.
Jangle Balls got the rough end of the pineapple this week (right under the giraffe in the fruit and veggie crisper). By the time he had launched a Dung Beatle recruitment drive, most Hashers had consumed their quota, and other small country’s quotas of the amber article, and were uncooperatively deafening. He respectfully requested later, between four letter words, that I ask in these pages that Hashers, R.A.’s and Hash Masters extend him the same courtesy as he does to them and not stand around the beer truck ignoring the shit out of him.
I suppose everybody’s got an axe to grind somewhere, which brings me to my favourite Hash joke of the week, delivered by Disco Wanker: How do you confuse a (fill in the blank, in this case a Scotsman in a full kilt and sporran, a long way from home and St Andrew’s Day)? Put three shovels up against the wall and tell him to take his pick.
On on
