February 2014 | By: The Scrotable Scribe
The Year of Mr. Ed. (A Horse is a Horse, of Course, of Course)'
I’m reliably informed by old Asian Hands and those with the uncanny ability to type “The Year of the Horse” into Google search, that this is not such an auspicious and august year compared to Chinese years of other even more unlikely things to name years after such as “The Metal Rabbit”, “The Water Dragon”, “The Fire Rat”, “The Smoking Jacket”, and “The Plastic Sandal” (stop me when you think I’m making these up, because I really wouldn’t know). Evidently, this is a year in which you’d be well advised to lay low, keep your powder dry, be careful, do not initiate any venture, relationship or course of action more ambitious than buying a nice new pair of terylene slacks and a polystyrene shirt, made of course (if you look hard enough) in China.
Yes, this is a year to stick to the familiar, take the path of least resistance and back the favourite. Perhaps this explains why we found ourselves once again back under that saaaaame old banyan tree opposite that oooold Puri we know so well standing in the miiiiiddle of the road (how apropos) staring at a set of concrete steps down which we have scampered an abacus-busting amount of times to that inevitable oooold man river crossing. Not, of course, that there’s anything wrong with that. There is quite a bit to be said for hewing to the proven path, sticking to the tried and true, not fixing what ain’t broke, going the safest….okay, okay, I’ll shut the !@#$ up now, you get it already! As the tourist in Beijing said “Excuse me, can you tell me the way to the way to Tiananmen Square or should I just go fluck myself?”
Despite the familiarity of this run, that obvious factor didn’t prevent it from being very enjoyable. It’s not as if it doesn’t have very acceptable views of quite some distance, some eminently decent paddy-and-offering-flower-field traversing and jungle jogging; even some pretty good river crossings, and at one point, a quite respectably sized waterfall. No, no, there was all of the above plus we were fortunate to have it in fairly cool and overcast conditions without getting peed on by the ancestors. There’s an over-used phrase in Australia that while not quite as bland as “too easy” (when people use this one on me I can barely stop myself from pronouncing “Well, I’ll give you a @#$%ing hard one to do then”) that pretty much sums up this run when mouthed with a similar amount of enthusiasm: “It’s all good”. And it was, it was all good, all very, very good. I’m sure you know what I mean.
Back at The Forbidden City (the beer truck after 8pm these days) we milled around like a bunch of thirsty, hungry old nags ridden hard and put up wet waiting for our nose bags to be fitted because they’d run out of tee shirts. Suddenly, out were paraded with some pomp and circumstance and on fine antique ceramic trays, wafting with Eastern Promise, some temptingly exotic spring rolls.
It was fascinating to watch these being cooked, earlier, in the delicately orchestrated oriental culinary tradition of steeping them gently in the very finest boiling minyak goreng. In all fairness I should note that I am lying here and they looked to me like some crusty and oily pellets that should have been coming out of your body rather than going into it, but that’s just me. I’m sure they were utterly delicious and of unquestionable provenance.
Circular affairs were formatted differently last week with the inimitable Grand Master, because he had to leave early, kicking things off with a jaunty and timely version of “Me Don’t like No Blitish Soldier” with appropriate theatrical use of fingers and eye slitting facial adjustments. This was followed in quick succession by Labia’s amazing growing bush and beer in the service of hymen removal, and a swift “shriveling” by aforesaid Grand Master as he was still there, as far as we could tell.
It was all downhill from there however as the unruly crowd just would not shut the fluck up nor risten, and it wasn’t just our “neighbours to the near north” (as we say in the Land of Oz) either. Sometimes I don’t know why long-suffering Hash Masters, R.A.s, visiting R.A.’s etc. even bother with trying to entertain the rude bastards standing around studiously ignoring everything going on in front of them and yapping their heads off, (not to mention the “truck flies” grouping around the keg as if at any second it could be beamed up to The Starship Enterprise for the off duty enjoyment of Capt. Kirk, Mr. Spock, Scotty and Lt. Uhuru). The hard working hashers who conduct the circle every week, and whose labours are for no other gain than supporting the HHH2 club, may as well call one long social drinking time and forget the whole thing, for all the attention and appreciation the poor bastards got last week. Perhaps this choice should be put to the mob next week.
There was brief crowd engagement during a naming session conducted by Jangle Balls: “Ball Banger” for an innocent housewife who happened to play tennis, and “Bedpan” for a nurse who admitted to getting pissed the previous evening and falling off a balcony injuring herself noticeably, as you do. Just as well there was a nurse around. I do that a bit myself and I don’t even have a balcony.
After this; the crowd dwindled but didn’t get any more attentive, Balls ended with a performance of Monty Python’s “I Like Chinese” delivered to a glum and glowering Chindo or three as part of the much reduced circle, perhaps not the most prudent of tune choices under the circumstances, but still a very tasteful, politically correct outing and not at all offensive.
And so the evening ground to a close as we finished our dregs framed by the lighted, very pretty, quite sizeable yet deserted Puri Dalem Sobongan (so why do all the ceremonies take place in the middle of the road?), and with perfect plecision we flucked off. Next week: Whykickanenema and Waitangi Day. Bring your English/Kiwi phrase books and be prepared for a healthy vowel movement or two.
On on.
Scribbly Scrotum the Scribe
