February 2014 | By: The Scrotable Scribe
That’s All We Can Get under the Door'
There’s a joke about a somewhat sexually over-active gent whose doctor tells him he’s been diagnosed with “H.A.G.S” (herpes, AIDS, gonorrhea and syphilis). The doctor goes on that he’s to be put in isolation and given a strict diet of pitta bread and flounder fish. The shocked and concerned patient asks if the eccentric diet will be effective. “Maybe not”, replies the physician “but it’s all we can get under the door”. This relates to last Saturday’s run at Kemenuh in what way you might ask? Take a stab. Right, got it in one! If it wasn’t exactly as flat as a plate of urine it was as close as you can get without earth moving equipment and Italian Australians being involved (they came, they saw, they concreted).
The drive into the car park from the Jalan Raya pretty much gave the game away: a Puri surrounded by mile upon mile of flat open paddy fields relieved in its endlessness by the occasional line of palms and a marginally larger tree or two. Only one thing could save us: “there’s some river and valley over there” St Tits announced gesturing in a vaguely Eastern direction at a decibel level usually employed while trying to locate lost children in deep wells. Besides rendering a few cows unconscious in the next Desa, this remark caused several hashers to look around at us from their various conversations with pathetic expressions of hopefulness etched in their defeated features.
Alas, it was not to be. After Labia had informed us that we were starting a few minutes early due to the short being “a little longer than usual” (a consolation prize obviously to relieve us from the potential lack of elevation or vistas of any kind, and even this was a little futile considering at least half of the pack had already taken off due to no live hare being in evidence) we were pointed in the opposite direction to St. Tits’ El Dorado. There followed an asphalt slog through easily the most unattractive village in Bali with the possible exception of Seminyak. It was a dirty, dusty jumble of leprous looking buildings guarded hysterically by yapping, howling mongrels that looked like their genetic inheritance owed more to monitor lizards than anything canine. The “asphalt” mentioned bore only a passing stony resemblance to remnants of actual bitumen. It was all a bit grim, if I haven’t said that already.
After thirty minutes of hard underfoot surfaces from the run’s beginning, we finally peeled off into open paddy. I was almost insane with relief and gratitude. From that point the views and the run generally improved, as it were, in leaps and bounds. Things certainly got greener, even a bit cleaner and the countryside opened up into longer distance vistas. At one point happening to look behind me, Agung stood naked and fully formed, free of her clouds and rising majestically purple etched against a pale blue sky. This is the mountain I’m talking about, not some dusky nubile village woman, so get that thought right out of your heads this instant, aduh! I don’t know how you could even suggest that to yourselves.
All in all it wasn’t such a bad run. There was a novel moment as we crossed a dip in the topography on an elevated viaduct with running water to keep our tootsies cool. There were small stream crossings on mini bamboo bridges and prime paddy aplenty along with fresh air and, crucially, no rain. There was quite enough paper and chalk, thank you very much. The checks were well intentioned, but as a great deal of the field had left early, they didn’t have the effect of bunching it up as there wasn’t one to bunch up. You can’t have your Smorgas Svedish Sandviches and eat them too, and we didn’t, but bottom line: it was a pleasant enough run, it was in Bali and we drank some piss and had a laugh in the circle.
In the course of doing this, Labia hove around his sodden and more and more notorious “bushel” at some of his unsuspecting countrymen. Night Jar told a joke in La Belle Frog and supplied his own subtitles. Some home truths came out about George Washington, i.e. that it was his birthday and that he wasn’t around to enjoy his down down. A board short clad youngster writhed painfully around on a block of ice with Hot Lips in his lap, or practically on his face. Talk about the agony and the ecstasy. I guess her hubby wasn’t there last week.
Finally, to complete the evening’s merry making, Jangle Balls held a “Famous Lovers” quiz that he forgot to do on the previous week’s Valentine’s Day run because he was pissed. This consisted of showering the bearer of the correct answer with Swiss chocolates from Bandung, Bogor or Surabaya. This was never clear, but fun making nevertheless, e.g.: “Shakespeare and…” answer: “Mrs Shakespeare”. “Absolutely, he was only 18 inches tall but he had a very long sonnet, have some chocolates”. This kind of idiocy went on until social drinking was called and many still-thirsty hashers left in disgust as we were once again forced onto bottles. There we went again.
Next week: St. Andrew’s Day hosted by….some Taffy that won’t apparently be Wooden Eye. Hmmm, I wonder who that could possibly be. Anyhow, bring your Griffin along and let him have a bit of fresh air.
On on.
