March 2014 | By: The Scrotable Scribe
Slender Brenda the Body Lender'
If you don’t have enough comedy in your life, if you haven’t had a good trouser troubling cackle for a long time, if people from the Ukraine on telly with names like Slobberdong Toastwankervich or Oscar Pistorious and his melodramatic courtroom chundering just aren’t doing it for you, I vigourously recommend a G.P.S. device that speaks to you. Especially the one that one of our number had in his laptop last Saturday and activated on the way to the Hash. This thing was more hilarious than John Cleese put together; also it actually got us to the Hash site with minimum fuss or moments of bewilderment and levels of exchange in the car usually associated with mass bar room brawls or divorce proceedings.
This programmme (I guess) addressed us in robotic female tones with a kind of semi–Californian accent and used arcane traffic Americanisms that after two extended periods of living and working in the U.S. plus several additional visits, I was totally unfamiliar with e.g. “slide a right’’ (or was it “slightly right”?) or otherwise, e.g. “slightly left”? “She” would instruct us to perform a turn in fifty metres and just for good measure, tell us to perform the same maneuver five seconds after we had done so to howls of protest, derision and scorn from us mere passengers. Some fairly colourful language was involved too, at least on our end of the conversation. Ditto for her habit of translating the act of going straight through a roundabout as “taking the second exit from the roundabout”.
She/It had to be given a name for the trip home, by which time we were in first-name-terms frames of mind, so naturally “Brenda” was the obvious choice (I don’t know why, ask Bintang). Because she had to be pretty thin to fit into a laptop, “Slender Brenda” quickly followed, and because she was alone with three inebriated men in a car “The Body Lender’’ wasn’t far behind. We were just about in tears at this point, as they say, simple things amuse simple minds. But seriously folks, it was certainly as much fun as I’ve ever had with a laptop, probably a lot more. We got there and back with none of the usual (for the last few months) half-pissed-at-night-in-the-rain directional cock- ups.
Sex on the Desk gave us the lowdown on the run outside the stadium after we braced her: “six k for the short, paddy, river and jungle action, pretty flat but you’d be surprised”. She couldn’t have put it more succinctly, it was exactly that in fact if not more, but without the part about being surprised. No massive valleys or gorges appeared out of thin paddy, but it was a good solid run with plenty of scenery, a decent distant hazy mountain view or three, the proffered waterway, no elaborate check trickery, well not enough to piss you off anyway, and plenty of paper and spray paint. Yup. Meat and two veg. hashing, nuttin’ wrong with that, nuttin’ at all, as S.o.t.D. would say. Those who took the long also reported better than usual scenery compared to other Hashes held from said culpable stadium.
I for one worked up a thirst of Sheenian proportions, it was warm out there, really warm. I was sweating like “President” Bush watching “Fahrenheit 9/11” in 2006. I wasn’t the only one either. At one point I caught sight of Whykickanenema who appeared to be disguised as a waterfall. I almost missed him it was so convincing an impersonation. Just a quick note here while I’m on the subject of invisibility or not; I’m not sure if it was just me, but I don’t believe the local rural Mengwians see a hell of a lot of bulehs from day to day. More than once I felt myself the object of attention to the point I had to check to see if I was walking around with my pants on backwards or had forgotten to change out of the tuxedo and cummerbund I wore to the Oscars.
So, back to my thirst problem, before I was so rudely interrupted. I was working quite hard on it when the circle started and I had to go and get changed, which means I missed most of Labia’s ministrations to the flock. He seemed to be in fine form though, and I’m sure he delivered a worthy sermon. Disco Wanker took the pulpit and rained brimstone and down downs on look-alikes such as a Pirate of the Caribbean, and a Broke Back Mountain cowboy identified by unfortunate facial hair and a hapless hat (your friend and mine, Bouncing Czech sporting the hat). Others suffered Father Wanker’s wrath such as a thong (flip flops, not what you’re thinking ladies) wearing gentleman of the darker persuasion, and many non-hash garment wearers.
Night Jar, reminded us what an educated and informed crowd we were, as usual, only to expose us as the idiots we actually are by his demonstration of our abysmal ignorance concerning features of yet another obscure Balinese religious observance. This time Saraswati, or “Book Day”, I wonder when “Hello Kitty Exercise Book and Matching Pen Set from Hardy’s Grosir Day” is. I’d better not speak too soon.
Jangle Balls crooned a touching ode to Vlad Putin in the form of “Lara’s Theme” from “Dr. Zhivago”. “Somewhere my Vlad, there will be land to grab” etc. as the crowd linked arms and joined in, the love was everywhere. I did have a bit of a headache though so I called Dr. Putin who told me to take a couple of Sevastopols and call him in the morning, har. It worked for him.
On on to St. Paddy’s day run at Pura Hyang Api presented by Messrs. Balls and Balls, singin’ Barnacles and Monkey aloive, aloive o. See ya dere.
