September 2014 | By: Scrooble The Scrotable Scribbling, Dribbling Scribe
"Return of the Wise Guys"
Last Saturday at Bentuyung saw the long awaited return of the Goodfellas of Ubud. Unconscionably and lengthily absent, some of them, they certainly showed up in strength for this run. Hares Organ Grinder, Balderdash and Jangle Balls in all likelihood would have been a tad miffed if the Cosa Nostra of Campuhan had pulled yet another no-show, Bentuyung being, as it were, two kilometers (in communist measurement) from downtown, uptown Ubud. But no! Evidently their consciences got the better of them and up they sauntered: Blow Joe (Joey the Trail Bike), Worm (Davey the Keyboard), Mount Her (Monty the Dog), Wooden Eye (Andy the Welshman) and the original Ubud made guy himself, Night Jar (Vic the Chamber Pot).
The Jangled One set off the field as a live hare announcing two runs and not an abundance of perpendiculars. Unfortunately, the road down which he immediately led the pack was not only steepish but newly covered in pre-asphalt gravel. When I say “newly” I mean we had to inch past the elephantine truck that was in the midst of pouring a mountain of roughly round pebbles onto the road, and of which the “driver” and “operator” was wrestling with the controls in an attempt to position the vehicle appropriately and not block traffic on the Jalan Raya. At least half of these attempts failed miserably, as usual. We were not to be denied despite workmen frantically shooing us away; we had the numbers. This must have been the second or third gravel deposit, and many hashers found the underfoot going a challenge to stay completely upright. Both The Saviour and his feces were invoked in exclamations that could be heard as far away as Sanur.
Despite a shaky start we were soon out in the wild green yonder of Bentuyung. This is a genuinely beauteous area of Bali and smack in its Goldilocks Zone. Not too mountainous, not too flat, a bubbling and trickling plethora of manmade waterways and drop off waterfalls, plenty of wilderness areas despite the inexorable development of more and more overwhelmingly arsehole ugly “villas” as tasteless blots on the verdant landscape. The sawa at this time of year is at its richest hue of brilliant, blinding emerald dusted with a subtle touch of pure gold. Stop me before I tip over into travel writing wankerdom, oops, too late. Help! My inner travel writing wanker is eating my pancreas (too silly, I know, sorry).
But seriously folks, being surrounded by such insane beauty is truly meditative. At one point after having traversed a small forest of those future wood carving wood trees. What do you call them? Okay, a small forest of wood carvings, we came out onto the most astounding valley alongside which ran a concrete waterway berm for what seemed like kilometers of absolute silence under a shady canopy of palms and massive trees. Leave my liver alone, inner travel writing wanker! I’ve only got one and it’s not exactly in showroom condition.
While I’m at it I may as well mention the fact that the paper laying and marking were faultlessly clear on this run. I appreciate it when the hares let you know from time that you are still on the long, or the short or if you are hopelessly on the wrongedy wrong trail for that matter. Even if you are a short cutting bastard this helps, and I won’t mention any names but his initials are Whitebait. The only point at which things went awry was just near the batako making roadside shed consisting of a batako squishing machine, batako and a shed, where for some reason known only to himself or perhaps not, a local farmer witnessed by a Scottish Hasher (who would have voted “Noo”, for the record) covered the paper in mud. There’s always something…
It was unanimous that the run was pretty darned good and I thought it was a welcome return to the wilds after Umalas last week, not that there was anything wrong with that, (“Noo”). And if we thought the run was intriguing, then the circle started. Circle conductors seemed to be grappling with grammar last Saturday, perhaps it was the balmy Bentuyung breezes hat left them gaga. Well, it’s high time a few grammatical “ground rules” were laid out. Wooden Eye struggled with the plural of “moose” in the presentation of an Irish joke. Neither “meese” nor “mooses” are in fact correct. Mooses is actually a Biblical figure as in “Mooses led his people to the Promised Land”. The correct usage, of course, is “mices”. I might also point out that “geese” is the properly employed plural of “gas’’ as in “the atmosphere of Jupiter is made up of various poisonous geese” .Hash Master Labia had a problem with getting all Hashers from the “Nineties and the Minellium” into the circle. The appropriate phraseology would have been all Hashers from the “Nineties and the Linoleum”, “Linoleum” being a posterior dangling proposition if used in this manner, thus taking the capital.
Blow Joe on ice (a good name for an extravaganza) was mercilessly shriven by the Grand Master for having the hide and audacity to turn 54. He was also given the “Hey Dude” treatment by certain of his seniors (“you like to show your little blonde curls to little girls, you dirty bastard, bastard, bastard , bastard, bastard, bastard yeah, nah nah nah, nah nah nah nah etc.) After which J.B. and other tasteful and urbane individuals visited County Limerick. However I preferred the only non-Limerick contribution of the evening: “Roses are red, violets are glorious, never sneak up on Oscar Pistorious”. Which set me thinking. How about: “Roses are red, there’s no disputin’, don’t put your trust in Vladimir Putin” or “Roses are red, almost maroon, please shut the fuck up David Cameroon”.
On on to wherever we’re going next week, hope to see you there.
