November 2014 | By: Scrooble The Scrotable Scribbling, Dribbling Scribe
"Tampax Searing"
“How about this weather, huh?” Don’t you hate it when you’re the recipient of asinine, gormless enquiries like this? “Hot enough for ya?” No, I always feel like saying, “not nearly enough, I want it molten hot. I want it blast furnace. I want it so hot that people who say dumb arse things like that burst into flames, spontaneously combust right in front of me then burn to a crisp like the Nazis in ‘Indiana Jones and The Raiders of the Lost Ark’ ”. Other than that, I don’t feel terribly strongly about the issue. Jesus Chiropodist though, it was hot last Saturday, in Denpasar and Sanur (where Yours Sincerely happened to be suffering swelteringly), on the drive up to the run (when the a/c freon in the Taruna started petering out), at the car park and during the run set by Whitebait last Saturday. They say there are three temperatures in Bali: hot, bloody hot and fuckin’ hot. Not to mention dusty, did you say dusty? Did I hear you say dusty? Choke me with a ton of Fitzroy Crossing bull dust, it was also bloody fuckin’ dusty at Tampax ear ring last Sat.
Whitebait’s pre-run rundown was nothing if not succinctly brief, perhaps even a tad terse: “There’re two runs today, one five times around the car park and one more. You’ll be back in an hour”. Who can blame him? As I pointed out, it was bloody hot and did I mention fuckin’ dusty? I believe I may have. So off we cantered, gagging on each other’s wakes of swirling powdery dirt across the car park to what turned out to be a journey of some contrast.
There were some fairly sizeable deposits of quite malodorous garrbish –ah, ah, ah, don’t reach for that spell check option! This is a new word I have coined, pronounced with a rolling “r’’ sound (as you would employ speaking in Bahasa Indonesia), a cross between garbage and rubbish that, although it’s possible you might see it in other areas of the world, I believe it’s make up here on The Gods’ Island to be peculiar to, and representative of, this exotic archipelago. Where else, for example, would you see some discarded old alang alang roofing accompanied by festoonery such as cowshit, Gudang Garam packets, Beng Beng wrappers, some kind of rotting ex-nasi and sayur dish with a freshly used diaper on the side? No wonder it was so toxically ripe.
On the other hand, there was some really fantastic scenery and at least one strikingly arresting view. The “Holy Water” temple viewed from high on the ridge above was something you don’t see either every day of the week, or for that matter on every Hash, so were the giant water wheels at the bottom of the valley. There were cooling streams and falls, lush, massive and very welcome shady bamboo thickets, challenging ups (especially of the concrete step variety) and equally challenging downs. All round a bloody fuckin’ good run. Dare I use the brand new inductee into the Oxford English Dictionary just this last month? Okay then, if only for adherence to verbal clarity, trending adjectives and unquestionable Hash taste – a cunting good show.
We unanimously enjoyed the brief return for at least one day of the one-run, many-checks- keeping-the-pack-together, days-of-yore style of Hash. Good job Whitebait and Creepy (son of Whitebait and self-confessed paper bitch for last week), there should more of it, and perhaps a little more length to the run could have been added, but we can only imagine how hot and dusty (Did you say hot? Did you say dusty?) it was out there laying the paper. I’d have wanted to keep it short as well.
Now, there was all manner of off the wall behavior in the circle this week and one can’t help but surmise that the weather may also have played its part in some of the sun - touched displays that unraveled themselves before our very eyes last Saturday. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see men in white suits with butterfly nets, other restraint items and antidotes for the condition known as “Troppo”, pursuing some of the participants into the jungle. For the sake of brevity (of which I can’t generally be accused) I’ll give you an example or two: A bare chested, board short sporting, bald headed individual suffering obviously from masochism, severe sunstroke or Nature-of-Hash-House-Harriers Misinformation managed to get himself iced and down downed so many times in appreciation of his juvenile behavior that he appeared to take on lovely patina shades of both copper green and ice blue in facial and anal bodily areas.
Dancing Queen, after telling a joke that can only be attributed to heat exhaustion, reappeared in the circle interrupting, abusing, heckling and insulting the Grand Master in a most offensive fashion. Had he misplaced his marbles so comprehensively that he even considered this acceptable? Or had the two of these “jokers” cooked this scenario up to shock us innocent bystanders? Either way, sun damage is implicated if you ask me.
I know it sounds like crazy talk, but I’m thinking of acquiring some kind of startlingly loud firearm that I can occasionally discharge in the circle when I judge things to be getting out of hand, especially on brain cell sapping days as these that we’re currently suffering. If you’re feeling “under the weather” as well and if all else fails, try putting The Hash Trash close to the affected part. Not that I wish to “blow my own trumpet”, but it has been known to cure some rare cancers.
See you next week for a Worm and Mudflaps run, talking of Troppo…
On on
JB
