"I Find Myself a Little Short"
Last week’s run at Tunon was divided into a small, medium, large, a 33’’ waist and a 60cm inside leg measurement. As it turned out, for reasons beyond myself, I took the short. Possibly because I am genetically predisposed to, I don’t know. All I can tell you is that I’m 5’5’’ and I somehow ended up on perhaps the shortest short we’ve ever had on Bali HHH2 in the company of none other than The Penguin who is possibly, besides some 2 - 8 year olds, the shortest Hasher in said running club. Some of them are actually taller than him, but I do jest, he is much taller than most of the two year olds. He is also, however, easily the world’s most personable McChap. If you had one of those dinner parties with your fantasy guest list, four of them would have to be The Penguin and coming in a distant fifth would be Jesus McChrist. If you haven’t guessed or met him yet, he is a Scotsman (A Scortsmun in fact), The Penguin that is, not Jesus C., but you never know...
Mr. The Penguin is what you would call an Uberhasher. He hashes all over the shop, from K.L. to Jakarta to Lombok to Aberdeen and back to Bali. He recently ran on Hashes on the Dalmation Coast in the former Yugoslavia and in Italy. He makes the rest of us look like Hash wimps and makes me in particular so jealous that I’ve got half a mind to call Commissioner Gordon and have him send up the Bat Signal. Anyhoo, the reason I was hashing with this Globewaddling fellow was that I was too busy trying to identify the owner of a silver Avanza (this in itself made things difficult) that had left its lights on in the car park, and I didn’t hear Hare Rabid Mangy Dog give us the “rundown” on the various runs. You might say that this proves the old adage that no good deed goes unpunished, or you might start singing “Bullshit, bullshit, it all sounds like bullshit to me, to me”. Either way you’d probably be right. I can’t help myself, I go on the short rain or shine. I just didn’t realise this one was going to be so bloody, well, short. It was less than half an hour, probably more like 25 minutes but buggar it, I don’t care. You’d best do what you want to do, life is short, ask The Penguin, ask me.
It was however a very attractive run, thank you Hares R.M.G. and Serial Offender. It was semi-drizzling with rain and therefore mercifully cool, in fact I remarked on this, peering skywards, at the car park by mentioning that it looked a lot like Manchester. “On a summer’s day” rejoined Hardcase, another Caledonian, not, given his origins, that he could talk about summer’s days. The pleasant countryside alternated between vividly green paddys and quite tall (for Penguin and me) fields of mature corn. A couple of weeks of wettish conditions seemed to revitalize the greenery and trees. Everything was a fresh and bright green, cleansed by the rain to perhaps a 354c or 347c on the Pantone fan card; anybody’d think I was in the garment business or something. The whole thing was very, what’s the word I’m groping for… nice. And, as our friends from the other side of the wall (Hadrian’s), The P and H.C. would see: thurer’s nuthink wrorng with thut, luddie.
Speaking of groping, it seems that the recurring theme of the circle last Saturday somehow devolved to the base topic of wanking. Everyone made mention of it in some way or other including the Grand Master, who I believe referred to one of last week’s missing Hasher’s, Muddyman, as something of a “wanker” for not showing up to enlighten us on a finer point of the “Balinese calendrical system”; Jangle Balls, who awarded Juicy Jugs and German shepherd a C.D. (which he’d just won back from Col. Bloodnok) for being volunteer wankers (self-admitted ones as well! Who says the Germans have no humour?). The Colonel himself gave us the lusty refrain of “Stay up Late and Masturbate”, “lifted” as it were from a Puccini opera. So it was a bit of a circle jerk all round.
Thanks must be “extended” (sorry) to those who organized the free food last week: The Health Centre and R.M.D. I believe, correct me if I’m wrong. It all went down a treat to several hungry hashers who shall not be mentioned due to outstanding law suits, appeals, parole applications, and who could not be seen or identified anyway due to airborne food particles obscuring their gnashing and snapping visages. I will give you a “tiny” hint though: one of them was on the short with me, that’s all I’m saying. His tartan, whoops, I mean his ethnicity will not be revealed.
On on next week to where I know not yet, but on on anyway to you all, and to all a good night.
J.B.
