December 2014 | By: Scrooble The Scrotable Scribbling, Dribbling Scribe
"Name That Body Part"
I was watching an old black and white 30’s British Empire – type movie the other night and it went something like this: : “Aye say Lydiah, Ay’m having an affair with Cynthiah” (man in tuxedo and cigarette, pencil thin moustache). “Oh that’s frahfully alright Sebastian, Ay’m having an affair with Marmaduke”. (Thin, flat chested, horsey toothed woman in silk gown). “But Aye thought Marmaduke was having an affair with Beauregard.” “Well, yes, but it’s just the three of us.” “Aye see.”
I don’t know about you, but I’ve never met anybody in my life with names like these, and in reality, I’m much more likely to hear conversations like this: “G’day Bob.” “Yeah, g’day Bob.” “Bob, I don’t think I know your second name.” “Jones, Bob.” “Huh, me too.” It’s remarkable how names change from decade to decade. People give their kids all kind of monickers these days, even weirder than days of yore: Brooklyn, Beyonce, Scout, Fantasia, Heavenly Harani Tiger Lily, Honey Suckle Dripping From The Honeysuckle Vine, Dave.
And it’s the same with Hash names. Back in that long lost, impossibly distant era, the 90’s, Hash names used to be a little less, well, sexually charged to put it politely or smutty to be bwutally fwank. People were given names a bit more sensitively, chivalrously even I guess, and you were just as likely to meet a “Cane Rat” from Queensland via South Africa as you were a “Madam Lash” with a bossy attitude or “Bent Banana”, also from Queensland (surprise).
These days we tend to be perhaps a little too literal and blunt, and thus we have a “Used Rag” in the garment business, a “Sex on the Desk”, a former teacher and a “Slip and Suck”. I don’t know what the poor woman did to deserve that, something sexually adventurous, I can only assume. Just last week we anointed a Welsh plumber “Leeky Lubrication”. Okay, it’s funny, I’m just saying…that’s all. I’m not a prude, in fact my two favourite Hash names of all time have got to be “Tongue in Groove” for a visiting carpenter and “Clark Cunt” for a huge seppo that looked a bit like Superman. I laughed my fool head off over these, I’m still laughing, but they are a tad…cavalier, especially the latter.
Meanwhile back at the grandeur of the Sawa Sawa Restaurant in Blakiuh (blaki us) we gathered for Labia’s (who may I point out does emphatically NOT have a Cockney accent, according to him, nor did Bob Hoskins or Steptoe and Son) and Labia Minora’s Christmas run. They were very circumspect with setting this run, not wanting to repeat the last performance at this location; an occasion on which we almost lost Muddy Man to Ole Man River and Slip and Suck comprehensively lost herself deep into the night. Not to be deterred, she was back again on Saturday after a long absence for a second attempt at either losing or finding herself at the same location, a persistence that is to her credit it must be said. As it turned out, she didn’t even find the paper this time, but that’s another story and she wasn’t alone on either occasion.
It was a wet, muddy and thoroughly entertaining outing last Saturday and the paper was laid in a dizzyingly novel way up and down, backwards and forwards on the sides of a series of paddy embankments running alongside a stream or river valley. Besides the great view of the palms and jungle afforded by the proximity of the valley, it was probably the most interestingly higgledy piggeldy use of paper seen for a long time on our Hash and it certainly made for a lively, zig zagging event. Out of the paddies and into thickly forested areas of jungle trails, we crossed a bamboo bridge that cracked underfoot, which also livened the old pulse a smidgen. Back on the Jalan Raya it was a bit of a shame the rain had washed away the paper for the intended turnoff to the Hutan Monyet and sent many of us back to the restaurant a half an hour too early. Oh well, far from the Hare’s fault, and more piss drinking time! After all, what’s Christmas for, smartarse monkeys or cups of cheer with yer mates? A clue: my money’s not on the friggin’ monkeys.
A pretty raucous circle ensued which was probably caused by the early drinking start, and Wooden Eye was back! In fine fettle he down downed them manically with his sorely missed trademark humour that had us wetting ourselves as if we weren’t wet enough already. I did feel like strangling those that wouldn’t shut up, though (note: we are the only species that kill other members of our species, or to which it even occurs, and we wonder why the flying saucers don’t just drop in for a visit). Achiever’s tee shirts abounded, One Eyed Willie the Trouser Snake, Slip and Suck for the 3rd mention this Trash and a slew of others who will remain forever unidentified for Alzheimer - related reasons, donned muddy, beer soaked cotton jersey raiment in our quaint tradition.
Song Master Organ Grinder gave us an interesting version of “The silvery Moon” involving a match, a cabbage patch and a snatch (more of a Silvery Mons, really, or perhaps a Silvery Minge). He then engineered The Engineer’s Song, which was enthusiastically performed if not entirely understood by all the participants, some of our local chaps. Finally, and predictably (you might as well jump up and down to see if gravity is still working), Jangle Balls with some carols including “I’m Dreaming of a Shite Christmas” then a homage to our Welsh guests “Bah, Bah, Bah, Bah Barbara Anne” and “ ‘Til There Was Ewe”. And never forget Dancing Queen, don’t worry, you won’t.
All in all, a bloody entertaining day for eight whole dollars. There is no better value on the island than Bali Hash House Harriers Two, so do join us next week at some no doubt exotic and beauteous location and until then, a very Merry Syphilis and a Happy Gonorrhea to you all.
On on.
J.B.
