Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“Nothing, Really, Just Open Heart Surgery”

Panting and sweating like a serial rapist and struggling up a ludicrously perpendicular valley wall last Saturday at Ponggang in the company of an English hasher who’s both civilian and hash names I am woefully uncertain, I made the conversational faux pas of the century by gaspingly enquiring about the nature of recent medical travails he had mentioned. Never underestimate the ability of the Brit to understate. The last thing I wanted to hear at that particular juncture was any remotely related reference to fibrillary complaints. I felt as if I was going into some kind of cardiac infarction event as it was without being encouraged to conjure up images of ambulances, operating theatres, sharp silver implements, electric paddles, flat lining E.C.G. machines etc. The phrases “Oh, he looks so lifelike” and “I’ve never seen him dressed so well” sprang to mind along with “He’s peacefully sleeping” and “Ten bucks says he’s dead”. (Not that I don’t think cremation is the better post-death option; the last thing you want to see at a funeral is a corpse). Admittedly, I was cravenly more concerned about me than my erstwhile companion, although it did also cross my desk that he might prove to be a bit too erstwhile, if you know what I mean. After all, he was the poor bastard with the newly acquired Zipper Club membership, not me.

The moral of the story is that I’m really not too good at the old up ups, a sentiment that I may have aired once before in these pages. In fact I suck appallingly at them, incurring the wrath of those unfortunates behind as I double over trying desperately to hold onto a rasping and perhaps terminal breath, getting in every buggar’s way. And this one was a pretty dramatic up up. I stopped constantly to hug small trees as if they were close relatives rescued from deep wells, I leaned against boulders like Sisyphus, I cursed like a, well, a hasher. The run was also a little challenging underfoot what with a lot of broken concrete and bitumen paths involved on the flatter sections, but generally speaking, and quite unanimously, a really great effort from Little Fart and co.

Very scenic, very rural, amazing views from atop the aforementioned death trail and most notably, it was a very – ssshhhhhh - quite run. Yes, there was the odd motorbike and dog, but nothing like the usual desa cacophony, and quite refreshingly so. You could have heard a pig flop drop on some sections of this course, it was certainly detectable as a fragrance. At one point I struck off alone whistling a merry tune, blithely oblivious to the fact that the paper had long since ceased to be a feature of my venture into the deep woods – there was literally not a soul around, graveyard silence, but let’s not dwell on these morbid references, shall we? I did survive this trauma as well, you will be hysterically relieved to hear.

Back at the pasar car park I was handed nothing less than an Aussie style pie with a sachet of tomato sauce by the Hare himself, which was a little like being given a plate of Szechuan pork and kankung by a bloke in slouch hat and budgie smugglers, but nevertheless gratefully and hungrily received. Mild incongruity aside, there truly is nothing on God’s green earth better than a meat pie and a beer after a hash, or any time to resuscitate one. A closer reading of the Bible reveals that St Peter slipped this revivifying combination through a small opening between the round stone door and Jesus’s tomb. If your tastes run to more delicate gourmet dishes, then you’ll never get to heaven in a long long way, unless you’ve sampled the delights of a cheese, pickle and vegemite sandwich or a hamburger with beetroot, bacon and egg on it. So thanks again to Little Fart and supplier Whitebait for their quintessential golden brown beer tucker.

The circle swung into action and this week a veritable cast of thousands were involved centre stage. It was as if De Mille himself were shouting instructions on high through a megaphone in jodhpurs and boots (him, not the megaphone). Fortunately though, the bystanders were unusually cooperative in the noise and rude interruption area and things moved along at quite the respectable clip. Speaking of clips, after the obligatory returners, virgins etc., Cane Rat was punished for the cardinal sin of having removed his “womb broom” (moustache, that is, more than once, I mean he was down downed more than once, he only removed his “clit tickler” once last week). “No moustaches in the circle” went up the cry. A returned and sassier than ever Mudflaps held her own (hmm, an interesting image) against the trenchant barbs of a certain Whoreator whose slings and arrows never really found their mark and were expertly rebuffed and returned by HHH2’s own Teflon heroine, well done her. The Grand Master introduced himself letting us know in a hilarious rambling address that he had “no particular purpose in life, as you know”. However, we beg to differ, most of us only go to the Hash for his unique comedic stylings, whether intended or otherwise. Jangle Balls serenaded us about the state of his intestinal affairs after the previous evening’s Chicken Jalfraizee, via the musical device of Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire”. On the evening wore ending with the chestnut concerning the Mayor of Bayswater’s daughter and her unusual pubic gifts, the dread announcement that the piss had gone and the depressing sight of the beer truck being packed up and mantled, as opposed to dismantled.

I’m not yet sure where next week’s run will be, but it will be set by that estimable Scots laddie, Hardcase. So you teek the hee road and I’ll teek the loor road and I’ll get wherever ye worn’t be before ye, because I’ll be therrre firrrst.

On on
J.B.