Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“Mount Dancing Queen (as it were) (not that there’s anything wrong with that)”

Yes, the grand old Queen of Dance, he had about 65 men (and women, this is an equal opportunity nursery rhyme-cum moldy old piece of martial doggerel). He marched them up to the top of the hill then he marched them down again (in reverse), and in sweat they were swimmin’ (now that we have to rhyme with “women”). Or as the G.M. so succinctly put it on the previous occasion we slogged up and down this respectably sized feature just outside Klungkung, “There’s not a lot more you can do when you start a run at the top of a hill”. Indeed. And we weren’t even at the summit of it yet when we were gathered at the point from which we started in the car park adjacent the temple. No, no there was still quite a bit to go, a mini slog in itself on the broken asphalt of the jalan, before we got to the crux of the matter and started heading downhill, then inevitably, back up.

I’m not going to say that the whole thing was like a forced labour march in the Second World War, but I did find myself wheezing out the Colonel Bogey whistle along the trail and I swear my “climbing” mate 69er took on a decidedly David Niven - esque cast. It is a little difficult to imagine six plus feet of hay haired Svedish Dancing Queen in a Japanese army uniform, but I really do think his eyes had narrowed slightly by the time we regained the car park. (The chorus of “Turning Japanese, I Really Think So” by the Vapours also crossed my desk).

But surely I jest, in a politically incorrect manner, as usual. Forgive and forget, eh? That’s what I say. The views of the surrounding hills that momentarily spread open between the thick roadside post-rainy season foliage were well worth the agony as we struggled by them. Entrancing vistas that laid themselves out in their richly cloaked hillside greens reaching to the cobalt ocean and hazy islands beyond; really quite breathtakingly vast scenery and as grand views as you are liable to find anywhere in the island’s higher territory. For the third week on the trot (ho) we found ourselves in quite isolated and quiet surrounds, silent forested areas that are pure therapy for denizens of the noisy and exhaust choked badlands that busier precincts in the South are becoming. The Hash is more and more of a necessity for at least yours truly, these days. You don’t have to squint too much even at the blue skies of Sanur Beach to see the faint brown stain thereon. Anyhoo, enough about faint brown stains, we can only take so much of those in any situation.

Speaking of which, the circle took on something of a lavatorial atmosphere, beside all the potty mouthed toilet talk which is its staple, what with The Queen Himself rewarding circle talkers with toilet seats (that didn’t look too new at first from where I stood) around their necks. I must admit there was a momentary hush on their first appearance while both innocent, and guilty bystanders wondered and perhaps worried about the provenance of these items, not wishing to be either knighted or benighted with them. It wasn’t long though before the threat wore off and we were back to our articulate selves. The G.M. reminded us that it was the D-Day landings anniversary and mustered the allies for a down down – Ozzies, Septics, a surprise female Frog (who had softened the Bouche up for us before we got there, evidently). Well, I guess it was appropriate as we had all been storming a foreboding geographical feature most of the afternoon that was either going to kill us or come close to it. It just about did me in.

Not only did His Gracious Majesty the Dancing Queen manage to play His Theme Song of the same name via a clever cell phone operated piece of electrical equipment that looked like something from Darth Vader’s dunny several times, but Jangle Balls then insisted that some slightly adjusted Abba lyrics from The Royal Tune be recited in the most sonorous and dramatic golden timbres of Comes Up and Night Jar. It was quite effective actually, especially the orally delivered, so to speak, “All Your Muffin” dedication to co - hare Danish Muffin. Comes Up is one cunning linguist, I’ll give him that. It was just too, too fun - making but we could have done without the beer snorkeling event and enforced monkey mask wearing if you ask me, but that’s just me. Everybody else seemed to enjoy it immensely, and like arseholes, everybody’s got an opinion, so I will now do you all the most immensely well - deserved favour of shutting the fuck up.

Just kidding, I couldn’t do that in my wildest dreams, as you know all too well. Hopefully I will see you all this Saturday at that old stand - by chestnut, the Mambal swimming pool, after which I will be conthpicuouth by my absinthe for a couple of weeks in the wilds of Malaysia quite near the duty - free island of Lengkawi. And what do you think I’ll be doing there?

On on
J.B.