Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“Stabs in the Dark”

Let’s make a clean breast of things, and God knows, there is nothing quite like a nice clean breast: This may come as a shock to some of you, but I am not an athlete. I had Athlete’s Foot once but that’s about as close as it got. No, I’m never going to be proclaiming something like “Ahh am the greatest!” or “It is I, El Cordobes, (“Dobes”, to me mates) the finest bullshitter in all of Spain… wait, that may have been “bull fighter”, no I’m pretty sure it was “bullshitter”. Nobody is ever going to accuse me of using performance enhancing pharmaceuticals, well, not outside the bedroom, or the party, or the bedroom at the party anyway.

I am a Hasher, and the good thing about that is that pretty much nobody on the Hash is an actual athlete, it would only serve to make us (me) feel inadequate if there were any. Oh, there might be a few skinny whippet-like F.R.Bs around who look like they could stand a good square meal, but as a body so to speak, we are generally too old, dissolute and knackered to come within 1,000 kilometers of a sentence with the word “athlete” in it (which I’ve just done, but never mind). AND we’re proud of it, Godammit! So, having stated my non-athlete credentials; to you clever buggars who never cease trying to trick me onto the long with elaborate deceptions such as “Hey, the short is over here, (snigger, snigger, snort”). You know who you are, may you live in interesting times. Right, having cleaned up that breast nicely, let’s get a bit of Lifebuoy and water onto the left one, which is still dirty.

It takes a short man to admit that he was wrong, and I am that very man. I was certain that the run at Margarana was going to be a repeat of the usual from this site, but how wrong I was! Just kidding, it was practically the same one we do every time we’re there: Through a bit o’ jungle out onto the undulating asphalt road, right turn, which hooks right past the paddies then left to the on in, but it was sylvan and scenic enough. I’d forgotten how nice it actually is. There’s nothing wrong with quietly chuckling trail side streams, vast panoramas of open sky and padi dotted with stands of banana trees and palm groves. There was very little garbage or kampong either, good checks and good paper. it was certainly comfortable in its familiarity, and also touchingly appropriate on the occasion of the observance of Hari Merdeka. Running past the graves of the fallen heroes and viewing the 1,372 names on the huge plaque outside of the main area of the memorial, the same thing occurred to me as it always does at any war cemetery, anywhere: all these people had mothers and fathers perhaps wives, children, brothers, sisters, sweethearts, thus multiplying the suffering. Who suffers the most in war? What a terrible waste.

This brings me to what day it actually was on Saturday Aug. 15th (not, that is, Hari Raya Merdeka, the 17th), which was astutely pointed out by our resident Gland Master and historian, Night Jar, in the circle. As usual, we were roundly berated for our abysmal ignorance before he announced the greatness, importance, significance and grandeur of the hari in question : Victory over Japan Day, in this case. This was the day that Japan signed an unconditional surrender treaty with the allies signaling the end of WW2, and a weeping Emperor Hiro Hito announced this to his distraught subjects. This gentleman was, according to, and in the word(s) of our own Great Leader, “a (expletive removed by the editor)”. Night Jar appeared to have strong feelings about this. Perhaps he was there. It would not surprise me if he accepted surrender and sword personally from the Emperor, thereby having the occasion to meet him and form such a strong conviction.

An animated Tampon (that really doesn’t sound right) led Indonesian revolutionaries to victory over the Dutch, in a reenactment set in this very same historical period (ahem), and who were represented by a nervous looking orang Belandar being impaled repeatedly and enthusiastically with invisible (fortunately for him) sharpened bamboo poles. A procession of merriment and foolishness of this nature culminated in a few last Jangle Balls 50’s and 60’s numbers ending with “My Baby Wanks Me with a Hankie” (“My Baby Does the Hanky Panky”), which is the same or a similar thing, I suppose, as the circle sputtered to a close.

There was a shitload (an old Imperial measurement, furlong, league, fathom, shitload) of beer left so Hash Master Labia, in his wisdom, advised that we drink it. He didn’t have to advise too vigourously let me assure you as we were all eager and pleased to assist him. After all, you’ve got to help out your mates in adverse circumstances such as these (Jenkins, hand me my beer gun). What am I talking about? I have no idea as usual, probably as a result of assisting so energetically and generously.

So, many thanks to Hares M.Man and the Chicken Chaps Gizzard and Chicken Shit for a great run, day and tee shirt. Also, banyak kudos to whoever organized the outstanding chicken satay and tangy sauce (Spank My Monkey - ed), and to all sponsors including “Funny Wank”, “Parson Nose” and “Parson Nose”. Just one question: Why does Horny have so much trouble with his Heering?

On on
J.B.