Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“The Victors, The Whole Victors and Nothing but The Victors, So Help Me God!”

“What do your clients plea, Learned Queen’s Counsel? By the way, how is the old girl?” “Fighting fit, Your Odour. My clients who heretobeforeafterhence shall be known as “Bali Hash House Harriers TWO!” (TWO!) and who have a theme song which is based on Beethoven’s 7th Unfinished Bowel Movement and goes like this: ‘Here’s to the sinners, they are blue…’ “Ahem, Moving right along, C*ntseller”. “Yes of course, Your Onerous. My clients wish to enter a plea of “Not Guilty” by way of drunken insanity, unsanitariness and the fact that some of them were unconscious at the time of the offence, and could hardly be held accountable on those grounds.” “Which grounds are those, good Friar? Sorry, Your Defensiveness.” “The M.C.G., Your Onset”. “Very well, the Court finds the defendants guilty but lessens the charge to Malaysian Ringgit 34.000.000, or $1.00 U.S.” “But we are in Indonesia Your Odder”. “Are we indeed, my Lurid Consul?” “The Tin Fence rests”.

And if you think that was absurd, then you were nowhere near the Annual Victor Awards last Friday night, or at the hangover run from the Bird Park, or at least the car park near the Bird Park car park, the next day. We were awash in beer and food at the solemn annual event of the night before (some if us more awash than others, ahem). The Man Himself, Grand Master Night Jar deporting himself nattily in jacket and tie conducted the whole affair with the dignity and aplomb that was the event’s due. His opening remarks sent a respectful hush across the gathered throng: “Where the f..k is Jangle Balls? All the other nig-nogs are here.”

Of course I jest, it was a Hash party and a ripper at that. The theme was doctors and nurses and let me tell you, some of those nurses made one wish one were confined to a bed in VERY close proximity to one or two of them. For some reason there were a lot of patients swathed in blood soaked bandages and looking like victims of a chainsaw attack by a chimpanzee; hmm maybe some insightful Harriers had anticipated the nurses and dressed for some sympathy.

Face masks and rubber gloves were passed out at the door for we prospective proctologists, and they were put to some very interesting uses: Mudflaps blew her gloves up and placed them… let’s say where you would normally expect to find an upper body women’s under-garment. Anyway it certainly had an intriguing effect on the dance floor. There was a LOT of action on that very floor if one kept one’s eye peeled and like the dirty old Hasher one is, one did. The whole thing was a hoot of major proportions and we all drank and ate like Huns, or at least to beat the dance band on the Titanic.

Unfortunately the next day had a tale of woe to tell. Many of us bore the scars. Hashers at the hangover run looked slightly green around the gills and were a tad slower off the mark than usual, including yours truly I sadly confess. Some of us didn’t even show up for the run, but because of a strict code of Hash privacy, I can only mention their names in Pigeon English or Spoonerisms: Ancingday Eenquay, Omes Cup, Ootray Analcay, for example and dare I mention Jight Nar simhelf?

The run had all the correct components: lush padis, cool jungley bits, river crossings and accompanying valley climbs and descents. However The Hash Gods saw fit to punish us even further than we punished ourselves the previous evening with blast furnace-like conditions once breaking through tree lines and cracked earth and padi basins over which many of us (but not me, honest, short-cutted) that were as dry as a nun’s nasty and positively ankle-busting in parts. We were sweating our bollocks off, those of us that had them, anyway. The harriets were sweating other things off. The short was mercifully short and we were back in 40 minutes, the long at least had the benefit of being a little cooler for the suffering hashers on it as shadows lengthened and the sun set.

I’m surprised any of us had the energy or inclination to play silly buggars, drink piss, hoot and cat call in the circle but we found it in ourselves – we put it there in fact, and quite a bit of it, too. There was Weiss beer left over from the Vic’s and plenty of Bali Hai biasa to go around. Despite the presence of a few gross of virgins and a couple of hundredweight of visitors, the amber nectar flowed on, and on. The circle was pretty much conducted dual-handedly by Labia and Jangle Balls who by this time were running on pure alcohol, but they couldn’t have acquitted themselves better if they had launched rockets from their hash pants (maybe a kind of “Fart of Doom” act would go down reasonably well in the circle - anybody interested in trying it? No?). So, good on them…

Oh, I almost forgot. Victors went to: Most Consistent FRB: Mudflaps, the first woman ever to win this esteemed accolade. Fastest lazy Bastard: Gizzard. Best Song writer: Jangle Balls. Best new Site: Hard Case and Dynamo. If I’ve left anybody out, and I’m sure I have, I grovel in mortification. Forgive my ancient, non-existent brain cells.

On on
J.B.