Bali Hash House Harriers 2

Any old St. Tom, St. Dick or St. Harry

It has come to my attention that some readers (yes, they exist!) are of the opinion that I talk to myself far too often during the execution of the Hash Trash and that I tend to wander off the subject, occasionally. This is an outrageous accusation by which I am raged in a utterly out manner. How dare they? I won’t have it. Do you hear? Oh, you won’t? No, I absolutely refuse to have it. Can you please stop frothing at the mouth and drooling on the keyboard when you address me? Oh. Sorry mate, I didn’t realize. That’s okay, just call me “mate”. Okay mate, if you insist. Do you need a change of adult diaper? I do. So do I. I hope by now I have adequately demonstrated to you “doubting Thomases” out there that I am more than capable of staying well and truly “on message” and that I do not ever, under any circumstances, talk to myself. Not even occasionally. Harrumph, talk to myself indeed. No, mate.

Last Saturday’s St George’s Day run… Wait, I didn’t realize they were canonizing Beatles now. Oh, yes, absolutely. Really? Is there a St. John yet. No, but there’s a St. Ringo. Ah. So they don’t have to be dead, then? Is St. Ringo still alive? Mate, will you stop f…ing around and get on with the Hash Trash? Yes, mate. Sorry, mate. Last Saturday’s St. George’s Day run… but you can’t just go around canonizing or beatifying any old Tom, Dick or Harry. I’m gonna beatify you with a friggin’ length of four be two in a minute. Gulp, last Saturday’s St. George’s Day run….

Breaking News: Glanderson Drooper here in the studio and we now cross to our correspondent Charles Wanknostril, who is standing outside of Sump Towers in New York City where Republican Presidential hopeful and unreal estate jillionaire Fondle Sump is announcing his victory in yet another primary or caucus (whatever they are) of which there are a seemingly endless amount that we can bullshit about ad ridiculum on cable news. Are you there Charles? No Glanderson, it’s me Harvey Puke, it looks like Charles is having some kind of nasal problem…We’ll get back to you Chuck, I mean Charles, I mean Harvey. From our studios in London we introduce retired astrologist and political pundit (same thing) Lord Farquhar Fuckwhistle-Coldfish to give us a view of the U.S. electoral process from “across the pond”. Helleow Glenderson eold bean. Aye hate to use clichés or stereowtype things. Eoh sod it, I love to stereowtype and use clichés. Eoenly in Americah would suppeowsedly sane people turn something as preowsaic as a general election into an occeesion for such leowdicrous rezemettez and hooplaw.

Well, least I’m not talking to myself or going off on some silly tangent now, am I?. No mate, you’re not. You showed ‘em. Is it true that St George never set foot in England? Yes, he wouldn’t have known England if it had hit him in the back of the head with a box of Quality Street chocolates and shoved a mandrill down his pants. You mean a gerbil, don’t you? A stoat? A badger? A hamster?, A guinea pig? A weasel? What did English people used to shove down their pants for fun in the 50’s and 60’s again? Umm… Did he really slay a dragon? No such things as dragons, mate. A lizard, then? Doesn’t have quite the same ring: “St. George defended Christianity and killed a gecko”, does it? And you mention the fact that he never went to England why? To make yourself seem erudite, a historian and an all-round smartarse? Well, you could be onto something there, mate. Nobody loves a smartarse, mate.

Someone in the circle at last at last Saturday’s St. George’s Day Run at Penyerbangan, Desa Kerta claimed it was “Run of the Year’’. It was probably one of the Hares, so no vested interest there but that doesn’t matter. It was a fantastic run. If it wasn’t Run of the Year it certainly gave the others a run for their money (pun intended, but eye-wateringly piss weak). The scenic, sweeping and swooping views of the valley at plenty of vantage points were astounding. There were sheer drops, deep gorges, muddy streams, savagely steep climbs and some particularly, um, creative ideas from the Hares. The first of these was setting two jungle climbs both of which consisted of clearly visible paper without any hint of check or check back and both ending on the same paper at (much) higher ground. This set off quite the controversy among vociferous Hounds insistently shouting “on on” to one another 100 mts separated, baling up and confusing the shit out of unfortunates, like me, behind them.

Back at the beer truck the dastardly Hares were probably pissing themselves laughing. They must have been in beery hysterics over the dreaded “rope” section which had hounds backed up to the top of a steep descent awaiting their turn for ten or fifteen minutes while others scrambled down the steep drop ricocheting off mud and brush walls and sliding down perpendicular dirt, feet flailing while grimly clutching a knotted rope in purpling fists. In other words, great fun.

And it didn’t stop there. The circle was a complete cack, with Night Jar declaring that both Shakespeare, who’s birth and death on the same date we celebrated, and St. George were “a pair of raving poofs”. He offered evidentiary quotes for this assertion such as lines from “The Darling Buds of May” sonnet which he pronounced as “sickening”. I wish some of this stuff was on You Tube, it’d go viral, not that we hold anything against our LGBT brothers and sisters form the 11th and 15th centuries. Organ Grinder and the Gland Master continued this condemnation with the “All Queers Together” song, equally as hilarious and Jangle Balls gave us some glimmericks, which are limericks with a glimmer of humor because he forgot his best ones. Maybe this one should have been included:

The artist who once known as Prince
Gave us all adequate hints
That he was a poof, a real Wally Woof
And we’ve all been convinced ever since

Or not. There’s nothing we at the BHHH2 like better than a “stiff” dose of political correctness. And don’t forget rules 2, 3 and 5 to 7. Just kidding, about everything, always, Yours Sincerely.

On on,

J.B.