Run No: 926
Hares: Bushy, Strapless and Hornet Man
Where: Swiss Club Road
When: 23 June 2000
Members:
Guests: Platoons of Canucks and Kiwis and others
Virgins: Yes
Returnees: Do you count Tom Werry?

Well, it's time to try and decode the indecipherable scribble that I wrote on Friday night.

A very worrying sight awaited me as I approached the run site after hoofing it from the British Club: Tom Werry and a load of similarly bare-chested Canucks all proving that middle-aged men should really not bare it all. Anyway, one by one they thought better of it and spared the blushes of the ladies by sheepishly covering up. Our ever-talented Grand Master, Astronut, displayed his linguistic versatility by welcoming his fellow-countryman in French (you show off, you!) and off we went to pound the tarmac for about half an hour before we finally got to some good stuff around the Swiss Club. I was so far behind by the time we got to the Turf Club (I was overtaken by an arthritic snail at one stage) that I was grateful to do the (gasp!) short cut which meant that I reached the final drain slightly before Lynxx and Degenital - a brief but potent moment of exhilaration. At least I was on paper - which is more than can be said for the sad group of losers who didn't realize that the gate from the Turf Club to the run site would be locked and thus had to publicly humiliate themselves in an unseemly worm-like slither under the railings. Ripper's workouts are obviously effective: he nearly lost a nipple off one of his inflated pectorals as he slid under the barrier. Pick Up decided to be different and went over the top (Doesn't she always? - Ed). The revered Grand Mistress, Ring Pull, was also in this group. I think she was just trying to give them some face….

Before the circle, I was delighted to meet up with an old friend from the heady days of "Yippee! The fleet's in!!" - the hirsute (dictionary - Coo Chi Coo) Obs, with a bevy of matelots from HMNZ Canterbury.

Now, you have to bear with me here as I forgot to take Ring Pull's list of guests, virgins etc. And I'll bet you don't remember either. So if I make it up no one will notice, right? Okay.

Astronut called the unruly circle into some semblance of order and asked for comments on the run. Most were to the left of unprintable but the GM waxed generous and refused to award the Hash Shit - fair enough as there really wasn't anything bad about the ruin (curse this Spell Check!) except that incomprehensible forward check in the middle of the road. So Good Run was awarded and the hares did the biz.

Basking in the limelight, Astronut announced nest week's Canada Day run. (Is England the only country in the world that doesn't have a National Day?) His co-hares are DingleVirus and Pussyfoot (that doesn't bode well, considering his last run that included the on- home sign three kms from the run site. Educate that man, Astronut!) Anyway, the run is at the slightly-less-than-romantically-named Tampines Industrial Estate Ave. 5. But the fun is only just beginning (is this irony to heavy for you?) as - wait for it - we all have to run in red, frilly knickers - and the hares are going to provide them. Of course, as a group, the Hash circle has an IQ slightly smaller than my shoe size (I think we all give our brains ten dollars and send them to the cinema on Friday nights) so this provoked lots of schoolboy type humour with suggestions of where to wear said knickers - and the world's biggest schoolboy, Rooning Shit, wanting to know if he had to shave delicate parts of his anatomy. Oh, my! The wit!

Ring Pull, in her continuing mission to go where no GM has gone before ("It's the Hash, Jim, but not as we know it…" - apologies to Star Trek) leapt forward in sequence and pulled in a well-briefed (and T-shirted) Saliva to receive her 200 runs award (which has been mouldering in the GM's car for several decades). Saliva gave a good demonstration of how to tackle a down-down, which is more than the virgin Canadians, whom Ring Pull, forcing herself back into sequence with an audible crashing of gears, then pulled in. (Don't they drink in Canada?) Clive, Bernard and Roger took more time to dispose of the amber fluid than it takes to write this newsletter, and some of us were in serious danger of death by yawning before they were done. By this time, the dawn sun was just peeping over the horizon…. (Oh stop exaggerating! -Ed.)

Then it was time for the visitors. And weren't there a lot of them. Yes. So many that our hard-working hash brew was heard to mutter "Oh shit!" as his hands moved with blurring speed to fill the myriad glasses necessary for the throng. GI Jane lookalike Lisa acquitted herself well, as did the rest of the Kiwis, but you'll have to forgive me for the rest. The memory has just packed its suitcase and gone on holiday to the Maldives….

Tom Werry was called in as a returnee, as, eventually, was Obs. Now, he is definitely part of Hash history - I remember him holding court in Palm's Wine Bar back in the days when Hooray had hair and no-one had showers in their boots (trunks, to you benighted heathens from North America). And he hasn't changed a bit in the intervening years - he still looks like a man who could escape from Changi Prison using only his teeth….

Astronut called in Hare Whip Bushy, who had no problem whipping the fence-obstructed limbo dancers, representatives being the Grand Mistress, Ripper and - er - Linda.

Mystery Whip was a sartorially-challenged Dickless, who had draped his well-buffed bod with a carefully-arranged towel for some reason. But he had barely got into his stride when a clearly-miffed Grand Mistress hauled in the Canucks for private-partying. Werry's plaintive defence that he was translating for the French speakers fell on deaf ears and they were duly punished. Dickless was then allowed to continue, which he did by regaling us with a long story about Sven Gundersen (?) taking money out of an ATM at Changi and then losing it - or something. He then entered the taste-free zone by calling in an Englishman (Barbarian), a Dutchman (Mark) and a Chinaman (Hornet Man) and getting them to hold their breath: when they all finally gave up, he asked, "Then how the hell did the Snakeheads expect the immigrants to hold their breath over the English Channel?!?" Hmmm.

Mystery Mystery whip was the ever-reliable Coo Chi Coo. Oh, yes - even when his two whippees had already left, he still had back up - a newspaper advertisement which was all to do with breasts. (What a surprise…) So CCC called in Bushy to represent the less than two handfuls variety (ungallant, CCC!), No Good as a Psychological case (don't ask me…) and, searching for an intelligent woman, sensibly settled on your scribe, since at least I know what "oxymoron" means. (e.g. "sensitive man", "military intelligence", "sober Hasher"…). His point was that women are not just mindlessly obsessed with their breasts, to which the rather too obvious reply - and I'm afraid I succumbed to the temptation - was, "Unlike men….."

Ring Pull returned to the circle to recount a story about the bitch book she was presented with last week. According to her, she came home from work and said, "Hey, Free Willy…" ("Hey, Asshole, more like…." intones Free Willy under his breath) "where's the bitch book?" Apparently he threw it away because she doesn't need it. Ah, ain't love grand? Ring Pull called in Down Under, as she's too nice or something. I can't read my writing any more.

Bushy finally got a birthday down-down, but categorically refused to reveal her age.

Your scribe made a right tit of herself by calling in the Grand Mistress for wearing an inflated hash T-shirt (suggesting she had done 150 runs), not realizing that it had been presented to her last week. Hey, cut me some slack, guys! It's bad enough writing blind 'cos I'm too vain to wear my glasses, but having to reconstruct it later as well…

The on-on was not a million miles away at the Red Lantern across the road. I sat with the Canterbury Kiwis, which was a wise move on my part as I managed to hoover up most of the Beggar's Chicken while they were still eying it uncertainly. Obs was bemoaning the lack of singsonginess prematurely, 'cos Dickless, Dirty Hacker and others gave a rousing performance - and if we didn't understand most of Obs' contributions - well, be kind - they don't get out much down there. And I think only Careless noted my cock-up of the "We no like you" song… Then I made the mistake of going to the Colbar to welcome back the teaching fraternity. I left about twelve hours later.

Right. Spell Check time. It's a good thing you don't get to see the original version. It looks like it's written in fluent Klingon. (That's enough of the Star Trek stuff - Ed.)

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