Run No: 927

Where: Tampines Industrial Ave. 5

When: 30 June 2000

Hares: Astronut, Dingleberry and a non-evident Pussyfoot

Members: A whopping 51

Guests: An equally whopping 37

Virgins: 5

Well, what can you say about Canada? It's big. It's cold. It's virtually empty. The policemen wear silly hats and do a lot of mounting. And judging by the style of their knickers, they're built differently from the rest of mankind, like, upside down.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here.

There was a huge turnout at the run site, the ranks swollen by the addition of a flotilla of sailors and various perverts who were encouraged to crawl out of the woodwork by the promise of being able to swan around publicly in frilly red underwear. Oh dear. The said knickers were about as erotic as a bucket of cold tea - apart from the pair that Poser managed to snaffle - how does she do it? Most of the men tastefully wore them on their heads. At least it made the ever-receding pack easy to keep sight of.
Last time Pussyfoot was involved in a run, we were treated to a 3 km. on-home along the length of Old Tampines Road. This time we did it the other way round, starting with this bit on the way out. About half way through the run the pack was stretched out over an area about the size of Newfoundland with yours truly somewhere to the right of Alberta. Still, I managed to get in just as the sun was setting brilliantly in the west (where else would it set? - Ed.) to join the thronging hordes around the beer-truck.

Ring Pull called the serried masses into some semblance of order at circle time and called in the hares - well, two of the listed three, anyway. Despite some barracking along the lines of "Was it a bike hash?" the general consensus was that it had been a Good Run. Astronut announced the on-on, mysteriously positioned on the other side of the island, which baffled many. I think there was some idea of testing the ingenuity of the pack, since there were no directions (or maps) given - and it obviously worked. But I'll get to that later.

Ah yes, the missing hare. Now, mostly, if a hare goes AWOL, it's for a good reason, like being stung by hornets or unexpectedly giving birth. Not so our Pussyfoot. He decided he had a better offer in Bangkok, where he had had dinner with Astronut the night before. (How cosmopolitan!) Astronut made it back, but Pussyfoot stayed on to massage his social life - or something. In his absence, a fellow (and completely innocent) Canuck was made to do lookalike duties. Poor virgin Peter was roundly abused - and totally bemused - for the errant hare's dereliction of duty. "What the hell was that all about?" he was heard wailing plaintively as he completed his down-down.

Next week's run is the Independence Day run, and - what a surprise! - Stash is somehow involved. Lorong Lada Hitam is where it's at, man. Yo.

Ring Pull hauled in the Virgins - Lars, Vivien, Joleen, Esther and Sonia.

Then the visitors were called. Tight Arse from Seletar, Walton from Perth, Mouse Smith from Shetland - oh, I haven't got all day - and zillions of Antipodeans with arcane and strange-sounding names such as Scrit, Stav and Crackers. Since they're not going to get the newsletter and I doubt if any of you lot particularly care, suffice it to say there were twenty-five of them. Our hash brew, Free Willy, had really organised things well, and, ably assisted by Dingleberry, catered to the huge group with aplomb.

Returnees Orgasmus Retardus and T.I. Joe were welcomed back.

Astronut, wearing his hare hat, was the Hare Whip, and called in another unfortunate Canadian, Bob, to take the flak for the missing Pussyfoot. Iron Crotch and Delegator were also whipped for pointing some poor, trembling virgin in the wrong direction. (Surely that's half the fun? - Ed.)

Mystery Whip Dirty Hacker started with some sordid story about coming on the bus (!!) and then being picked up by Corny Linguist (!!!) and then getting upset by the sight of Lynxx's derriere (!!!!) I think he was provoked into sharing this unsavoury insight into his personal life by all the red knickers on display. Then he called in Bushy for not knowing about Barbarian's underwater brush with death some years back despite being his significant other. (Maybe they communicate in other ways….)

At this stage your scribe was distracted by some squelchy noises behind me and turned my horrified gaze to these two virgins doing unmentionable things to each other. Of the touchy-feely variety! In front of the mystery whip! Even when called into the circle they were still groping each other. It quite put me off my Anchor, I can tell you. Still, they were German or something, so perhaps one should make allowances.
Mystery Mystery whip was the still-unnamed Rob - although he does seem to have an affinity for sperm whale stories. He had a couple of questions: how does a married man acquire 100 pairs of red knickers at short notice? And, on encountering a couple of male hashers with their knickers round their ankles shouting, "Checking!" (the men, not the knickers - oh, never mind), what were they checking? Then he got into sperm whale territory by calling in Free Willy for responding to hirsute Obs' whale call. (Really, you had to be there to get any of this.) Free Willy, wearing a decorative pair of knickers on his head (I hope the police don't get hold of this report) was also done for asserting his masculinity. (In a pair of panties? Worn on his head? I don't get it. - Ed.)

Ring Pull awarded Iron Crotch with a T-shirt and pewter bowl for a staggering 300 runs. Not that she was staggering when she did them. You know what I mean.

Ring Pull got into heavy double-entendre territory by calling in one of the Aussie navy guys as he doesn't come very often and always makes everyone else come late. She then named him Blue Balls. Your guess is a good as mine. The newly-monickered Blue Balls was forced to drink against secret-weapon Delegator as a challenge. Lots of psyching-out went on - "It's just a joke, she's only a girl" etc. Guess who won? A certain amount of soccer type hooliganism ensued as Blue Balls was pelted with - happily - empty beer cans by his supportive crew mates.

Dirty Hacker wandered back in to award the Pussy to a man who does womanly things. Now as a woman I resent this. I've never worn a pair of knickers on my head in my life. Well, except for that time… (Let's not go there.- Ed.) Free Willy again.

Dingleberry came in to award the Prick. (Honestly, when you look at this newsletter, you'd think the hash only had five people running on it, the way the same people crop up again and again.) She circled the circle in menacing fashion looking for someone who really needed it. Lynxx got it, but has to give it back before she leaves.

AOB. Ripper had spent fruitful time before the circle finding out that North Americans are geographically challenged, none of them knowing what divides the U.S. from Canada. The 49th Parallel was the right answer. (Told, you, Rip!) Canadians such as the hares obviously don't know because both knickers and T-shirts were made in the US. T.I. Joe was called in as a representative Canadian but in his absence, was substitute by lookalike (!) Strapless.

Then a lot of other-hash puffery went on with Barbarian announcing the Sunday Hash Red Dress Run on July 16 and Delegator announcing the Kampong Hash AGM. Dickless leapt in at this stage to reveal that he was going jogging on Wednesday if anyone wanted to join him. That was ironic. I think.

Finally, Ring Pull pulled in a couple of newly-promoted sailors for not shouting everyone a customary beer. (Have you noticed that sailors never come out with enough money? It must be some kind of policy. On the Sunday Hash, I had to lend one money for a taxi. Sucker? Moi?)

Then comes the fun bit. Twenty-five hashers without cars (who have no idea where they are) trying to cadge lifts off all the ones with cars (who don't know where they're going). Astronut gamely lived up to his responsibilities by driving his muscular, butch car unaccustomedly sedately as he led a convoy of vehicles on an island-wide search for the on-on. And missed the turn off. So led the crocodile comically in search of a U-turn, to which, lemming-like, they all followed. Doesn't do much for the street-cred, Astronut. Still, no harm done, and the on-on turned out to be one of the best-attended ever, with over seventy people. As far as I know everyone made it, although there still could be one or two lonely stragglers wandering round Pasir Ris. It developed into a thoroughly lively affair, with lots of singing and a return to that fine old sport of towel-throwing. And, eventually, a return to that other fine old sport of How-many-people-can-you-fit-in-the-back-of-the-car-and-get-to-Anywhere? Gone, however, are the heady days when my little Charade would be groaning on its springs under the weight of seven assorted ranks of seamen; now, I end up in relative comfort in the back of the GM's car sitting on Dingleberry's lap. Hmmm. Something not quite right here. Still, things perked up a bit at Anywhere where I ran into my long cool Dane who happens to be Norwegian. Got home about four. As Mae West put it, "I used to be Snow White - but I drifted."

Well, I'm into the second glass of wine now and pre-Spellcheck this is looking like slightly less than fluent Serbo-Croat. I'm still recovering from Lynxx's farewell Sunday Hash yesterday so I apologise if this appears slightly disjointed .

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