Run No. 946
Date: Friday 10 November 2000
Where: Behind the Island Country Club
Hares: The Dirty Dozen
Members: 49
Guests: 22
Virgins: 1
Visitors: 8
Returnees: 1
New Members: 1

A new way of setting a hash run - amass a vast gaggle of hares and ask them all to lay four minutes each. Déjà vu time as well, as we'd been over quite a lot of the same territory in the Boys and Girl of September run. I was hoping not to see that wretched miasmic bog again for a long time, but it was not to be. I did the usual girly mince across 90% of it only to sink up to my knees on the last step. If you like impenetrable jungle, thorns, shiggy, trips and yet more thorns, this was the run for you. I was punctured like a pin cushion by end of it, but - hey! - at least it was mercifully short.

Alpha Bitch Female was all on her own officiating at the circle, for some reason dressed as a rodeo groupie in a tasteful little Texan shirt. Something to do with honouring the departing Armadildo and Falsies, whose last run this was. The rowdy circle had group schizophrenia when asked for their verdict on the run. Obviously infected by US election undecidedness, half were according it Good Run status while the rest were rabidly baying for Hash Shit. Ring Pull did the wisdom of Solomon bit by declaring it a lousy run but a Good Hash - whatever that means.

Poor Free Willy was sorely pressed filling up beers for the monstrous regiment of hares. (They'll never get that quote. Your erudition is wasted on this lot - Ed.) Never mind - I'm still an educator at heart. Anyway, hang on a bit while I rummage around my laundry basket to read all the names off the t-shirt. Great t-shirt, by the way. Severely arty. The hares that were present comprised Puss in Boots, Armadildo, Front Arse, Strapless, Dog Shit (so what was he doing travelling to the run on the bus with me?), Slocum, TI Joe (who isn't even a member) and Stash. Absentee hares Peeking Ong, Astronut, Hand Job and Flakey were - well - absent.

Stash was obviously one tinnie short of a six-pack at this stage as he had no idea where the on-on was and fumbled helplessly in the circle until helped out by the kindly Dirty Hacker who reminded him it was in the same place as for the September run - the old Lakeview place in Balestier Hill Shopping Centre. My heart beat a little faster at the thought of meeting my old admirer there yet again. Yes, the toothless ancient pot-boy still has the hots for your sex-starved scribe. (The day he starts looking good to you is the time you commit yourself to Woodbridge and ask them to throw away the key - Ed.) Agreed.

The Velcro Kids, bathed in a rose aura and accompanied by the strains of a thousand violins, oozed into the circle to inform us that next week's run is the Hash Cash Hash Bash at Corporation Road.

Now it was the visitors' turn - and what a lot there were. From the Harriets we had Octopussy and the ones Indy has her lustful little eyes on, Howard and Auntie Anus. Monday Hash (ptui!) provided Bengt and Dropsy. Cess Pit from Hong Kong and Animal from Tokyo joined the burgeoning ranks. And finally, visiting royalty deigned to put in an appearance. Bee Fuck, the Grand Master of the Antarctic Hash - strolled in. Now we know why all those penguins keep falling over and rolling around on their backs - he's obviously got them well trained.

Reg the Virgin was welcomed, looking very well dressed in a hash t-shirt and sensible brogues. Apparently, Lost Patrol had provided him with the necessary clobber. He was punished for this, and he added to the peculiar footwear on display by parading his hob-nailed daisy roots. (More Cockney rhyming slang for you culture vultures out there. Daisy roots = boots. Geddit?) And sportingly he did his down-down out of one of them.

Then a new member was inaugurated. Emil ran for the first time tonight and recognised his spiritual home, joining straight away.

Front Arse decided to put a new spin on the Hare Whip segment by turning turncoat and blithering on about things that were wrong with the run. Firstly he bemoaned the hares' lack of consideration for the vertically challenged with a depth of shiggy that left shorties up to their chests in noxious gunk. Puss in Boots was the representative tiny hare. Then he complained that it got so dark in the jungle that wimps who couldn't see were begging for people to go in front of them and show them the way. Free Willy and Ad Nauseam were the wimps in question. Front Arse was on a roll now, dissing his fellow hares, and criticised them for leaving people alone in the ever-darkening jungle, Strapless being reduced to a blubbering jelly when he got lost. (But I thought Strapless was one of the hares? - Ed.) I'm as confused as you are. Finally, with an audible crashing of gears, he hauled himself away from traitorously exposing his fellow hares' inadequacies and called in Falsies and Armadildo to present them with a brilliant caricature executed by his significant other, Quicksand, which everyone was to sign before the end of the evening.

Mystery Whip was Dog Shit. (Part of the mystery is why, since he was also one of the hares.) He was inspired by the US election result - or lack of it, that is. Now I don't understand very much about US electoral practice, except that millions of people vote, but in the end it's all decided by Orville B. Finkelmeyer of the Sunshine Home for the Very Rich Elderly in Orlando, Florida. Why not just cut out all the baloney and go to him first? Oh, sorry - he's just died. (Enough of the heavy sarcasm - Ed.) Sorry. Anyway, Dog Shit decided to stage our own election. Now, I can understand why Ring Pull was chosen to represent Texas and George W. Bush, and - sort of - why Slocum stood in for the wavering Florida electorate, but what on earth was the very English Inky Winky doing in there representing Al Gore and Tennessee??? The circle was asked to elect a president and Florida got he final word. Al Gore got it and we're sending the result to the Electoral College.

Then Dog Shit punished Strapless for the heinous crime of forgetting to lay the home trail on the short run. A hanging offence if you ask me..

Mystery Mystery whip was Footrot - an odd one this, since he wasn't even on the run. And you won't get the full flavour of his charge unless you imagine his inimitable 'Allo! 'Allo! strangulated Franglais accent. He had a story about Falsies and Armadildo. Apparently Armadildo had begged him for some advice about his love life, as Falsies wasn't having any orgasms. Well, what do you expect from a man who wears a shirt, was Footrot's surreal reply. Don't be hard on the lad - English isn't his first language, you know. We all know he meant skirt. So Foxtrot gaily wittered on about giving Armadildo a flute to play but that didn't work so Footprint went round and rogered him while Falsies played the flute and - no - hang on - Footrest played the flute and had an orgasm at the same time while - no - that's not right. Well, someone played the flute and someone had an orgasm or three, and as Stash said to me at the time -"Have fun writing that one up!" Take it from me -you had to be there. Or maybe you're glad you weren't…..

Ring Pull moseyed on into the circle John Wayne style and borrowed Lost Patrol's boots to complete her down-home ensemble. Free Willy wasn't too chuffed about this. "I'm not licking her toes tonight," he growled. Of course, this was all for the benefit of Armadildo and Falsies. They, sadly, are leaving before the dinner-dance, so were given their trophy for Rookies of the Year there and then. Not a dry eye in the house, and never was the farewell song sung with such fervour.

The amiable Wickless sauntered in to award the Pussy. Dog Shit got it for being a right pussy and keeping his feet dry whilst traversing the oozing bog.

Stash had the venerable Prick. He had heard everyone moaning about the pricks, trips etc. on the run but particularly noted complaints about soil disease in the bog section. Someone who sank rather further than most into the noxious mess was heard to complain about sending her gynaecologist's bill to the hash. Yes, it was Hungry Bum, so she got the Prick to - er - block up the offending passage until she can get an appointment. Ever-helpful Diskless obligingly offered to carry out the examination free-of-charge.

The Tongue was awarded by Titmouse, who had been infected by the prevailing mood of smut. He made some low remark about Octopussy proving her virginity (Poor thing! - Ed.) by bleeding on the run - but the Tongue was not for her. No, it was for Ring Pull, who, as a member of the bike hash, has been spending too long in the saddle recently. And on receipt of the said Tongue, Ring Pull experimentally tried to shove up Free Willy's bum. What with the Tongue and her rancid toes, I hate to think what new turn their sex-life is going to take.

It was with a sigh of relief that I put my pen away as these sordid events came to a conclusion. Off to the on-on, then, with great food as ever, and some excellent singing, particularly from Jenever and Bee Fuck. My little old toothless paramour was delighted to see me and chased me round the tables threatening to gum me to death until I agreed to dance (well, lurch arthritically) with him. I tried to divert him by sitting with Indy and Ring Pull, but both Alpha and Beta Bitch refused to help me out. You're all invited to the wedding next week…

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