Run No. 947
Date: Friday 17 November 2000
Where: Old Jurong Road
Hares: The Velcros, Ring Pull, Gypsy
Members: 49
Guests: 18
Virgins: 3
Visitors: 3
Returnees: 0
New Members: 1 (that pesky Molester, yet again)
An eventful run in lots of ways. Oh, it was the threatened Jungle Bash all right – lots and lots of hacked trail through the jungle and a sodding great drain to boot. And a loop too far which led a lot of people astray with half the committee – at least, Astronut, myself and No Good - being foolish enough to follow So Cunt Chong, wandering way off course and running around like headless chickens till well after dark. (Poultry in motion, so to speak… - Ed.) Oh, very funny. - Not as bad as Free Willy, though – who was so off-trail he brought us back a weather report from Changi. You’d think his wife being one of the hares would have given him some advantage, but no – he still managed to screw it up. Careless was nearly eaten by a ravening python at one point. And I was pushed unceremoniously aside into the shrubbery by Indianus who was desperately trying to keep up with her two toy boys, Howard and Auntie Climax, even though they were scurrying away from her as fast as their well-muscled thighs (Stop drooling! – Ed.) could carry them. Such jolly larks!
In the lamentable absence of Falsies and Armadildo, this poor hash orphan had to find somewhere else to stash her bag so I bunged it in the back of Jack Off’s passion wagon, which led to an embarrassing incident after the run as I literally had to prise the entwined Velcros out of a full-scale X-rated snog in order to retrieve it. Actually, I thought about asking Jason for a bucket of water to pour over the smouldering pair but they separated with an audible rrrippp!! giving me the window of opportunity required.
Alpha Bitch demanded the Good Run accolade for her co-hares and herself, and we all agreed that it was – well – yes – a Good Run. Not the hares’ fault after all if a load of lemmings got lost. And the on-on was announced at the Charcoal Grill, with yam basket a highlight. (There goes the diet again – Ed.) Look, I don’t get much in the way of sensory delights these days, so sod off.
Next week’s hares hail from Hibernia and it’s somewhere in the Mandai area but no-one seemed to know where.
Ring Pull hauled in the virgins – Bernie from Chicago, Nishima and Olaf.
Visitors were Brewmaster from England, Coops from Hamerseley and Auntie Climax.
There was a kerfuffle at this point when Ring Pull tried to call in Molester. Free Willy threw his toys out of the pram and had a full scale wobbly since Molester’s down-downs have sent the beer bills soaring by about 200%. But he was cowed by Alpha Bitch’s laser glare as she explained that he was actually a new member. Groans all round. Will we never be free of him?
Love’s young dream, the Velcro Kids, suitable entwined, slithered into the circle as Hare Whips. Unfortunately, Slocum had lost his marbles as well as his heart as he just couldn’t remember anyone’s hash name, so the first down down was his when he tried to call in John McCarty – oops! – Big Hammer. He just about pulled himself together again and managed to get Bully right. They are apparently wifeless at the moment so are entertaining themselves fiddling with an umbrella with a condom. Look, this is one of those charges that means absolutely nothing if you weren’t there, believe me. Their second charge saw poor old, befuddled Slocum in even more trouble as he called in Matt Mathews – oops again – Free Willy – no – too late! – another down down for the now incoherent and tottering Slocum, who had apparently been drinking since about three o’clock anyway as he couldn’t help set the run due to injury. (Good excuse! – Ed.) He slurred some story about all the guys who got really lost – the aforesaid Free Will, Barbarian and Titmouse. Well Titmouse had gone, so an obvious lookalike was – er – Molester, who was starting to look a bit wobbly himself. Then Warlike Talkie and Double Back – lookalike Bagels (!) – were selected as a kindly DB had lent a forgetful WT a pair of trainers that developed a double blow-out about ten minutes into the run. The circle expressed a certain amount of scepticism about the accidental nature of this event.
The Mystery Whip was Dickless, who sternly admonished So Cunt Chong and Moister (well, that's near enough to Molester, isn't it?) for running across the expressway. Molester was looking positively green at this stage and had to be carried out of the circle by several strong men. The Whip also had a charge for Titmouse – lookalike this time was Ad Nauseam – who said to Ductless, after leading him astray on a 2km short (ha!) cut, “I’d better keep my eye out ‘cos Bo Peep’s coming,” which Wickless thought was quite an original form of sexual behaviour. And then he launched into an entertaining rendition of Barbarian’s phone negotiations in the car on the way to the run. Too tortuous to go into in any detail - (Oh, admit it. You just can’t remember – Ed.) Not true. It says here in my notes, “Bringing Sammy and a friend together – she wasn’t in the taxi when he said she was.” There. Clear as mud. So Barbarian got punished for being economical with the truth, which is true of most men in my opinion. (Your cynicism is showing. – Ed.)
Mystery Mystery Whip Loose Change sashayed into the circle, proclaiming in seductive tones that one man on the hash had taught her more than her husband ever did. Several likely candidates eagerly leapt forward to claim the accolade, but she only had eyes for Banjo. Yes, after years of being the appendage and adjunct of a Mason, (Now, don’t moan – the dear little wifeys are allowed at a function once a year – what more do they want? – Ed.) it took Banjo to actually initiate her into the ritual of the dodgy handshake. Banjo went into all sorts of contortions to demonstrate. Then she called for Molester. Someone went to find him where he was quietly throwing up behind a car. Yes, it was time for down-down number four for everyone’s favourite target, this time for admitting to Loose Change that while he was looking forward to seeing his wife at Christmas, he had enjoyed being “approximately single”!!! (Is that along the lines of being “slightly pregnant”? – Ed.) Then she got thoroughly daffy and proved that men may be from Mars and women from Venus, but Loose Chafe is from a little planet slightly beyond Pluto. After the run, she had sat down at an old bus stop at the run site, saying to Bully that she was waiting for a no. 76. And, she wittered on, Bully had replied that he was waiting for a 68 – no – a 79 – no – wait a bit – what do you call that sexual practice that involves - (Stop right there – Ed.) – well, she got it majorly confused and the entire circle, obviously more experienced, bayed the number she was groping for – yes – you’ve got it – 69! They both got down-downs for that one.
Prick of the Week was Ugly Bum, who knows a lot about willies, she says. She’s seen more willies than you lot have had hot dinners, she says. There is nothing she need to learn about willies, she says. (Okay, we get the point – Ed.) And the big black Prick is just not representative, she says, although Squire attempted to differ, saying it looks just like his but smaller. Reaching into her bag, she brought out a sad little floppy rubber object that brought squeals of recognition from the ladies present. “This,” she intoned, as she handed it round the circle to be fondled, “is what a real willy looks like.” I don’t know if Ad Nauseam has anything to say about this. She delicately brought the circle’s attention to the fact that Kaiser Loon had noted the that black Prick is bigger than his and stays harder for longer, so he was awarded it to supplement his flagging member.
The Pussy was awarded by Dog Shit, who almost got Bully for pushing people over, but in the end got Elaine – oops! – Ugly Bum – too late! – down-down for Dog Shit. Obviously there was some kind of universal hash name oblivion going on tonight. Anyway, Ugly Bum had complained that the run was boring, showing that she’s getting to that doddery age where she prefers running on roads to jungle scrambles as its easier on her lumbago, bunions etc.
Then it was time for the hash to get advice from Uncle and Auntie GMs.
Astronut: “Don’t run across expressways.
Alpha Bitch: “Pick up your trash.”
Big Hammer: “Don’t wear brown socks with black shoes.”
(I think that was meant to be facetious. – Ed.)
AOB. Loose Changi was giddy with power - or just plain giddy – after her go in the circle, and couldn’t wait to get back in there. She got Astronut on his knees in front of her (usual cries of - “While you’re down there…..” from the guys in the cheap seats) to examine his hair as apparently he’d been boasting about having a haircut. As we know, our revered GM is somewhat tonsorially-challenged (Why not just say “bald”? – Ed.) so the circle was a bit puzzled about what the barber actually did for his money. Anyway, things descended into an unseemly scramble as Alpha Bitch felt she had to imprint her superiority on the recumbent Astronut by mounting him. I averted my modest gaze from the debauched scene.
Everyone was trying to strut his or her AOB stuff now. Indy was pushed aside by the rabid Coops from Hamersley who wanted to push Perth’s bid for the 2004 Interhash by presenting the GMs with promotional t-shirts.
Finally Indy struggled in, wearing a spiffy new pair of diamante-encrusted Fuck Me shoes. Aha! – thinks I – I finally get the shoes that are rightfully mine. But Indy had a fiendish little plot. Did I still want the original, and it must be said, rather tatty Fuck Me shoes? Or could I be tempted by… – and here she reached into her bag and brought out another pair of spiffy, diamante-encrusted stilettos. Those of you who’ve known me for a while will know I’m very easily bought and have the determination of a cockroach, so I at once rescinded my claim on the originals and allowed various men to help me into the sparkly new ones. Very nice too, Indy. Let’s see if they work at the Dinner and Dance. She hadn’t forgotten Ring Pull either, but whether the Alpha Bitch was as impressed with Beta Bitch’s gift of flip-flops is another matter….
Then it was off to the on-on. Which I was pleased to get to in one piece as Loose Change’s myriad down-downs had left her very slightly elevated and the little yellow peril jeep was positively bucketing along - mostly sideways. At the on-on, the food was absolutely brilliant, both in quality and quantity, complete with a double helping of yam basket. I attempted to chat up the affable and charming Bernie from Chicago before Indy muscled in – but she’s leaving for Australia so has other things on her mind. There was a movement to go on-on-on to Muddy Murphy’s but I managed to resist. After all, I had to gird my loins for Saturday and the Scottish country dancing at Aye Aye and Saliva’s place. Yes, you heard me correctly.
It’s Sunday now, and I survived the dancing – just. I now know how to “Strip the Willow” with the best of them. And if you’ve never had the pleasure of waltzing with Bogless, believe me, it’s a delight undreamt of. Except in nightmares. I think I’ll regain the use of my toes in a couple of weeks…..
On on!
Blank Willow
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