Run No 971

Where: Europa Country Club

When: Saturday 28 April

Hares: Gypsy and Zipp

Members: 38

Guests: 14

Visitors: 3

Returnees: 2

The AGM itself was uneventful to the point of being sleep inducing – no controversy, not even any questions. The highlight was the Hash Cash presentation, with Gypsy doing his ventriloquist’s dummy bit with Slocum pulling the strings, and Zipp producing a couple of enlightening – I don’t think – charts. Spiffy tee-shirts were distributed. The new mismanagement team was voted in – walk-overs in most cases, and then the run started, but half an hour early, which caused a certain amount of consternation in the guests who turned up at the right time. A good start. Typically ramshackle.

A very good run, though, with lots of quirky Long Run-Short Run options – the Long Run bits involving running an extra ten metres round bridges and such. Ho ho! At least the pack was in well under the hour this time, with plenty of time for showers and other namby-pamby stuff before the new committee’s first circle. And plenty of time for a heart-warming little scene in the car park when Stuffy lifted the bonnet of his vintage Merc and collected an audience of ten I-may-be-a-balding-fifty-year-old-but-I’m-still-just-a-wee-boy types. Ah, bless ‘em.

New GMs Indianus and Front Arse obviously were completely surprised by their victories – that’s why they were both sporting GM tee-shirts designed by Mrs. Front Arse – Quicksand - and had even worked out a cross-dressing routine. Yes, FA fronted up in Beta Botch’s trade-mark sarong and some slightly b-grade Fuck Me shoes and Beta wore FA’s shorts and his trade-mark Suck Me flip-flops. All very kinky.

Well, it was their first circle and things were bound to have a bit of an extempore feel - that’s Latin, Coo Chi Coo – go and look it up and educate yourself – but in the heat of the moment they had forgotten that the new Hash Brew – Bagels – was conspicuous by his absence. Various panicky exchanges ensued, but then the obvious solution presented itself – we have two new committee members: Poser and Astronut, who were obviously looking forward to enjoying the circle in idleness. They were forced, kicking and screaming, to stand in.

The usual business of thank you to the old committee, welcome to the new was carried out. After this it was obvious that either the GMs haven’t sorted out their routines yet or they both want to hog the limelight as they both stayed in the circle all the time. Hmm – could be some entertaining ego stuff going on in the months ahead. Anyway, Wickless announced his run again, for all of those who weren’t listening last night. Someone then remembered that the on-on had been overlooked so Gypsy came back in again to announce the buffet at the club.

Front Arse welcomed in the one Virgin – a towering hunk called Buff – and then continued his Indy impersonation by leaping on him and attempting to engage him in an act of sexual deviancy – Indy muscled him out of the way, of course. Poor Buff just looked around in a vacant sort of way, wondering what he had got himself into.

Visitors were welcomed – Deep Valley, Janet, and Scott from last night. And finally Deep Throat. (Shouldn’t she be a Returnee? – Ed.) Later. Well, poor Scott’s seventeen down-downs last night had obviously taken their toll, ‘cos in the down-downs he was beaten by all three women.

Indy called in the Hare Whip, who was the ubiquitous Gypsy. He pointed out that on Onraet Road there was a back check and a loop, and Wackier Talkie was so busy living up to her name that she managed to go round the loop with Wonky Poo about three times – check, loop, gossip, gossip, check, loop, gossip, gossip, check, loop - and they would probably still be there if Gypsy hadn’t rescued them.

Corney Linguist was the Mystery Whip and he had another of these impenetrable stories. He had narrowly avoided a collision with a motorbike, the rider of which was wearing a black helmet. Then, in the showers, he found a guy with a black helmet. Squire. I think it was a risqué play on words. He was obviously pleased with it, anyway. These engineers. They don’t get out much.

His second charge was against visitor Lisa, who had found herself in Walkie Talkie’s company at one point. She listened in amazement to the non-stop conversation and then turned to her with dawning comprehension and asked, “Is that why they call you Walkie Talkie?” Duh!

Indy was rapidly losing the plot of the circle dynamics at this stage, because she finally realised we had a fair number of returnees. This struck a little chord in her brain. Don’t we normally welcome returnees? So she finally did, calling in Navigator, Slack Arse, No No, Armless and – yes – Deep Throat again, who still managed to beat all the opposition hands down.

Mystery Mystery Whip was that terror of the classroom, Melon Balls, who called in the new GMs to give them a strict lesson on how to tell the time. The big hand should be at twelve and the little hand at six at the start of the run. Actually, in the interests of fairness (Since when has that ever bothered you? – Ed.) - go away – in the interests of fairness, it wasn’t their idea to start early. But they gamely took the blame. (Actually, they protested like demented chickens but – hey – I’m trying to give them a good start.)

Then she wanted someone tall, male, a Virgin and Asian. (Don’t we all! – Ed.) As a lookalike, she called in Buff, who makes it on three counts, at least. She wanted to demonstrate her skill at soliciting, ‘cos on the run she had been observed stopping an innocent civilian in his car and urging him to join the hash. Attagirl! We need new members.

She then pointed out the male bonding over the bonnet of Stiffy’s Merc and called in Dickless and Spiffy as representatives of the besotted hordes of Merc perves.

Indy, confused, tried to do the Wednesday lipstick thing, showing that she really doesn’t know if it’s Wednesday or Christmas.

Time for AOB (Thank God! – Ed.) Groans all round as Sybil swanned in. But she kept it down to a couple of hours this time, finally focusing on the much-put-upon Scott for crossing the road. Or something.

Footrot had a particular axe to grind. He’s just recovering from a terrible experience some weeks back when his wifey and her cohorts discovered a shared love of Sound of Music ditties at White Chinaman’s on-on and proceeded to keep him up till 5 a.m. the next night at King Leer’s party, ruining the the whole canon in increasingly repetitive and inebriated fashion. Puss in Boots, Zipp, Indianus and moi did a quick reprise before we did our down-downs, to huge abuse.

And on to the on-on, which was really brilliant and had great dancing afterwards. A special vote of thanks to Poser for arranging the event. An apology for all toes stepped on in my woeful attempts at rock-and-roll.

I’m off to the pub now. It’s a holiday, after all. (Since when did you need an excuse? – Ed.)

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