Got picked up by Flakey as I wandered lonely as a cloud up and down the blasted wilderness of Pasir Ris Drive 1, unnerved by the lack of hash signs, wondering if I’d got the day wrong or stumbled into a parallel universe. So it was with a grateful sigh that I clambered into the Flakester’s machine, only to remember that the last time that happened, he pissed of with my bag before I got back from the run, leaving me sans money, clothes or phone. Of course, he kept phoning me to tell me it was okay, he had my bag etc….. Duh!  - So I checked he wasn’t going to pull that stunt again - (Will you belt up and get on with it! – Ed.) Just adding a little personal interest stuff. (Personal – yes. Interest – no. – Ed.)

At the run site I tackled Diskless about the lack of signs, but the poor chap was still white, shaking and speechless after his marathon run-set, which should have been a warning of some sorts. Still, off we merrily set for a romantic lope around the land-fill at Tampines, with drains and rope climbs thrown in, and if I got back at 7.30 it’s only because a) I’m pathetic and b) I lost my sole. At least there were no hornets.

Now of course this was the new committee’s first Friday. I, of course, am part of the old guard - (Admit it – you only carried on so you could sit down in the circle – Ed.) – An ignoble thought, even for you. Trouble started well before the circle since we didn’t have a hash brew but gallant Dirty Hacker, old trouper that he is, offered his services. I took my customary position (Snigger! – Ed.) and smiled indulgently as the new GMs sought crowd approval through an increasingly bizarre series of innovations, bless ‘em. Now, the first of these was the introduction of ice - for sitting on, I mean. This caused crusty old colonel Chastity Belt to froth at the mouth apoplectically as he expostulated, “No ice on the Friday hash! Never heard of such a thing! Disgraceful!” in full Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells fashion. (Ask a Brit if you don’t understand this reference!)

Of course, there are no rules on the hash, so the ice made its debut and the first to suffer was Front Arse himself. Now I told you there was going to be trouble with the clashing of Beta Bitch and Front Arse - whose characters are composed of almost undiluted ego. Yes, Beta had told – not asked – told – Front Arse that she was going to start the circle but with foolish temerity he totally ignored her and started it himself. Indianus decided his ego and his dick needed shrinking so she consigned him to the ice, and got Sybil to accompany him as she was making a fuss about something or other – who ever knows?

Finally Dickless, who had been standing patiently by growing a beard while this was going on, got called in to be told it was a good run. He was also awarded the first example of another of this extremely strange committee’s innovations – a Bugs Bunny type floppy-eared hat. All hares are going have to wear these from now on when they announce next week’s run and on the day itself. Now don’t laugh, but the thinking behind this is that this is going to encourage – no, really – people to volunteer as hares. (Talk about a hare-brained idea! – Geddit? – Ed.) You just couldn’t resist, could you.

Wickless announced the beachside barbecue on-on and Big Hammer was iced for excessive bonhomie. And Dickless down-downed again for his birthday.

Beta Botch had been busy wrestling people to the floor, kneeing ‘em in the groin, threatening their children etc. - all in the name of trying to get some volunteers for our anorexic-to-the-point-of-death hareline, so many thanks to Bo Peep and Titmouse for succumbing to pressure – er – selflessly volunteering to set next week’s run.

Front Arse, in a flagrant breach of tradition, now called for the Mystery Whip. Flakey waltzed in and told a decidedly horrid joke loosely tied in with the amount of dogs on the run and got Wickless to do the down-down for this – I think because he wanted to see if he could still walk upright after his copious quantities of birthday beer. He nastily tried to get him again by asking if it was anyone’s birthday today, but even with most brain cells having packed their bags and gone on holiday, Dickless could still side-step that one by reminding Flakey that the actual day was, in fact, yesterday.

Flakey went on to call in the neophyte On Sec, Quicksand, and highlighted the poor girl’s pathologically weird body image. Apparently at the concrete blocks we all had to slither through, she was heard to expostulate, “I can’t get through there!” - even as the hardly svelte Flakey did.

Beta Bitch then bared her fangs and turned to moi as, of course, it was I who had given Front Arse the wrong info about the order of things. I thought it was a time-honoured tradition to cock up the first circle, but my protests were to no avail and I had to freeze my extremities on the ice. It didn’t help that Cannery Linguist had seen me circling the car park earlier in search of a shadowy corner for the usual reason (Quick bonk? – Ed.) and Corney had suggested that I just cross my legs for half an hour. My carefully worded response was that I had to have a pee before scribing as this set my creative juices flowing, and he insisted on telling the circle about this which led to many ribald remarks about my creative juices as I slowly froze my nether regions…

Front Arse finally remembered where he was and called in the visitors who were the quaintly named Horny Dildo (Ouch! – Ed.) from Frankfurt and Angie (Mrs. Dickless). Then he introduced –or rather, reintroduced – another ruling, which is that hashers must wear at least one item of hash apparel in the circle. This caused wee Coo Chi Coo a bit of a problem. He wrinkled his Neanderthal brow and muttered, “What’s apparel?” Now don’t be nasty. The average Aussie only has a vocabulary of about 35 words, and those only relate to sex and beer, so what do you expect? Various panicky members rooted around in their hash bags to get out their sweaty run tee-shirts and drape them over their shoulders but to no avail as Hawkeye Front Arse hauled in Patrick, Mr.T and Horny Dildo to sit on the ice for their sartorial transgressions. - And I’ve just realised that all these new rules are going to ensure that I’m chained to the keyboard for the main part of the week and the resulting circle reports are going to make War and Peace look like a short story. Back to the grindstone…

Returnee King Leer was welcomed back and Dogshit was awarded his 100 runs tankard.

The Mystery Mystery Whip was the incomprehensible Kraut, Horny Dildo, who apparently thought he was the Mystery Mistress – God knows what he thought he was supposed to do in the circle. He first presented Indianus with a tee-shirt advertising EuroHash. Beta made a right pig’s ear out of putting the shirt on ending up with it roughly upside down, causing CCC to remark, “She’s got a funny way of putting on tee-shirts – she learned it in the back seats of cars.” True, maybe, but Indy was not amused and promptly iced him Anyway, the Kraut continued, being a visitor to Singapore he realised that there are a lot of rules here. For instance, you have to flush the loo. – Er, don’t they bother in Germany, then? And, he went on lugubriously, gambling is illegal. But he found someone at a T-check saying, “I’m gambling it's this way”, so got Loose Change for being illegal. Don’t all laugh at once. Then he got Flakey for nearly hanging himself at the rope climb. Hilarious. And he called in all the latecomers – Corney Linguist, Sara Lee, Doggie Style, and Shit Fit. And they say they have no sense of humour in Germany. Wily Coo Chi Coo saw his chance to get off the ice before his pecker dropped off and claimed, “I was late! I was late!” as he sprang into the circle. Lying hound.

Fanny Flasher was iced for – well – having a silly name – and Chastity “We Don’t Do Ice on Fridays” Belt was forced to do the deed himself, with much objecting and expostulating from him, but he caved in to peer pressure in the end, the wimp. I passed on the Prick to Fanny Flasher as I was feeling charitable and knew it would get her off the ice. Indianus gave the Pussy to Barbarian for calling a T-check without actually going anywhere near it. And then it all disintegrated into a welter of announcements, but the hungry mob was already dispersing to their cars and heading to Pasir Ris Park.

And a superb on-on it was too – a torch-lit barbecue by the sea under swaying palms. Dickless, even though he could barely see at this point, was the mainstay of the singing. He had a cake for his birthday, which was inscribed Happy Birthday Diskless (true!) as he was too embarrassed to give the cake shop his real name. Needless to say, the cake and Dickless’s face soon made intimate and personal contact, but by that stage he was too comatose to do anything but smile vacantly. Well done that boy, though, for the best run and on-on under the new committee. 

On on!

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