Run # 974
Date 18 May 2001
Where Dairy Farm Road
Hares Corny Linguist & Fanny Flasher, Consultant : Careless
Members 48
Guests Ripper kept that a secret
Visitors ?
Returnees 3
We
don’t need to see “Gladiator” – we have our very own version in the new
Friday circle (With Coo Chi Coo as Maximus? – Ed.) Er –
hardly. But more of the blood soaked arena later….
A
huge pack assembled at the end of a now-unrecognisable Dairy Farm road,
submerged under a soon-to-be-opened dual carriageway, so this was probably the
last run we’ll do from there. The hares led us a merry dance round Lower
Peirce environs in a sort of upside-down back-to-front figure-of-eight that saw
disjointed parts of the pack running around like headless chickens and demented
cries of on-on seemingly coming from all directions at once. (Nice trick if
you can do it – Ed.) At one point, Aye Aye, obviously forgetting
whom he was talking to, asked me where we were. (Might as well have asked the
nearest tree. – Ed.) I have to agree with you there. Anyway, it was a
clever run that took in lovely countryside and was excellently managed and swept
by the hares. I particularly appreciated consultant Careless’s sweeping
tactics, laying loads of extra flour in the jungly bits to help the back markers
as it grew dark, and I was one of them - very much so - due to a detached
shoe/sole interface yet again. Perhaps someone is telling me it’s time to get
some new shoes. Still, at least I managed to avoid most of the killer back
checks and the near vertical slippery mud slide – such fun watching everyone
else trying to negotiate that one with their dignity intact – and signally
failing.
An
excellent run then, and back at the cars the pack was delighted (Don’t you
mean appalled? – Ed.) –you shut up – I’m being nice – delighted,
I say, to welcome back Piddles and Batman from Jakarta. It shows
how long they’ve been gone that there were actually some people who hadn’t
met the legendary pair. So it was with some trepidation that I watched the first
introduction between Piddles and Beta Bitch. “Aha!” I muttered
to Astronut and Bagless, “The egos have landed.” (You were
tickled with that, weren’t you? - Ed.) But
apart from the decibel quotient, it all went okay. At this stage, our revered GM
was still majorly in charge of her faculties, but all of that was soon to
change. Back at Loose Change’s car, which was surrounded by loose women
getting changed (!!), Beta faced the life-altering experience of finding
out that she had left her Fuck Me shoes at home. It was a pathetic
sight as she alternately begged, cajoled and threatened all the other loose
women to lend her their footwear, only to be roundly rebuffed, leaving her
barefoot and seething in the circle, plotting dire revenge in her heart.
Incensed
by power – Front Arse being absent this week – Indy refused to
start the proceedings until she dragged all the recalcitrant footwear lenders
into the circle, where she insisted on trying on various natty and not-so-natty
items of black sandals until she found a pair worth nicking. It was like a cross
between Cinderella and Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Iron Crotch’s?
Too small. Piddles’ designer pair? Too big. Black Widow’s? Too
flat (And unsuccessful. - Ed.) Go away. Finally, Loose Change’s?
Just right. So Loose Change was forced to go barefoot as
Obergruppenfuhrer Beta annexed her shoes.
This
took – oh, about a couple of hours - and people were yelling, “Any other
business?” in a desperate effort to get her mind back on the order of things,
so Indy invoked the ice in a vain attempt to restore order. Ah, the ice.
Was there ever a more contentious issue? The scene became reminiscent of bread
and circuses in Ancient Rome as Ad Nauseam hove in from the west side of
the Coliseum and dramatically threw over the ice stands, shouting heroically,
“There’s no ice on the Friday hash!” - but the baying mob, sensing blood,
collectively pointed their thumbs down and Ad Nauseam had to succumb to
the will of the hordes or risk having the lions set on him. Head gladiator Careless
dragged him kicking and screaming to the ice and he gave in to the inevitable
and sat on it. Of course, it was only going to get worse…
Finally,
the hares were called in for their down-downs and the Good
Run call that
they so richly deserved. Fanny Flasher announced the on on at Charcoal
Grill. Next week’s hare turned out to be none other than the diligent Careless,
who looked very fetching in the floppy-eared hare hat. It’s somewhere in the
darkest wilds of Lim Chu Kang, anyway.
Ripper
announced the returnees, although it was difficult to hear anything at this
stage as the goings-on on the ice were getting most of the attention. Loose
Change and Coo Chi Coo had been discovered having a private party in
a corner and were dragged into the arena and placed on the naughty chairs, and
had a duel about whose fault it was. “You bitch!” snarled CCC to the
flaxen-haired maiden. The mob roared approval as they sipped on chalices of
honeyed wine from Mesopotamia and toyed with plates of larks tongues proffered
by lightly oiled Nubian slaves. (Get on with it and stop getting literary.
– Ed.) Sorry – got a bit carried away with the Roman thing. Anyway, Piddles,
Batman and Toe Rag were welcomed back. At this stage, the
vertically challenged Coo Chi Coo ran away from the arena. Beta Bitch
noticed the vacant ice and asked where he was. “He fell in,” offered Running
Shit. “He’s down there, swimming around,” added So Count Thong.
So mean to draw attention to the poor wee chap’s handicap.
Indy
decided
that it was time to exert her top-bitch status and called the irrepressibly
vocal Piddles in to sit on the ice, which she gamely did, despite being
unsuitable attired in a short tight skirt. Boo kept her company, and the
whole thing took on a festive air as Chastity Belt popped up to
photograph them. “Hey,” Beta expostulated. “You’re not supposed
to be enjoying this!” As you can see, things were starting do go decidedly
pear-shaped.
The
Mystery Whip was a gallant Melon Balls, who entered the Coliseum like a
true Amazon. (What? You mean she’s only got one tit? – Ed.) I was
referring to her courage, you idiot. Facing the baying mob squarely – after
all, she is a teacher – her first charge was a comment on the trickiness of
the run, as she had met a couple of patent back markers crowing about being in
the lead. Loose Change and Ugly Bum were the guilty parties, and
their fifteen minutes of fame was cemented by flashing cameras as they did their
down-downs.
Her
second charge involved being all by herself at Lower Peirce and suddenly hearing
a loud crashing through the undergrowth followed by frenzied splashing noises.
“Aha!” thinks she. “Monitor lizards.” But no. It was Stash and Big
Hammer attempting to shorten the run by doing a quick swim across a spur of
the reservoir. The lizard kings did a down-down.
And
finally she drew attention to Loose Change’s babe-mobile, with five
women getting all naked and soapy around it. Running Shit’s car was
opposite, and what was his comment when asked if he liked the view? “I’m not
that desperate.” Now, he strongly denied this to me later, but hell, who
cares?
The
Mystery Mystery Whip was Degenital who was running with Indy in
the forest when she grabbed hold of him and wrapped herself round him, claiming
that she was keen on a bit of bondage. Then she fell over, uttered an impetuous
oath, something like “oh bother”, I believe, and then turned to Degenital
and asked if he’d be a Mystery Whip. Duh! Guess who his first charge was. You
got it. Indy.
He
wanted to keep it short and sweet, so he called in Coo Chi Coo (Short,
yes. Sweet, no. – Ed.) for the ridiculous three-dollar shorts he was
wearing on the run. But the eagle-eyed circle was more interested in the shorts
he was wearing in the circle, complete with interesting stain somewhere round
the groin region. Lots of ribald comments about his poor aim and lack of
self-control were thrust at the hapless leprechaun.
Indy
was feeling insecure having been out of the arena – sorry - circle for all of
twenty seconds, so she picked on the venerable Bully to sit on the ice.
Bully ran desperately around for a bit like a panicky whippet, declaring that as
he was over sixty, he didn’t even have to sit on ice on the Seletar hash. That
led to an interesting contest of the geriatrics, as Dirty Hacker then
hove into the circle and sat on the ice of his own accord, declaring, “I’m
over sixty and it doesn’t bother me.” Ooh, it was carnage, I tell you. And
the sawdust in the arena was turning an ever-deeper shade of red as the blood
flowed in the gutters. Shoeless joined the heroic Hacker on the
ice, but I have no idea how he transgressed.
The
Pussy
saw the return of Astronut into the circle. She (the Pussy) is now newly
attired in gypsy clobber, for some reason. (Are people so sad that they have
nothing better to do than dress up the Pussy? – Ed.) Apparently. He had
plenty of contenders for it too. Running Shit might have had some use for
the Pussy because after sitting on the ice his dick was small enough to fit. Big
Hammer because after his swim he was in the mood for muff diving. And Boo
for short cutting through a check and calling on-on when he found the trail
again a check and a half away, thus cutting out a fair part of the run for many
of the pack. Boo deservedly got it.
Beta
Bitch Indy
finally remembered that she had an award to present. It should have been a 150
runs tee shirt but since all the numbers have run out and Quicksand
wasn’t around to do something original, it was blank. And this is where it
really became like the battle of Carthage as Indy, trying to add some
suspense, blithered on about the award going to someone who never sets runs,
never sits on committees, doesn’t do the Hash Challenge etc. – and then
presented it to Strapless. Loose Change charged in like a pocket
Boadicea, the scythes on her chariot wheels slicing though all comers as she
defended the besieged Strapless. Why, everyone knows he sets loads of
runs, and he served on the Dinner Dance committee last year, and he did the Hash
Challenge and – er – er – She drivelled to a halt as she started to sense
a pattern somewhere.
Your
scribe entered the arena to explain the tricky concept of irony to Loose
Change. I think she got it in
the end. At least she had the
pleasure of helping Strapless into his numberless tee shirt before being
forced to partake of the poisoned chalice.
With
the circle littered with the bodies of fallen gladiators, it was the time for
the Christians to get thrown to the lions (Enough of this overdone Coliseum
imagery – Ed.) Oh all right. It was time for AOB.
Zip
strode into the circle and told a little story about the stalwart beer master Bagels.
In the halcyon days of the old committee, she used to be his trusted assistant.
The first time she helped him she thought her luck was in as he kept touching
her up. Then she realised he was merely wiping his hands on her tee shirt. With
that in mind she had scoured the back streets of Florence searching for
something to help him out now she no longer fills that role. Bugles is
now the proud owner – and wearer – of a spiffy new apron featuring an
anatomically correct representation of Michelangelo’s David statue – you
know – the one with the obvious dangly bits. And the dangly bits dangled in
the appropriate place, making Beagles very popular for the rest of the
evening.
Running
Shit
called in Indianus for telling Ad Nauseam as she roughly pushed
past him on a narrow path, “I’m the boss on Friday.” For not understanding
the concept of democratic process, and being daft enough to be overheard,
Indy was hoist on her own petard (Sounds uncomfortable. – Ed.) and
forced to plant her g-string on the ice. And the rest of the committee sat on
her. Well, it seemed fun at the time.
Then
Coo Chi Coo came into to comment on one of his own circle comments on
Wednesday (Talk about incestuous! – Ed). Yes, it was a continuation of
the story about the 72-year-old rapist, who CCC had said deserved a
medal. Since then he’s found out that the supposed victim was a 35-year-old
woman. CCC has now rescinded his praise, for, as he said, with his eyes
firmly on the nearest exit, who would want to rape a 35-year-old? The Praetorian
Guard chased him from the circle as howls of derision were heaped upon his
retreating form.
And
then it was on to the Charcoal Grill where I managed to avoid doing my notorious
party piece that got us thrown out of it so long ago. Ask your mothers about the
Sperm Whale song – some of them may just remember it. And a jolly on-on it was
too, with great food and Piddles in full flood, as it were. And an
interesting observation from So Cult Thong apropos my little tussle with
the Antipodeans over their lack of vocabulary: “Yoghurt’s got more culture
than Australians.” (Well, we all knew that. – Ed.) So it all ended
happily, and various bloody but unbowed gladiators ended up at Anywhere where Piddles
decided to relive old times by invading the stage, grabbing the mike off Zul,
and slurring a song. Nothing ever really changes, does it?
But
as for this ice business – well, I’m not so sure about that. I have to thank
Ad Nauseam for the Coliseum idea – an apt comparison, I feel. The circle certainly looked like a bit of a circus tonight.
To paraphrase Dr. McCoy in Star Trek “It’s the hash, Jim. But not as we know
it.”
On
on!
Viduata
Nigra
(work
it out…)
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