Run No. 977

Date: 8 June 2001

Where: Chestnut Avenue

Hares: Jeff Fucking Baron (I think) and Flakey

Members: 36

Guests: 18

Virgins: 4

Returnees: 2

This was the run from the men who apparently eat crocodiles for breakfast. Yeah. The Seletar boys showed us what they actually get up to on a Tuesday night and gave us a run that you could take your grandma round – twice. The first runners were in in just over 30 minutes, and even Walkie Talkie came back in 45. (Careful! - Ed.)

Frontarse was still seething about the roasting I gave him last week, so called the circle extra early, leaving me scratching around for paper, pen, somewhere to sit, etc. Bastard.  Thanks to Suzee Wong for miraculously finding me a chair. Anyway, after embarrassing me, Frontarse got down to the real business of embarrassing the hares. He sat them on the ice – of course – and since we had no crocodiles for them to eat – and crocodile tastes pretty much like chicken – they were forced to down-down through the Rubber Chicken. Don’t ask….

FA called in lonely virgin Martin – from Scandihoolliganland – who went straight for the ice without being asked. Poor benighted boy. He was obviously trying to do his best with our silly rituals ‘cos when Frontarse told him “ Flakey sat there so you have to lick it” the chap looked a bit worried but was about to really think about complying before rescued by the nicer elements of the mob. No wonder we have trouble attracting new members. Then Sybil stuck her hand down his shorts. I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again.

Frontarse called in all the crocodile eating (Ha! – Ed.) Seletar members to have a down –down for their wimpishness – they apparently thought tonight was a long run. Boo, Virginia Slim, Tight Arse, Pontianak and Hare Jeff. We told them where they could go by singing the rude song.

Visitors comprised Damn Near Redneck (Weird named these Yanks go in for – Ed). Apparently, he told us, “The Internet made me come.” At which Careless sternly reminded him, “That’s illegal in Singapore.” Then Frontarse, forgetting that he’d actually done all the Seletar boys five minutes before, called in Virginia Slum (damn Spellcheck) again. “Hey, it’s David Beckham with glasses!” chirped Flakey at the sight of the skinny one’s new shave cut. His guest, Hot Nuts from Tokyo, was also called in as Virginia had gone looking for him in the jungle while Hot Nuts was uncorncernedly taking photographs at the run site. Hot Nuts showed an unhealthy eagerness to drop his shorts and shove his ample posterior on the ice – and I was definitely in the wrong place here and got the Full Monty.

“Next week’s run!” hissed Saliva. “I knew that!’” growled Frontarse. Hey, I’d better be careful here or I’ll get ticked off again by the real Ed., standing by her man.  Anyway, next week’s run was supposed to be Barbarian and Bushy but they can’t do it, so Frontarse iced them, but didn’t seem too worried about getting a replacement. Watch this space for an update. Pasir Panjang, maybe? Barbarian was eager to get on the ice and do his macho stuff but couldn’t actually fight his was out of his shorts as the string was knotted.  In the absence of his mummy he asked Flakey to held him undo himself. Ah, bless him.

Frontarse was really spinning this out, calling in the visitors one at a time, and now called in Joker, the young tasty Septic Tank. He had to explain why he was called Joker by displaying his tattoo and FA had the whimsical idea of getting several ladies to run their hands over it – don’t get too many ideas – it was on his shoulder – and telling the entranced audience what it felt like. Jack Off said it was “kind of hard.” Fanny Flasher had to be prised off. Sybil was restrained by a cohort of stout hashers who would like him to come back.

Frontarse enjoyed himself confusing your put-upon scribe at this stage – hey, I never even had a chance to get my hands on Joker – and actually remembered the order better that I did. Yes, it was time for the Mystery Whip. In swanned the elegant Fanny Flasher, who intoned that the hash for her has always been a sensorial experience – (people looked puzzled at each other and scratched their heads) – and tonight she was moving up and down, in and out, - (people wondered what the hell she’s been up to in the jungle) – and she found herself surrounded by peculiar aural stimuli – look it up, Coo Chi Coo – Chastity Belly (ooh! – nasty Spellcheck!) pretending to be a dog, Squire pretending to be a monkey and Tight Arse pretending to be a small red sports car. To those readers who weren’t there – sorry, we’re a very strange bunch.

Secondly, she carried on with the aural theme by revealing that she was busy eavesdropping on various people, and came across Big Hammer and Titmouse talking fluent digital as they discussed long distance carriers. (You have no idea what you’re talking about, do you? – Ed.) Not a clue, but I think I got away with it.

Mystery Mystery Whip was the ever-ebullient Auntie Climax. He was looking forward to a good run (Fat chance! – Ed.) but kept getting distracted. Firstly Flakey and Joker kept blithering on about sordid times in Shanghai – Joker protested that it was nothing to do with him, he’s never been to Shanghai and he wouldn’t do anything like that anyway – so Running Shit was forced to own up to being the Shanghai Kid. Then, Auntie told us, he was distracted by Big Hammer whopping his todger out and having a piss right in front of him. (Not much to distract anyone, surely? – Ed.) I didn’t say that. And towards the end of the run – which was about ten past six – Auntie found the pace a bit swift – and Barbarian suggested that he should try the ladies’ hash. Whether he was being ironic or what I don’t know, but uberfrontrunner Pecker Checker – coincidentally GM of the Harriets – decked him with a well-timed upper cut and left him bleeding in the circle. (You’re off on a planet of your own again, aren’t you? – Ed.) Poetic licence, sunbeam.

Chastity Belt got put on the ice for keeping up a running commentary on events, and I got hauled in as well for some reason. Dirty Hacker kept scribe notes for me – and his writing is a hell of a lot more readable than mine, I can tell you. Frontarse was on a roll now and called in Tight Arse for his horn blowing (Haven’t we done that already? – Ed.) – nothing wrong with recycling – telling him, with a graphic crotch squeeze, - “The only horn that gets blown on a Friday night is this one, baby.” (Er, who was squeezing whose crotch? – Ed.) I’ll leave that to your imagination….

Finally, finally it was time for AOB – and it was a mad scramble as people fought their way in. Emerging at the top of the heap was the shy and retiring Coo Chi Coo – who carried on with the aural idea by getting the circle to provide background music. He got us all going “dum dum dum” – I can’t write music, sorry – and called in Fanny Flasher. They were walking past the parked cars all the way up the hill; and FF suddenly realised she couldn’t remember which car was hers and if she had passed it or not. Down-down for the dumb-dumb was the peroration of CCC’s tortuous anecdote.

Hot Nuts hove in to present a sumo hash tee-shirt. He wanted to do it Japanese style (!!) by being blindfolded and selecting the recipient at random. Frontarse blindfolded him with the Rubber Chicken. (Don’t you think you should censor this? – Ed.) As I keep saying, you had to be there. Then Frontarse spun him round so violently that the guy ended up head first in a drain wrapped around Loose Change. So she got the tee-shirt and had to do a strip as well, which she did with great enthusiasm. Hot Nuts looked slightly dazed by his experience but took it in good part. We get the bill for his hospital stay next week.

AOB 2 was Sybil, so everyone sat down. Now bear with me hear. I don’t speak fluent Sybillish. I got the first bit – don’t mess with the Government. We are a registered company; we don’t want to see Coo Chi Coo doing his newspaper bit with stories of hash tragedies. Then it all went surreal. She called in the foreigners on the run – Joker and Damn Near Redneck – for some preposterous reason and proceeded to kiss them both – and then got Hot Nuts for taking photographs at the run site while his host – Virginia Slim – had gone back into the jungle to look for him. (Is this deja vu or what? – Ed.) As Careless remarked, Sybil was in need of some cotton buds to clean her ears out  ‘cos we’d had this charge half an hour before.

Frontarse called in Banjo for his farewell send off. He’s a great hasher and we’ll miss him – but – hey – he’s only going to Thailand so we’ll no doubt keep in touch.

Loose Change called in Bagels for being shy and not wearing his dick apron. Jeff Fucking Baron (Is that really a hash name? – Ed.) – look, who knows what thought processes – if any – they get up to on the Seletar hash – wanted to advertise the upcoming football match. Frontarse and Diskless were on the ice at this point but I have no idea why. Dickless then wanted to do AOB as well, and came out with the innocent comment that it’s very difficult to whip somebody with your trousers round your ankles. (Hasn’t watched a lot of porno movies then? – Ed.) I said it was an innocent remark. Anyway, he was going through his hash trophies at home, polishing them lovingly -  (Doesn’t get out much, obviously – Ed.) 100 runs, 200 runs (“That was 1955 wasn’t it,” crows Chastity Belt, never slow with the quick insult.) Scribe of the Year, 200 runs  - er - haven’t I just done that? – Guess whose fault it was. Yes, Black Widow’s incipient Alzheimer’s strikes again. Luckily, the rather more organised Quicksand is doing the awards this year – but I still had to suffer for my mistake.

And on to the Red Lantern for the usual great food and ambience with a lot of ramshackle attempts at singing – and I’m not just talking about myself. Dickless made a valiant attempt at the nasty medical song but had to retire pissed at the third verse. Dirty Hacker essayed a limerick. Visitor Damn Near Redneck tried to introduce a new song but got shouted down. I tried to insult the Septics with the Yankee Sailors song but no one was listening. (Just another normal Friday night then.– Ed.) Still fun though.

On on

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