Run No. 979

Date: 22 June 2001

Where: Seletar Farmway 2

Hares: Stiff and Flakey (again)

Members: 32

Guests: A paltry 5

Visitors: 3

Another tiny pack in this benighted month of June eventually gathered at Seletar West Farmway 2 and 3, most of us not realising that the wrong location had been announced by the cunning hares to add mystery and spice to the occasion. The succession of cars wandering around Farmway 1 at least ensured that I managed to snaffle a lift from a similarly confused hasher – thanks, Running Shit and Frontarse who had both stopped to help this bemused vagrant.

The hares were conspicuous by their absence at the run site until just before the off. Barbarian and Bushy were definitely not amused to see that the out trail was exactly the same as for their upcoming ruin – sorry – run. “See!” said Bushy, pointing to some red and white tape round a tree. “That’s our recce tape.” This is how serious hashers do it, folks. (How come you just blunder around the day before and never know where you are when you lay it? – Ed.) Enough, already. Don’t give my secrets away.

The run was a glorious blast-from-the-past affair encompassing jungle, fish farms, orchid gardens and ankle-breaking grassland. Early on there was a wonderful rickety bridge that looked like it wouldn’t bear the weight of an anorexic six-year-old. I was glad I was behind Astronut at this point – if it could bear his weight I was probably okay. He didn’t seem particularly pleased when I shared this thought with him (I wonder why? – Ed.)  Some people are just sooo sensitive! And the highlight of the run for many people was the Captain Flakey Memorial Drain – which seemed about five kilometres long – and was romantically candle lit all the way – more about the candles later, dear readers. The hares had obviously put a great deal of care into this run – it was excellently marked, and we were impressed by the quality of the sweeping – until Stiff deserted the 20-odd back markers at the tunnel. He blamed Ripper, Ripper blamed Loose Change – but anyway, we all got back in the end, Warlike Talkie and I drifting in just shy of 7.30. 

The circle was small, but with Indianus back from all points European – as she constantly reminded us – fairly vocal. With both the GMs in place, there was even more opportunity for cock-ups in the procedure. Astronut had helpfully come up with a list of circle order, but Frontarse was having none of it – he likes doing things his own way. (Not with Indy around, surely? – Ed.) True, as he was about to find out. Indy sashayed into the circle in Fuck Me Shoes and micro sarong and seemed totally disinclined to get on with anything except blithering on about her hols. “When I was in Belgium…” she intoned, ignoring the fact that people were sitting down in Sybil fashion, painting their fingernails, doing their tax returns etc. We got the whole story about the Fuck Me Shoes she really coveted which she’d come across in a girly bar in Ostend or somewhere. Gripping stuff. (No… – Ed.) I was being ironic. Anyway, she finally hauled herself back from talking about herself – for a while, anyway - and called in the hares. Except Stiff had disappeared (He’d gone to sleep. – Ed.) so she carried on with next week’s run. It’s at Lower Peirce Reservoir and the hare is Mandarin Lau. He wasn’t apparent, so we had the surreal vision of White Chinaman being called in as lookalike while Dirty Hacker told us about the run. 

Finally Stiff emerged so he and Flakey – who seems to be making hash laying his career at the moment – came in for their down-downs and the universal cry of Good Run – which indeed it was. Stiff also invited everyone back to his place after the on-on.

Visitors were Helen and Pulls Out Early, but they were hardly introduced before Indy started blithering on again about her trip. The baying mob howled her down and called as one for the Mystery Whip.

This turned out to be more of a Hare Whip as it was Stiff, looking all dazed and confused as he had only been asked by Frontarse just before the run – as if he didn’t have enough on his mind. So he hauled in Frontarse in here-come-de-grudge fashion, but also because Frontarse had been short cutting and taken a large chunk of the pack with him (Déjà vu from last week – Ed.) Yes – he’s making a habit of it, obviously. Then Stiff decided that someone had to shut up Indy so he called her in. Apparently during the run she had wittered on to him, “Did you notice I was gone? Did you miss me?” Yes to number one, said Stiff – and then diplomatically stopped with the response to number two. The Beta Bitch was given the largest down-down mug available by the ever-whimsical Dirty Hacker – and took about two hours to finish it. “That shut her up,” declared Comes Alone but, wisely, not loud enough for her to hear.

Stiff then went on to give a perfect Flakey rendition as he told us of the wee one’s first reaction to the tunnel. “Look at this, man. Fuckin’ hell – I know what to do with this.” Flakey aficionados can provide the accent here. Anyway, he rushed out and brought candles to light the trail. In the afternoon, Stiff was waiting for Flakey to start laying the run, and an embarrassed Flakey had to tell him that he had lost the candles at the football match the night before. Stiff suggested that whichever girl he gave them to probably enjoyed them,. Flakey, with a graphic gesture, intimated that they were at rest somewhere up his posterior. Zipp, ever rapid with the line, suggested, “Is that what they call a Candle in the Wind.” Oh, we’re a quick lot, we are.

But his best charge was the final one, which we all wish we’d seen, but only Careless did. One of our intrepid front-runners barged past everyone else, leapt down a trail at a check, screamed “Geronimo!!” as he hurtled onto a nice bit of suspiciously flat greenery – only to find that it was actually the weed-covered surface of a fishpond. A deep fishpond. Oh yes, Comes Alone went right to the bottom. It was more fun when he was talking about it later, and told us that he thought he’d come across a bowling green in the middle of the jungle as the stretch of greenery was so flat and seemingly manicured. It was only as he was in mid-air that he realised there was something wrong with this scenario. If you’ve seen Road Runner, you can imagine the pause in mid air as he suddenly went - “Ooops!”

Mystery Mystery Whip was finally brought in after an unseemly row between the GMs over what came next. Indy accused Frontarse of telling her it was time for the Prick, he said she’d lost most of her brain in Belgium etc. Life’s tough at the top. Finally, the charming and urbane Mr. Magoo, who had been waiting politely to do his thing, was allowed to proceed. His first call was for TI Joe – a rabid FRB. Nothing wrong with that, but he kept dashing off on his own and not breaking the checks. A severe offence, leading to cries of, “Ice the bastard.” TI Joe complied, like a good little hashman, and placed his bare posterior on the ice. As you know, I’m in the best – or worst – position to get the eyeful of ice-rump. I think Frontarse positions the ice deliberately as he knows how sad my life is and wants to give me a quick thrill. Indy was most annoyed as she missed the flash ands moaned, “I like European bums!” - positioning herself behind TI Joe to be first in line when he got up. Several Harriets lined up behind her, which I’m sure did a lot for his ego. However, Indy’s attempt to turn the thing into a “Me!” moment went sadly awry, as she was iced for blithering, and thus missed a second chance for a gawp at TI Joe’s lauded bum when he was released.

Mr. Magoo wanted to find someone with new shoes but brought in Quicksand who had been slithering around so much that she might as well have been wearing new shoes. Just shows that you can’t do anything right when the whip is watching.

Prick of the Week was presented by Hand Job. She hauled in Captain Flakey for the football game on Thursday. He got all the girls to sign up and then went all chauvinist and didn’t use them. Hand Job was also pretty aggrieved that he referred to her as Head Job. He also didn’t tell her that there were two captains, the other being Quicksand, who still didn’t call on Head – sorry – Hand Job, but called in Bushy instead to play. Who was to get the Prick, Flakey or Quicksand? “Quicksand needs it – her guy’s Australian,” quipped the irrepressible Comes Alone. Front Arse gave him a reproachful Paddington Bear stare.

Then it was time for AOB. There was an ominous silence and your scribe was about to pack up. Astronut hove in to announce the new tee shirts – I was modelling the prototype which Quicksand designed. Dirty Hacker reminded us on the quadripartite run on August 4th.

I was waiting for someone to say something about the soccer match – and finally Zipp did. This was the inaugural Seletar v. Lion City match played on Thursday at Normanton Park – and a very successful occasion it was too. The guys who eat alligators for breakfast (Hah! Ed.) and set thirty-five-minute runs managed to – er – lose. Apparently they are seriously out for revenge. We won 3 – 1.  I hear Sad Bastard was a demon at finding the back of the net. I say I hear, because even though I was there I didn’t see much of the game as they were playing by Braille in the dark. Zipp wanted to comment on the referee who arrived two hours late – in time to referee the on-on. Husband Gypsy was down-downed for this, which led him to remark, “Can anyone here give Zipp a ride home?” Strapless, the real ref, was also called in.

Loose Change finally got Flakey in for his organisation but he was on the phone at the time – so got the ice instead. Another eyeful of rump for your scribe. I think one of the candles was still up there. Poor Flakey had about seventeen down-downs by now, so Frontarse decided he needed a bit of a change and made him quaff this one through the blunt end of the rubber chicken. Not a pretty sight, I can tell you, but it amused the hoi polloi.

Frontarse called Indy in as she’d been a bit quiet (Impossible! – Ed.). He wanted to get her for adding to her list of countries in which she’s had – er – carnal relations. This refers to a bizarre conversation a few of us had on a run a several months ago  - we invented a new parlour game called - “How many countries have you had sex in?” See, it works, doesn’t it? You're all trying to work it out right now, aren’t you? And it was Doris at the time, I think, who asked in Bill Clinton fashion – “Do blow jobs count?” But I digress. Anyway, Indy declared that she’d only added Belgium, Norway, Sweden, Siberia, Outer Mongolia, the Isle of Wight, …. But I stopped listening here. She was treated to a rousing chorused of Irian Jaya…if you know the words, you’ll get the reference.

Corny Linguist came in to blither on about competitive people on the hash. He told a story about being asked to do half of a biathlon with Bushy. It was a 5km run (for CL) followed by a 20km bike ride (Bushy) followed by a 5km run (CL again.) So he did his circuit of Macritchie and watched Bushy set off on her bit. Divide 20 by 5 and you get 4 – right? So he watched Bushy go round 1, 2, 3, 4 – er – 5 times. “Come back, Bushy, it’s my turn!” he yelled forlornly at her retreating, manically pedalling figure. For being competitive  (And not being able to count! – Ed.) Bushy was punished.

And then it was all over bar the eating, with Mr. Ho’s excellent barbecue on site – and more of Mr. Ho’s excellent barbecue back at Stiff’s pleasant abode, where his - and I believe Flakey’s -hospitality knew no bounds. A really excellent evening all round – well done, hares.

On on

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