Run No. 989

Date: 31 August 2001

Where: End of Chestnut Ave

Occasion: Big Hammar’s Birthday w Shorts & Headband Giveaways-Wahoo!!

Hares: Big Hammar, Kiasu Lun, Maxi Pad

Members: 48

Guests:  a whopping 42

- Returnees : 3

- Visitors : 5

- Virgins : 6

This run looked like being a daunting version of “Survivor”, what with stern warnings to bring a torch, compass, passport, sleeping bag, couple of days worth of provisions etc. What had the hares got in store for us, we wondered. I arrived a couple of minutes late at the run site and never actually caught up with the main pack but hung around with the splinter group of about fifteen who got derailed at the first check by a couple of virgins who – duh! – didn’t know what a t-check was. So we lurched, tripped, squelched, tripped, swam, tripped around the reservoir for what seemed like a couple of months – I stuck pretty close to Suzee Wong, preparing to mug her from behind and commandeer her torch should the need arise – and it looked for a while as if this dramatic procedure would be necessary as darkness gathered ominously and we were still in the wood. It was like something out of “The Blair Witch Project” as we seemed to be going round and round in circles and the jungle started to look distinctly menacing. By this stage the creepers were proving so menacing that people were falling over while standing still - (Bit like you on a Friday night! – Ed.) – don’t you get started. At least we knew that Big Hammer was behind us doing sweeper duties, and we could always hear Squire doing his monkey impersonation nearby. Apparently he moonlights at the Night Safari when one of the orang-utans has a sore throat. We fought our way around the reservoir and finally there was a wonderful tramp through the swampy bit at the end, where lots of people nearly lost their shoes, and then a fairly straight run back along a thankfully creeper-free track and a last little bit lit by those green light-sticks – very atmospheric. The giveaways had all been snaffled up by the gazillions of visitors, most of whom seemed to have come from the – ptui! – Monday hash – the hares had generously come up with black (sob!) shorts and headbands.

Still, no major injuries reported, and we only lost a couple of members to the crocodiles, so when Frontarse hauled in the hares the huge assembly declared it a jolly Good Run, despite the obvious barracking of “too short”, “too many checks” etc. Frontarse showed that he was brooking no nonsense from the private party people in the unruly horde by dragging in the hapless Shoeless – or was it the shoeless Hapless? – to be the first recipient of the ice’s frigid embrace. Yes, the ice was sorely needed this week as the beer was being attacked as if it about to go the way of chewing gum and the alcohol-fuelled rabble was particularly raucous tonight and required severe discipline.

The on on was announced at the seafood restaurant at the corner of Ulu Pandan and Clementi Roads.

Frontarse picked on Posh Duck next. He’s next week’s hare but had managed to mislay his co-hare for the past two months. Thinking she’d been abducted by aliens he was getting more and more desperate so was mightily relieved when she suddenly turned up tonight. Loose Change looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed after her sojourn in the UK and they announced the run at the British Club. Mark from Monday hash obviously has something to do with it as well as he muscled in to sternly admonish everyone to get there on time as it’s a subsidised bus run

Frontarse called in the host of virgins  - Angela, Han, Sascha, Sunny, Libby and Paula.

Visiting hashers – and just to remind you all, these are people who haven’t visited us before, or not for a long time – we’d run out of beer if every visitor was given a beer – were Arno, Patrick, Jean, Waggs and Pitstop.

And Mark, who was shouting “Monday! Monday!” like a demented warthog, was consigned to the ice but even that failed to shut the sod up.

Frontarse now welcomed some visiting royalty – Uncle Milty, the founder of Samurai Hash – and his significant other, Hot to Trot 

Suddenly there were unearthly cries of “On on!” from the jungle. Had the Phantom Hashman come to haunt our gathering? The cries came nearer and nearer and people started eyeing each other nervously. Frontarse read the situation and called in the hares, particularly the sweeper, who was calmly quaffing his third beer. The cries continued, with the circle responding encouragingly. Finally, returnee Joe staggered out of the darkness into the circle, dripping blood, sweat and tears, and when presented with a half glass of beer, manfully demanded a full one and declared it an excellent run. It was 8.22 p.m. The man’s mad! The hares were iced for leaving him out there.

At last we moved on to the returnees – Comes Around and Goes Around – who had just had knee surgery yesterday but shows what mettle hashers are made of insisting on limping into the circle unaided. And the third returnee was the poor lost sheep, Joe. 

Kiasu Lun was iced for rowdyism, and Indianus dragged in a protesting Skidmark to join him, avowing that he’d been talking all night and thoroughly deserved it.

Then it was time for the Mystery Whip – a very incomplete half of the Velcro Twins – poor singular Slocum. He had obviously had a keen eye on fancy footwork on the hash tonight. He firstly dragged in Stash, who had apparently decided there was a swim on the run and plunged into the water totally unnecessarily at the first possible opportunity. Unfortunately it was only about 2 cm deep, so his spectacular flying full gainer went sadly awry as he landed face first in the mud. Squire was done for doing a poofter-type mince through the mud trying to keep his itsy-bitsy shoes dry.  Lost and Found did a sort of reverse Tarzan, shouting, “Keep on running - aaargh!!!” catching his foot in a vine and also kissing the ground with his face.

Slocum was in full flood – and then his phone ran. Big mistake. Was it Jack Off, everyone wanted to know. Frontarse grabbed the phone from him and carried on the conversation, no doubt insulting one of Slocum’s major clients.

After the derision subsided, Slocum had a very apposite charge. Remember Jungle Joe – the latecomer? Well, the whip had encountered him earlier in the run going through a t-check and saying he knew a short cut. Yeah, right!

And he had a final charge, culled from the newspaper. Apparently the opposition party in Australia has accused Singapore of espionage and compared it to Nazi Germany. Everyone’s favourite mini-Nazi – Coo Chi Coo - was called in to represent the xenophobic Aussies and Death Wish 4 represented the maligned Singaporeans.

The Mystery Mystery Whip was the venerable Phoney Dick who said he had two little ones and one big one. You judge, dear reader. He had had a panicky phone call from Brighton. It was his next-door neighbour who had gone on holiday and who was worried he’d left the aircon on. Would the aged and creaking Phoney climb over the gate and go and turn off the electricity? Slack Arse was not present so wifey Loose Change – who had actually gone off before him so was in no way responsible – was punished. Squire was called in for sartorial crimes. He was wearing a pair of ridiculous shorts with huge pockets. Phoney declared that one pocket carried the rations for a month and the other the condoms for a week. Finally he declared that he needed our support. Huge cries of sympathy and offers of sundry trusses were offered. No, not that sort, he complained. He said that personally he didn’t like Australians. Howls of agreement. They beat us at cricket, they beat us at rugby, they win all the swimming medals. And they’re nasty to helpless refugees. He wanted to get some representative Afghans in the circle but I think the Kabul hash membership isn’t looking too healthy at the moment. So a weird assembly of Ugly Bum, Not Tonight, DW4, Ditch and Joe were called in for lookalike duties. Ripper, of course, represented the Christmas Islanders, Pontianak represented Norway, and Coo Chi Coo, ever the scapegoat, represented the hated John Howard, the Australian premier. Down-downs for all.

In the absence of the Prick, Indianus announced the latest beer sponsorship for the 1000^th run. CCC wanted to know when someone’s going to sponsor some meat pies. Anyway, half-barrel sponsors are Sybil, Death Wish 4, Bo Peep and Titmouse, and Philthy Phil and Pitstop. Full barrel sponsors are Phoney Dick, and Aye Aye and Saliva. “He never asked me!” wailed Saliva. (So he’ll be in trouble when he gets home then - Ed.) You bet. And a very special mention to Ring Pull and Free Willy – our ex-Grand Mattress and Hash Brew – who are generously sponsoring a barrel all the way from Houston. All the above got some of our rapidly dwindling supply of beer and did down-downs, Skidmark and Sherpa standing in for Ring Pull and Free Willy. (Skidmark doesn’t look a bit like Mary! – Ed.)

The beer was running out fast now. The visitors were obviously wreaking havoc with our beer provisions. Dirty Hacker was praying for no AOB as he could see insurrection in the ranks, as people would be getting thimble-sized down-downs.

There were a couple of announcements. Dirty Hacker reminded the noisy crowd of the Kampong Charity run on September 15^th. Visitors pay $25 dollars plus usual run fee, and the $25 goes to the Downs Syndrome Association of Singapore – a worthy cause since they get no funding from the Community Chest.

At this point a rampant Indianus bodily hauled Philthy Phil to the ice “because he won’t shut the fuck up”, although how she singled him out from the unruly throng I haven’t a clue. Just so the poor little mite wouldn’t be alone his best fwend Pitstop came and kept him company in the sin bin.

And to the beermeister’s despair, thousands of willing contributants leapt forward at the call for AOB. First in was Not Tonight. Interesting things had been happening in her corner of the circle. (Eh? – Ed.) You know what I mean. An inventive Speedy Tits had found out a novel way of whiling away the time in long circles by discovering that you can turn a beer can into a vibrator. Something to do with the way a crushed one resonates when the circle sings, but who cares about the technicalities?

Big Hammer was next in, desperate to get his co-hare a hash name at last. Well, by this stage the beer and the inventiveness had both run out so Max was presented with a choice of either Maxipad or Mad Max. (At least it wasn’t Maxi-anus – Ed.) No, Boo had gone home, so we were spared that suggestion. Anyway, he’s now to be known as Maxipad.

The reliable Fanny Flasher now sashayed into the circle to be greeted by a pair of knickers thrown in by some admirer. Since they looked somewhat – er – used, FF merely regarded them with distaste and started on her involved story. The opportunities for swimming on the run had started her thinking about fish – particularly anchovies. Some fairly predictable comments from the ribald crew here. Anchovies, it seems, have a great sense of hearing, move as a group with no apparent leader – and feed by just swimming with their mouths open, just like hashers. (Had she been on the wacky baccy again? – Ed.) I’ve no idea, but I tried to keep up with her hallucinatory narrative. Phoney Dick suggested that this was better than David Attenborough. Anyway, she had her eye on one particular anchovy, running with his mouth open. Frontarse suggested, “It’s called breathing!” but that didn’t save Ripper from being singled out. His response? “I never even saw you on the run, you rotten bitch!” How unlike the usual temperate tones of our own dear Ripper.

Spiderman wanted to make an announcement but had to do it on the ice ‘cos Frontarse, with the memory of an elephant, had remembered his errant ringing phone from earlier in the circle. His announcement concerned the Sunday Hash Red Dress Run from Clark Quay on September 9^th.

And now we were totally out of beer but Indianus had one last call for all teachers in honour of Teachers’ Day. Her Majesty, Speedy Tits, Loose Change and myself had a trés elegant down-down in white wine and soda.

Coo Chi Coo had to have the last word, of course, and leapt in to the alcoholically incoherent gathering to ask a quick question. What was the most painful part of a male-to-female sex change operation? We waited politely. It’s sewing the anchovies round the pussy, he chortled. Thank you and goodnight. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.

And back to a super on on at the seafood restaurant with a huge attendance, great food and even a bit of singing. Thanks to the hares for an excellent evening and great giveaways – and if you can find a spare pair of those black shorts – well, I wouldn’t say no.

On On

Black Widow

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