Hashers,

Absolutely fantastic run set by Allez Allez and his team last week at Sema. Thanks to the hares for the run, the food, and the t-shirts!

As happens every year on the Bastille Day Run the hareraiser was injured - tripped by the trap set by the cunning French. We will take our revenge at "The Battle of Agincourt" run on 25th October.

So On On this week to Pura Dalem, Bongkasa, a nice site we have not used for a couple of years at least.

On On
Hareraiser

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Last Week's Run Run:

“The Fickle Finger of Fate"

Hare Twatsucker for last Saturday’s run at Susut valiantly attempted to give us an incredibly scenic run in a sparklingly novel area not often visited by BHHH2. Alas and alack and a lumpy mattress, this was not to pass. The fickle finger of fate flew up his backside at an alarming rate of knots and continued for quite a distance. Firstly some mischievous local kiddiewink or other took down a BHHH2 sign at a crucial junction, which had hashers all over the map like a mad woman’s poop. My experience was of not seeing anything even remotely resembling a HHH sign from the time we left the house until getting somehow to the site. As we arrived a major downpour all but erased the hares’ chalk marks on the first section of the run resulting in confusion followed by bewilderbeast followed by resignation and a return journey truckwards the way we had come. What scenery we did catch glimpses of was though, astounding: huge mist shrouded valleys and rises that were easy on the eye and a balm to the brain. The paddy territory too was vast and richly verdant.

A few brave souls soldiered on insistently, eventually found paper and made it back to the beerarium / wantilan with reports of amazing countryside. These few deserve Victoria’s Crosses let alone a mention in dispatches, so of course they’re not getting one (Organ Grinder, Spook, Ballderdash and Cunning Linguist). It did take them some time though, it was well after reverse sparrow’s fart and they were red faced, gasping and sweating like Shiites in Tikrit. Some Koreans apparently vanished on the trail and as far as I know they’re still doing the Gangnam Style horsey dance somewhere in a valley in Susut. They hadn’t been sighted as Elvis and we left the building.

It was a pretty good circle. In the lack of a Labia, (who apparently got so pissed off driving around in circles on his motorbike in the pouring rain looking for a sign that he finally dropped a pillion Night Jar off at the site, turned around and blurted off in high dudgeon) Dancing Queen took the reins and a bushy saturated thing to the day’s virgins. He did a pretty capable job all round hosting the vocal talents of Night Jar, Organ Grinder and Jangle Balls, who investigated in refrain such far-ranging subjects as customer groping sales assistants in Chicago dept. stores (a keenly awaited sequel from the previous Saturday’s July 4th run) to the erectile dysfunctions of a certain Presidential candidate in a certain country we may or may not be currently in.

The abiding memory of this run will be that I put in a personal best in terms of the amount of warungs, bengkels, mini marts, driveway hangers-out and innocent bystanders visited and interrogated in one day in order to find out where the hell we were and where we were going. It’s actually fairly amazing how many differing opinions you can get from people on their own whereabouts on this interestingly geographically mobile island, sometimes from the same person, in the same sentence. I approached one Ibu, proprietor in a mini mart, (I’m sure those bloody things are on Mars and at the bottom of the Mariana Trench now) who assured me that Susut was inside a plastic baby’s bottle that she brandished at me. I think she may have mistaken my ejaculated request for “susu”. At least I hope so. I’m thankful she didn’t construe that a red faced frantic buleh leaping at her from a Taruna that had screeched to a halt outside her quiet shop wasn’t desperately imploring her for the use of her tits.

Anyway, it was all in a day’s work and better than hanging around at home looking for neglected repairs etc. to avoid. Bali, you can reliably say, is never boring. It was even less boring when as we got back to Sanur, the lights were winking out in our wake as if we had dragged some of the day’s luck back with us from the boonies. We sat in darkness at “The Speckled Tarot” drinking Kilkenny ale and munching satay, the only things available without the use of electrons.

See you next week at Hari Frog, north of the Fly.

On on.