Hashing is the gentle art of frolicking around the countryside to cries of “On On” while chasing a trail of shredded paper which eventually leads to a barrel of very cold beer.
Goals Of The Hash:
From the 1938 charter of the Kuala Lumpur Hash House Harriers:
* To promote physical fitness among our members.
* To get rid of weekend hangovers.
* To acquire a good thirst and to satisfy it in beer.
* To persuade the older members they are not as old as they feel.
_____________________________________________________________________
Dear Hashers
 
Just a quick note to let you know that our friends at Bali Hash House Harriers (The Monday and Thursday group) are having their 35th anniversary party on Wednesday May 16. at the Hong Kong Garden near Sanur. Tickets are available at the bargain price of just Rp150,000 which gets you a sit down dinner, unlimited bintang and refreshments, live entertainment and a free gift at the door. Everyone is welcome so if you fancy joining in the fun, revelry and debauchery then either contact Virtual Erection for tickets at <martin@vfm.biz> or see him, Locomotive, Suckit or  Virtual Orgasm at next Saturdays run.
_____________________________________________________________________
Our Next Run (for run map click here)
Run #1,062
Hares: Dancing Queen
Date: 26th May 2012 4:30pm
Site:


_____________________________________________________________________
Some Previous Runs:
Run #1,061
Hares: Parson's Nose, Adeje, Running Stool, Multigrip
Site: Sobangan

Yumpin’ Yimini, Yangle Balls in the Yungle, Jikes!

Well, last things first, Saturday’s run at Sobangan was a corker, one of the best of the year of Our Lord (Wooden Eye) 2012 so far. And can you believe that? Two thousand and bloody twelve! Last time I looked it was Jan 1st, Y2K didn’t send everybody back to 1900 and I had something of a headache. Time flies when you’re in a coma, I guess.

Anyway, where were we? (And where have I heard that?). Ah yes, gathered under that familiar banyan at that well worn T junction opposite the wantilan we all know so well, about to head off down that oft’ trodden trail to the river. Let’s face it, there were no surprises, but it’s just such a brilliant area for a run that it leaves every one of us, every time, happy campers, oohing and aahing at scenery, thumbs planted on hips. Long runners report that they struck a spot where the padis actually stretched to the horizon without tree line interruption. You gotta admit, it’s a bit of an orgy of agriculture in that neck o’ the woods.

I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be one of those smiling backwoodsy hat wearing folk watching the endless cycles of the seasons and grinning at the sylvan greenery and not much else. Then, I guess you would eventually have to get back to the on line PHD in organic agriculture, your motor bike insurance and stock options.

The end section of the run with the fantastic waterfall followed by sheer green walls on either side of the track was the highlight. I could have stood under that cooling, rushing downpour all night, I didn’t, but it seems that Shitty Minje’s visiting Bapak from the K.L. Hash actually did. The pounding of water on the head must have stunned him into immobility for a couple of hours, could it have been water on the brain? Anyway, he made it back eventually, a glistening wreck dumbstruck in centre circle barely aware of his surroundings.

Sex on the Desk had concocted a Mahi Mahi dip and, if you were in the know, could have enjoyed its delights at the back of her vehicle with a dry cracker or two, but if you weren’t – hard poo. Let me tell you, it was the best Mahi Mahi dip in God’s green acre my friends, and the fact that it was the only one I’ve ever had does not change this a whit.

H.M.W.E., bellowed delicate instructions to attend him in a roundabout manner, which we did, and that’s when the trouble started. Dancing Queen yanked “Yangle Balls” into the circle on some lengthy and fictitious charge, which by the time he had gotten anywhere near close to “clarifying”, the crowd had already been through several versions of “Yingle Balls, Yingle Balls, Yingle All The Way”. He (D.Q., follow this closely now) changed the defendant’s title to “Yungle Balls” and “Jungle Balls “ in succession without actually getting around to charging him (J. or Y. Balls). By this time the crowd and the defendant were in hysterics and if the charge was ever articulated, neither noticed. It ended with downs downs for both parties.

Another member of the Balls family, a certain Monkey, made an inevitable appearance excoriating some other no doubt innocent party. He just as inevitably ended up tasting the wrath of the ice, at which point he (M. Balls) attempted to have the Hash master iced, and suffered even further icing for his trouble. Monkey though they may be, you have to give him credit for his balls.

Back into this fray and chaos steps (by popular demand) Dancing Queen, with another endless non-punch line joke. Again, you have to give him credit for persistence and a dry Nordic delivery that never fails to end in the crowd pissing themselves laughing for one reason or another, usually another.

Social drinking was called after which we trooped off, dirty, half pissed and happier (than we had any right to be, and) than hashers on a Saturday night.

On on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,060 Limerick Day Run
Hares: Petrified Walrus Penis, Jig Saw
Site: Bonkasa

Shall We Gather at The River?

The early starters, as their accursed appellation suggests, pissed off early and once again, the ever fewer faithful few awaited the Hash Master’s dulcet tones and the hares’ advice. Hey, I’ve got a great idea! Why don’t we all start at 4 pm, no 3.30, no wait, how about 2 am? Why don’t we all do last week’s run at 3 o’clock in the morning last Thursday – nice and cool, yes? No no, gnikcehc, ouy era, krad oot s’ti , gniht gnikcuf a ees t’nac I.

Bonkasa is a great spot and always a kick in the hash pants. The short runners suffered an immediate bockle nett on the first down down to what in all fairness could this week be called a reasonably raging river, alright then – a river that was a tad miffed. The rocks were slippery, the going muddy and there were some fairly ginger moves at this point while everybody stood around excavating their nostrils and contemplating the results while waiting for their turns. Still, no need for anything rash (coff), is there folks? Skirting the river and rock hopping after that was great fun, real boy’s own annual, stuff. Up up over the top and into the padis, beautiful.

Somehow or other though, despite early promise it ended up being quite a short short, and for some unfortunates, a long that couldn’t be overcome without the use of bloodhounds, flaming torches, sat nav equipment, locals on sepeda motors and Indonesian currency. A glaring example: Col. Bloodnok went missing! (Play creepy lost- in-the- woods- while- serial-killer-is –at-large music.) How did that happen? The guy has been hashing since “The 1812 Overture” was written (1812). Two French vierge completely vanished but were later found in the Singaraja area, had converted to Buddhism, sold their Renaults, Club Med, croissants and other French things.

Thus the short runners had plenty of time to drink everybody’s piss, but being hashers resisted the temptation, did not get pissed, did not have an accident on the way home in a hire car they had because of an accident the week before in their own car. Absolutely did not ok? Fuck! After 25 years of accident free driving.
The circle was waaaay too much fun, consisted of Concorde’s delicately rendered version of Kevin Bloody Wilson’s “I’m giving up Wanking Next Tuesday”, The Dung Beatles (from the “brown” album) “Ob La Di, Ob La Da, Up Yer Bum Bra”. Of course this was all very mature and sophisticated and not a bit of juvenile idiocy was involved. This is the Hash after all.

Bloodnok showed up well after social drinking was called to howls of derision and congratulatory cat calls. What a bunch of areseholes we are; this is no way to treat a senior citizen, as he no doubt would tell you himself.

That’s about it in a nutshell. There was an interesting phenomenon just before sunset when the jungle behind the pura started steaming like something out of “The Bridge Over The River Kwai”, but then there are no trains in Bali, so there you have it, (huh? Have what?).

On on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,059 Compost Awareness Week Run
Hares: Various
Site: Sebatu

Ain’t it Quaint? Sorry, isn’t it Quisn’t?

Let’s face it. One of the main reasons we all came to Bali in the first place was because of an overriding preponderance of quaintness here, back in the day, whenever that was. And there’s still no lack of it in places like Sebatu / Gunung Kawi. It’s so dinky you just want to squeeze its precious little head like the big guy in “Of Mice and Men” and his dead mouse.

There are countries you just don’t go to for quaint. Australia with its 6 feet tall bouncing rats and an array of creatures that want you dead, a bloody great red rock in the middle of a murderous desert as a tourist attraction, not quaint. The U.S. and Canada: any countries with place names like “Death Valley” and “Yellow Knife” have limited quaintness.

The aforementioned area of the run on Saturday had it in spades: gurgling little streams, those mechanically primitive hand operated mini dams, carved hillside padis, charming rustic folk with arresting hats and teeth involved in agriculture. The folk, not the hats and teeth that is, though I guess those too, cows.

It was said more than once on Saturday “You can’t go wrong with this area.” Nevertheless, we have to give our virgin hares their due for a great run and getting many of the long runners back well and truly after dark – sweating, clutching their hearts and gasping, pleading for gurneys and triage. Yes, we all had a grand chuckle about that, har diddy har har, more beer for us, ho diddley ho as they underwent strokes and heart attacks. We’re such a sensitive, caring bunch of ladies and gentlepersons, especially when we’re pissed.

The “Super Moon” broke through the tree line of the forest to the east as we circled up and Wooden Eye doled out the medicine. Mrs. virgin hare, suffering from a bad case of new age-ness, waxed lyrical about the moon and its properties of romance etc. and was summarily rewarded with “The Bullshit song” for her insights. Both her and hubby virgin hare suffered through one of the longest Hash naming sessions on record. We wracked our brains, came up with a million variations on their Dutchness even to the redykeulous “Van Dykefinger” and “Van Dykebum”.

They were eventually named but I was well pissed by then and can’t remember what they ended up with, dang. Other recipients of His Excremency, W. E.’S largesse were newly appointed Hash Boutique gals (or “havagashery” as V. Erection so chivalrously suggested), Sex on the Desk and Slip it in, Slip it up, Spit it out – oh shit, another name I can’t remember. Apparently they sold a hundred squoolion zlotys, not to mention some gilt edged bonds, stock options and the Hope diamond’s worth of crappy old hash shirts. Good on you, ladies!

The Dung Beatles regaled us with reflective, meditative songs from their final album “Let It Pee”. I believe the title track lyric was “It’s hard to aim your stiffy when you’re dying for a pee”. This was followed by the ruminative “Long and Winding Pubes” Ain’t the Hash quaint? As a visiting Aussie hasher once put it “It’s the last institution on earth where a fellow (or a fellowette) of a certain age can make an idiot of him / herself and be given a beer for it”.

I’ll drink to that, and we’re equal opportunity idiot makers too!

On on.

_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,058 Anzac Day Run
Hares: Agent orange, Seaman Stains and The Bagman
Site: Fish Restaurant just South of Sangeh

Lest We Forget… what?

We arrived at the No Name Restaurant in The Middle of Nowhere, officially, Sangeh, where the A.G.M. was in full swing and the re-appointment of Wooden Eye as Hash Master had just been announced. Apparently it’s a lifetime position as in Robert Mugabe or our own beloved Pak Harto. But there’s only one Wooden Eye and he’s irreplaceable.

While we’re on the subject, allow me to recall a couple of legendary Wooden Eye moments. Outside the pura on one of the Temple of doom runs an extremely large seppo from the Seoul Hash was busy exposing himself for the 20th time when W.E. struck him dumb with a peremptory “You can stop that caper now pal, you’re outside a bloody Balinese temple, you dumb fuck”. One of our local hashers misinterpreted the comment and beseeched the Eye “Mr. Andrew, please don’t call it a bloody temple. “Okay then” responds H.M.W.E., “It’s a b*****d temple”.

For you local readers don’t get him wrong, our new and old Hash Master has nothing but the deepest reverence for the Balinese religion but was upset by the exposure, not the temple. Just thought I’d clear that up.

On another run, a kampong anjing barked incessantly at His Woodenness who got down on all fours and let forth with a maniacal episode of howling, frothing and snapping that set the dog and several villagers racing off in abject fear.

We won’t find a Hash Master like that every day of the week, so it’s just as well that we hung onto the b*****d.
Anyhow, we were just late enough showing up so as not to be shanghied into some vile office such as Hash Trash. Actually this is done behind the scenes and involves the riding of goats, naked witches, bubbling cauldrons, incantations, the ghost of Richard Nixon, etc.

So, as His Excremency would say, where were we? Lest we forget, it seems we’ve forgotten. Oh yes, ANZAC day and the run. Seaman Staines announced a live hare start and ambled off at a pace that Steven Hawking could have kept up with sans wheelchair. At least it stopped the farting in church of the early starters, I’ll give him as much. Now, far be it from me to say the run was too short. So let the record show that I didn’t say it was absurdly short, nor did I say that some of us were accused of shortcutting by a hare who later recanted and admitted an, um, error in calculating its duration.

I also didn’t mention that some of the front runners were back in 20 minutes on the long and decided to do the run again. I said nothing of the sort, nor would I presume to. Haring is a voluntary position and we have nothing but thanks from the hearts of our bottoms for their untiring efforts. What there was of the run was really very good and we certainly hadn’t done it before, I think. It was over too quickly to tell.

Meanwhile, back at the grandeur of the restaurant, we were being served chicken parts the size of emus and fish the size of small killer whales. Where does a rumah makan half way to bugger all get…? I could live in Bali for another 500 years and still never be able to… you know the rest.

Something mildly circular was kind of formed and the fun began. It was brought to our attention that Dancing Queen was leaving us. Where was he going, Singapore for his visa, The Jurong Bird Park? It was never revealed. Returners returned, visitors visited, virgins virgined. Hash names were given. To the unfortunate Sarth Efrican with the military background whose pudendum was mercilessly exposed by our in house de-pantser went “Private Parts”. To Pommy Mike with the semi-plummy accent “Screaming Lord Clitoris” and his luckless missus, “Lady Clitoris”. What will the ladies’ auxiliary church group in Chichester make of that then? My only advice is: don’t sue for another name, it’ll only get worse.

So, where were we? The Wooden One declared social drinking and we drank socially until it was no longer possible. What a shame we can’t have Saturday night circles every night. It would probably kill us but it would be more fun than a barrel of drunkards.

On on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,057 St Georges Day Run
Hares: Mount N' Groan, Spook, Organ Grinder, Handjob
Site: Abang, Kintimani
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,056
Hares: Whitebait
Site: Mambal
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,055
Hares: Kucit and Pig Fucker
Site: Bongkasa

Monsieur Le Inspector, Here Are Your Winnings

What a colourful experience the run at Bongkasa was on Saturday, from the lime green high vis polisi flat out busy turning a blind eye to a totally illegal cock fight next door to the pura, to the luridly blue circle jokes and songs performed by Taffyteers, Dung Beatles and a Concorde. What a lengthy arsed sentence that was and what a corker of a run.

This is one of the best on the Hash map and took us through some of the most remarkable territory on the island: the mini banyan forest which I’m told is actually one tree (huh?). Then down a 3,000,000 – odd cement step descent into the valley of the shadow of death, no hang on that’s the Bible. Across an Indiana Jones suspension bridge with some pretty dubious looking slats (yes, I said slats) and onto some of the best river panoramas anywhere in the galaxy including the one near Alpha Centauri, which Crazy Dave had recently returned from.

What can one say? It was just beautiful except for the brilliant white house on the Sayan Ridge allegedly owned by a Swiss banker which featured all the aesthetic subtlety of, say, a Swiss banker. Or was that a pissed wanker? It stood out like a shithouse in the desert and gave me a headache just looking at it. I can hear all you Swiss saying “You don’t have to look at it you know” to which I reply “Thank Christ for that”.

Anyway down, down the dreaded stairs of the jelly legged ones, along the bonny, bonny banks of the Ayung and into that quite sprightly body of water, this time up to the back wheels for those of us who may be, ah, vertically challenged shortarses to put it delicately. It was none too warm either; I can reliably attest (icle). I forgot to mention the padi sections of the run (no I didn’t) which at this time almost ready to harvest, have a hue of intense green flecked with gold that’s only to be found elsewhere in dreamscapes featuring unicorns (ha!) or interludes of a pharmaceutical nature, not mind you that yours truly has any experience in that area, at all, really, I insist.

Meanwhile back at the circle / cockfight / gamelan orchestra recital, the polisi had collected their winnings and become much less vis, vis a vis the high vis. Achievers achieved all over the place: a sesquadillion runs for Spook, Mount ‘n groan and Long and strong, a paltry 150 for Jangle Balls who nevertheless was treated with the same awed respect by the Hashmaster and crowd, nooooooooooot! None of them were, their baju was abused terribly as were they, and as befitted their exalted status.

It all descended into pissy silliness, as it does, with jokes on subjects ranging from fair haired females to psychiatrists to persons originating from the Irish nation – very impolitic, very incorrect and very friggin’ funny. Concorde was the last one standing who could string a sentence together, and he kept right on stringing until the piss ran out and we urinated in an elsewhere direction (pissed off home).

On on
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,054
Hares: Slip It Out, Slip It In, Up and Down
Date: 31st March 2012 4:30pm
Site: Saba

Saba Dabba Doo

Huey the Hash God smiled down on his flock and sent us a merciful grey cloud cover coming in from the north east on this searing Saturday, on our way to Saba, that would have rendered the run there hot as a choir boy’s clacker other wise. As Dr. Spooner said, the Lord is a shoving leopard. There was not a lot of air in the air seemingly, and it was so humid you could have taken the goldfish for a walk. Thank Huey for small mercies.

We parked where we could, or couldn’t, and trudged up a rise half knackered before we got to the beer truck gasping for non - existent oxygen. The early starters were sniffing around for paper, one of the heathens found it and a steady stream of them started up the hill until the Hash Master bellowed “wrong way”, which of course, it wasn’t but they all streamed down again just in time for a 4.30 start. Hardy effing ha ha, nice one Wooden Eye!

So we took off in a pack so much like a hash it was hard to recognize. It was a pleasantly surprising run with a taste of the foothills and it pretty much had all the ingredients, thank you very much: river, palm groves, padi, cows, pigs (no ducks), even susu. We were sadly, however, quite south of the garbage line and this was evident after a while. A panoramic and odiferous vista of a steaming great pile of it presented itself smack in the middle of the first kampong, emphasis on the pong, and it kept cropping up for the rest of the run. Nevertheless, the “Slip it Plus Preposition” (Up, In, On, Out, Under, Towards, Sideways, Back in) family could hardly be blamed for this and plaudits to them for as interesting a run as possible, for where it was, okay? Okay.

Sidebar: Can someone please explain to me why it is that Harriets of any ethnic or national background, age or persuasion find it irresistible to comment on cows of virtually any size in the following manner: “Ooo look at the pretty little cowsie wowsie, aww isn’t it sooo cute, hello cowsie, you’re so pretty”. “Yes”, I usually offer at this point, “and sooo delicious”, which never fails to elicit disapproval registration of some sort. Anyway, why, why?

Back at the circle, which was kind of a trapezoid this week, we cackled our stupid heads off drinking oodles (yes, it comes in oodles, don’t argue) of beer under the tall palms and an orange and pink sunset. Doesn’t Bali suck sometimes, not! Limericks of a deliciously nauseating stripe were recited, ridiculously lewd and bawdy jokes were told. Disgustingly tasteless songs were sung. Half the Dung Beatles regaled us with “Eight Days of Greek” and “All Your Muffin” allegedly from their album “Beat The Meatles”. A Cambridge hasher was severely iced for being a Cambridge hasher, and in a first, Hot Lips failed twice trying to de pants the said gent. He eventually gave up and de pantsed himself.

Naturally we finished off with “My Sister Belinda She Pissed Out The Window All Over My New Sombrero”, which for absolutely no reason whatsoever we tend to do when in Saba. Maybe it’s all the Sabanese Mexicans that live there there.

On on.

_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,053
Hares: The Flying Twattoo and PWP
Site: Pura Hyang Api, Desa Kelusa

Twat Manis

From the heart of my bottom, I apologise for the lateness of this Trash, which is now last week’s Trash if you catch my drift. At least I’m not consistently late as some hashers that discretion forbids my naming (Worm). My only excuse is that I had to see the doctor. The conversation went something like this: “Hello Mr. Hash Trasher, I haven’t seen you for a while”. “No doctor, I’ve been sick.”

The run is now at such a remove time - wise that I barely remember it, other than the fact that it was a beauty. As another hasher, who this time I will exercise maximum discretion in refusing to name (Barnacle Balls) exclaimed “The good runs are coming back” much like a man who has undergone a recent serious bout of constipation.

He’s right; we’ve had two rippers in a row. This one started from the car park in what older hashers assure me is called Twat Manis. How could I forget that? It’s probably something like Tuat Manis but is pronounced like its close homophonic English neighbour. I had a neighbour like that once.
All I know is that I made a complete tuat of myself by telling a semi – virgin mate who accompanied us not to be fooled by the hilly drive in, it would be actually quite a flat run. It turned out to be about as flat as Dolly Parton. We were up and down like… Dolly Parton.

The run was set by Matt the Tat (who I don’t think has a hash name yet – “Tuatoo” perhaps, if not). There was one seriously challenging section that had us teetering 30 feet heavenwards with barely a finger and toe hold. An American fellow who went before me repeatedly wailed to his harriet companion, who had already scaled the perpendicular obstacle, “Honey, I cairn’t make it, I cairn’t make it”. The disembodied Honey shouted encouragement “Yes you cairn Babe, yes you cairn”. Babe eventually made it, he just needed Honey to tell him he could. When It came to my turn I found myself plaintively crying “Honey, are you still there?” just to amuse myself while I shat bricks clinging to the side of the cliff.

There was a brilliant padi section after that, then on in. The circle definitely deserves a mention in dispatches as well. It went on ‘til well after bottled beer (eek!) with jokes and refrains aplenty. Two Dung Beatles delivered the title track to their first porn movie “A Long Day’s Hard” (the dead two, I think). The whole debacle also starred Dancing Queen and an incredibly sexist joke (brave man), plus the inevitable Little Johnny and St. Tits. We were all in the mood fortunately, but when will somebody tell him?

Just a footnote: some of us took a peek at Naughty Nuri’s castle – in – the – making adjacent the site. Good Lord, I can only say there’s money in choking busloads of Taiwanese tourists with barbecue smoke and charging them Rp 100,000 for a steak sandwich. Somebody’s got to do it.

On on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,017 (What!)
Hares: The O' Balls Brothers
Site: Lungsiakan

Themselves

The O’ Balls brothers, Monkey and Barnacle gave us a beautiful, inventive and challenging run for Paddy’s Day on Saturday from Pura Lungsukian, a shillelagh north of Ubud. Not only that, they also gave us Irish beer condoms (did ya ever hear of sooch a ting now?) and sausages that looked uncannily like turds but tasted a lot better, cooked on original Irish Donegal peat that looked a lot like charcoal but was imported for the occasion. At least that was what an Irish feller told me and I have no reason to disbelieve him.

This was no amble in the gently undulating hills and dales of Cork make no mistake (no, of Cork it wasn’t). Many of us (me) hadn’t been quite as glad to see that dearly beloved battered red truck for some time as we (I) staggered gasping to that lovely, voluptuous chrome spigot. You could have put a naked Halle Berry in front of the glasses crate and some of us (I) would have politely excused ourselves (being a Hasher) as we (I) snatched a glass from its resting place and thrust it at the beer guy. But we (I) haven’t seen Halle on the Hash for a while.

We started out down a steep drop to the river below, and what a sweeping view it was. The odd “wow” or “jeez” were heard to escape some of the lips of the descending crowd. But no time for reverie here, especially with the dulcet tones of the increasingly accident prone St. Tits echoing through the valley as he pounded his head against an unsuspecting rock. “God Damn… son of a… f#ck me…”

Down at the water, it was an object lesson to observe that a high center of gravity is not necessarily an advantage when crossing a fast moving body of water as Horny Herring floundered around like a flamingo with broken legs while the squat figure of a much (much) shorter Jangle Balls scuttled across the submerged rocks as if divinely guided on the Sea of Gallilee.

What goes down must come up, in an actress and bishop kind of way, so we scaled the opposite valley wall, which was just as scenic but really friggin’ hard, in the same kind of way. We finally broke through the foliage and into dazzling emerald padi territory, through the grounds of an attractively olde worlde foothills resort down to the winding asphalt below, and off road again. All very interesting and well papered. At one point there was the Barnacle Balls signature 1.5 kg drift of paper that Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles could have seen or indeed deposited as hares, but I don’t believe they’re Irish.
A bit more valley wall scaling, jungle bashing and we were on in. It was a great run, among the best so far this year.

Back at the circle there seemed to be Irishmen everywhere filling beer glasses, and I must confess, proceedings got a wee bit hazy. H.M. Wooden eye was meting out down downs on the flimsiest of grounds and imagined transgressions, creative bunny fugger that he is. A self appointed Irishman with an American accent who looked more like the Emir of Qatar than Seamus O’ Flaherty was frantically dishing out the amber holy water and at this point, my back teeth were under it.

A lone dung Beatle reprised “I Wanna Hold your Glands” and “Stuff, stuff Me Dead”. Social drinking was called and yours t recalls very little after that. There may have been a severe weather event later featuring much H2O, but who knows? On the way home I could have sworn I saw a unicorn on the side of the road, but it could have been a cow or an elephant.

On on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,051
Hares: Muddy Man
Site: Goa Gajah

Getcha Gajah Out

The dwindling few 4.30 starters glowered at droves of early leavers as they meandered off in the general direction of paper on Saturday at the Goa Gajah car park. St. Tits, never one to keep his voluble opinion in check, bellowed insults at the stragglers while making accompanying vivid hand gestures that couldn’t be mistaken for affectionate waves goodbye.

What to do about this? (Not St.Tits, the early leaving bastards). If we announced a 4 pm start, they’d leave at 3.30. If we had two different starting times, they’d still leave at their whim, all over the clock. I have a couple of ideas: laughing gas spray, they can hardly leave early if they are rolling around on the ground pissing themselves. Heavy barbiturates in the pre - run Coca Cola, Sprite and Teh Botols: they can’t go if they’re asleep draped over their cars and the beer truck like at The Boneless Chicken Ranch.

Listen up hares and potential hares! You have the power to stop this insidious drift out of the spirit of the hash and into this slovenly debacle: live hare starts as often as possible. It doesn’t have to be half the run, just enough to bamboozle the buggers, encourage them to hash as a team, check together and CALL, for Gispert’s sake.

Right then, the run, let’s give Orang Lumpur and his Orang Orang Lumpur the credit they deserve, they were called in as emergency hares and did a pretty good job, considering. Having said that it was a little unnerving at the start running so close to the traffic that you could tell pretty much within a week or so the age of the anak on the Ibu’s lap in the passenger seat, and when the Bapak at the wheel had his last haircut. We do the hash because it’s so much better to be in the scenery rather than looking out the car window at it, I just don’t know about looking IN the car window at the scenery.

Off road we found ourselves in some very pretty padi and palm grove surroundings, much as you do off any busy road north of Ubung. The valley scene from the hairpin bend road and the bridge was also stunning but all too soon we were back on asphalt and setting off chain reactions of anjing in villages. No biggie really, we’re all used to it. At the last part of the run we were in beautiful valley and padi territory again coming out a hair north of the car park on - in across the road.

A shivering glissando was played on Made Tartar’s whistle, which he must have enjoyed very much, and Wooden Eye conjured a circle. Pretty much on his own this week, he disposed of various returners, leavers (Arsehole for Short is leaving us and will be missed by those who enjoyed the oft displayed vistas of his pudendum) and hash hymens. There was a welter of water borne shenanigans and a female de – pantsing for a change.The Dung Beatles were called upon to deliver more of their seemingly inexhaustible supply of greatest hits: “She Rubs You” (yeah, yeah, yeah) and “From Me Up You”.

In the interests of legal privacy (article 42 sesquajillion, sub section x = the radius), the identity of the hasher who was observed swigging beer from a serving jug will under no circumstances be revealed (Crazy Dave), so there.

Achiever shirts included an unbelievable 850 rums, sorry runs for Old Goat, and an impressive 450 for Long and Strong. Sex on the Desk had 50 innings and outings.
Evening lowered its charcoal hash shorts on us to reveal its dark… oh never mind. Social Drinking was called and we drank socially if not swinishly and oinked off home.
On on.
Oh crap, didn’t get “unicorn” in. Yes I did.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,050
Hares: Wooden Eye, Colonel Bloodknock, Dick O'Wanker
Site: Banjar Sumbuwuk

Don’t Look Now, Your Griffin’s Dragon.

We gathered once again adjacent that pohon besar in Pejeng for St David’s day and general Welsh festivities (baahahahahaha). Where did that noise come from? Was that a…? No, impossible. The Three Taffyteers: W. Eye, D. Wanker and C. Bloodnok had collated themselves in order to run, feed and clothe us (bahahahahaha). There it is again! Look here, is someone trying to hide a… Where is it? This won’t do.

Naturally, the usual suspects started to wander off in all directions until a disgusted Wooden Eye growled and pointed in the general direction of the start at exactly 4.30 pm; which may I remind some of you is the official starting time of the Bali Hash house Harriers Two (Two!) Saturday run.

What is wrong with you people? How many times must I (bahahahahaha). Hey, you behind the banyan tree. Come out here and bring your bloody … Where was I? Oh right, if you want to start early, why don’t you start your own hash, buy your own beer and print your own !@#$%&* tee shirts. Huh? Huh? Huh?

Anyhow, off we correct timers trotted with haloes above our heads. There were no disappointments: the requisite jungle, padi etc. were to be had, not too much village, virtually no asphalt, very little garbage. These hares are old hands and know what they don’t like. The checks weren’t ridiculous and kept the pack together, calls were answered because someone was there to do so, no silly paper difficulties annoyed or frustrated us. It was pretty much a model hash.

Meanwhile, back at the village green, food and tee shirts were plentiful, the only thing missing was the maypole (bahahahahaha). Take that object out of that…
There were more than enough village idiots, pretty much all of us. Circleoid activities were riotous as expected. There were virgins, visitors, violins, an orchestra, acrobats, trapeze artists, high wire unicycles, lions , elephants, monkeys, unicorns. Alright, I’m exaggerating about the monkeys, but one Monkey Balls did lead us into a dizzying performance that left us dazed, confused, and mostly pissing ourselves. it went something like this, if I remember:
1. Monkey Balls charges Jangle Balls with… we never did find out.
2. Jangle Balls counter charges with… nobody knows.
3. Wooden Eye charges Monkey Balls with fucking up the Hash sheet and spelling Disco Wanker’s name Dicco Wanker.
4. Monkey Balls counter charges Wooden eye with something I forgot, but he was insistent.
5. Wooden Eye takes umbrage and proceeds to push M. B. out of the circle.
6. M. B. counter charges again and demands the Hash Master be iced (unheard of!)
7. W. E. removes his shorts, mostly to give M.B. the arse, one suspects, and proceeds to place it (his, that is W. E.’s arse) on ice.
8. Spook, for crying out loud, comes to W. E.’s aid demanding M. B. cease and desist castigating a Hash master, and positions his own arse on ice (Spook’s, that is). Following? I’m not, but we all liked Disco Wanker’s new name.

Hilarity continued into the darkness of the night with Welsh ditties, more icings, jokes of dubious provenance, etc. The Dung Beatles gave us “All your Muffin” and side B, “Squeeze Squeeze Me” The Bahahahahahar was declared open and we all drank like Welsh persons ‘til the mead, like us, was all but drunk.

On on. (Got “unicorn” in again, ha!)
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,049
Hares: St Tits and his mate
Site: Batu Lumbang, Bedulu

The Road to Hash is paved with Good Intentions

Wooden Eye called for a minute’s silence to observe the passing of Captain Mabuk who had gone to that Great Beer Truck in the Sky earlier on Saturday morning; after which St. Tits announced a live hare start, but also beseeched the throng to give him 10 minutes while he laid the start paper. It must be said that his heart was in the right place, and it was a valiant reversal of this “everybody - leave – whenever – the – whim – takes – you” caper that has been gaining currency with certain, ahem, elements lately. However, these were hashers he was addressing. He might as well have told the Egyptian army to look after the keys to his rifle cabinet, his wife’s chastity belt and the country while he went to take a piss.

Of course the hashers, not the Egyptian army, just followed him down the road. By the time I caught up with him he wasn’t smiling, but again, like the saint he is he also wasn’t addressing hashers in the tones of Yosemite Sam on the subject of rabbits. He just shook his head sadly at the opportunism and disregard of your standard hasher, whom you could tell by the look on his face that you can trust about as far as you could toss Richard Shithouse Nixon (Millhouse, was it?) in his day.
One way or the other we were off to the races - and it was quite the journey. Lush padis and lusher river valleys featured along with river crossings and what appeared to be rather large scale excavations to remove stone from the sides of valleys by hand, to the point where some of it resembled the enclosures and remnants of the huge standing Buddhas blown to smithereens in Afghanistan by everybody’s favourite heartwarming comedy team, the Taliban. This was an arresting sight standing as it did by the side of a river.

There was more to come – an incredibly steep and narrow stone cliff face stairway where a somewhat gruesome event transpired. Yes, that’s right folks, in an attempt to help a little hash doggie up the steps, I actually ended up sticking my thumb up its arse. No accident you might say, to which I would reply: har, har. You didn’t see what it had deposited by the riverside not 5 minutes before. Oh dude, as Blow Joe may have put it, what a tard I am.

Back at Circle Central, it was after all St. Tits’ 96th birthday or is he a 69er? Who can tell? The crowd elected to give him hell for his birthday. They heckled him, iced him and doused him in a golden shower of Bintang. Wasn’t that just so sweet of them? It brought a tear to my eye to see that much heartfelt giving, not to mention such a shocking waste of beer. It was enough to make a grown man cry, and no way to treat a senior citizen.

Another individual, a rather attractive young visiting Harriet, was also singled out for special circular attention and given several down downs and a wet tee shirt on the flimsiest of pretences. You could see she was getting agitated because she performed that international, across borders and ethnicities female gesture of an agitato state i.e. the – fan - the – face – with – the - hand move. What good that does I have never been able to deduce, but it sure is popular as all get out among those of the female persuasion.

So we drank piss, then some more piss and just for sparkling novelty’s sake, we drank some piss and went home. Just as well ’cause the piss had run out.

On on, happy next birthday St Tits, it can’t get any worse.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,048 Valentines Day Run
Hares: Marco Polo and Sebrani
Site: Pura Dalem Cangaan, Pejeng

The Day of The Hairy Legged “Others”

We gathered in comfortably familiar surroundings at Pura Cangaan but there was something in the air, something … weird. Spooky organ music here would be appropriate. At first it was faintly noticeable but then - the first sighting, eeek! (A blood curdling scream followed by breaking glass and insane laughter might do the trick here). An alien presence made itself felt; it was in the air alright, about six feet two in the air, taking the form of a svelte, wig wearing somewhat unshaven French transvestite. Nobody knew who he was or if they did, they didn’t want to. Whoever he was, he was unrecognisable in his “state”. Still, he lurked through the nervous crowd like a lion at a gazelle cocktail party. This was the first unnerving sign of things to come, or become.

Rather like newspaper headlines the day after a short psychic serial killer escapes from jail (“Small Medium At Large”) there were three sizes on Saturday’s hash: that’s right folks, a short, medium and a long which was one more than usual and extra fun - making.

The hares had the very best of intentions leaving a cardboard sign with directions, but everybody left at different times in different groups in what is becoming a disturbing trend: the non - hash mish - mash. Whatever floats your goat, it’s just not as much fun as a real hash where everybody takes off together, the F.R.B.s do the checks allowing the stragglers to catch up and hashers actually answer calls, one reason being is that they are there to do so. Doing every check by yourself is a tad tedious, Gispert would be doing the Lindy Hop in his grave, enough said.

The long was magnificent (apparently) taking in The Temple of Doom, some heart – in – mouth perpendicular valley wall climbs and several river crossings. Dog Alley was endured and the gauntlet was run between two volley ball courts in full volley, the participants of which found the presence of running bulehs (who actually formulated volley ball contrary to popular belief that it was originally played in sarongs and barong masks using coconuts) irresistibly hilarious. The short, I can reliably report, was scenically arresting, pleasantly mildly challenging and not as short as advertised. The medium, I dunno, ask a medium.

Meanwhile back at Pura Pat pong , cross dressers were coming out of the brickwork. It was getting ugly. At this point they were flaunting themselves and their peccadilloes all over the place. There were some uncomfortably convincing ones (we won’t mention any specific nationalities), names and underwear have been changed to protect the innocent.

Virtual erection went for the Lola look, Monkey Balls more the Lolita and Wooden Eye affected your basic bearded, hairy chested and tattooed lesbian. Old Goat was… what? Whatever blonde curls, a bared plastic bum moustache and wanton saggy tits add up to, I guess. It was either a smorgasbord of intriguing psychological manifestations or a bunch of semi pissed hashers dressed as gay hookers so out of it they forgot the wax and razors. Speaking of smorgasbords, Dancing Queen stayed firmly in the closet, hmm? Overheard banter between a couple of newly sexually assigned gaily appareled individuals featured one gesticulating to the beauty parade of nostril and ear hair sprouters and remarking “see how much fun we could have if we were heterosexual”. It was getting confusing, so we drank up and pissed in an off direction.

No doubt we’ll be back for more next week.

On on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,047
Hares: Disco Wanker, Yeti
Site: Canang Sari Cemetery, same site and same hare as Thursday run.

Everything Was Ok Until We Got To Sangeh

Then suddenly we were in the teeth (maybe nostrils) of the most fierce - arse tropical downpour since Noah forgot the male unicorn (sorry, it’s a bet with another idiot to get the word “unicorn” in the Trash every week, so far, so good - one week). It was utterly pissing down, raining cats and unicorns - wait, did that.

So, missed the turn, couldn’t see the sign because it was obscured by The Titanic and the Kursk, turned round, found the site, got out of the car and (play Moses parts the Red Sea music)…blue skies separated the clouds and the beaming face of Cecil B. De Mille appeared in the heavens directing the whole miraculous event. Jesus and Telly Tubby - type sunbeams shone down on the gravestones, pagodas and cement dragons of the Chinese cemetery.

We had a bit of a wander through the kuburan Cina, it was pretty interesting but they weren’t great conversationalists; 1976 seemed to be a popular year to wafat, and they were all “beristrihat”. I thought that meant having lunch or something. Bad batch of beef and black bean sauce, I guess.

The run: everybody took off early, except for us hopelessly old fashioned diehards who believe the Hash should be conducted as a communal effort, silly us, and everybody promptly got busy getting lost. There was paper all over the place from another Hash on another day, Thursday to be precise and once again we were compelled to become forensic hash paper investigators. “Our paper was more pink and purple than this.” “No it wasn’t, it was green and red.” “Yes, but this paper’s white.” “Oh shit.”, etc. Balderdash did the short twice. Agent Orange disappeared into the jungle long enough to re - fight the Vietnam War.

In the long run, as it were, it didn’t matter. We all found our way back having seen beautiful scenery, sloshed through glorious mud, streams and mud streams etc. A bit knackered but better off than One Hung Low and Some Po Guy gone to that Great Dim Sum Sunday Lunch Restaurant In The sky adjacent the beer truck.

Circular activities were ably conducted by the Welsh Wunderkind duo of Wooden Eye and Disco Wanker. It never ceases to amaze me, Holmes, two or three Taffies in the entire Southern Hemisphere and they’re all BHHH2 Hash Masters or R. A.s. Speaking of affairs Celtic and Gaelic, Barnacle Balls allowed shenanigans to get the better of him and darted like a towering leprechaun into the circle to deface Jangle Balls’ gleaming white hash shoes with mud. J.B. in turn abused alcohol upon B.B.’s person. It was jutht thilly, and ended in B.B.’s icing to the squealing delight of the Romans, I mean the hashers.

There were lots of sheep jokes and an inflatable Kiwi, or was that a sheep? I was a bit pissed by then. It was all a good craique (sp?). Thanks to the aforementioned D. Wanker and Y. Eti for the run fun, Welsh mafia for riotous wool related escapades.

Our hearts go out to St. Tits’ coccyx bone which got a voluble battering on a cement sobek, keep those cards and letters rolling in folks and let’s hope it won’t be fatal.
As ever, on on.

_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,046 20th Anniversary Run
Hares: The Committee
Site: Pura Dalem, Tanggayuda, Ubud

Wet, wet, Wet

And now the weather: there’s rain in Hayne, precipitation at Prinsep Station and in Lissingdowne… And the same thing in Tangga bloody yuda as usual. It actually kind of sounds like an outback Aussie town. “See ya at the front bar of the Tangga bloody yuda Hotel, mate”. “No mate, gone. Flash bloody flood mate”. I wouldn’t be surprised.
It was the 20th anniversary of our beloved Bali HHH2 last Saturday and there were plenty of us to collect our sausages and tee shirts. Most of south Bali and all of China showed up despite the steady drumbeat of rain. The tee shirts were spicy and delicious and the sausages were an attractive shade and made of a miracle fiber that was water resistant.

And now the run, but before that an important Hash Community Announcement: Look here, harrumph, ahem, it has come to our attention that many of you are actually taking off before the prescribed time of 4.30 pm. Not only is this in direct contravention of Hash Edict verse 11 Chapter 2 (two!) Acts of God (tap dancing, rubber chicken juggling on unicycle), but we feel it is not in the spirit of the Hash which is meant to be a club and a group effort, people. It’s supposed to be an interactive, cooperative venture, not a free-for-all, every-man-for-himself mess like the traffic in, oh I don’t know, say Bali. So run along now, together, at the same time, no, come back, not now, on the Hash, Saturday okay?

Good, I’m glad we had that little chat. Err, Tanggayuda, yes, it’s a remarkably beautiful area though it’s mostly obscured by rain, fog and mud most of the time. There were some jaw dropping moments on the run especially the part where we crested a rise and were confronted with a mist shrouded valley panorama that had to be seen to be believed, shame we mostly couldn’t see it.

I myself personally, that would be me, especially enjoyed darting through the tall grass. There’s something kind of prehistoric about it. Deeply embedded in our subconscious there’s an ancestral memory of chasing a bloody great mammoth through the grassy savannah with a spear, grunting and signing hunt strategy to the other proto-humans (hashers). Oh shit, there’s a sabre toothed tiger behind me. Wait up Mr. Mammoth!

Meanwhile back at the sausage marquis, Dancing Queen wreathed in smoke valiantly kept the teeming hordes of hungry hashers at bay with his tongs and buttered rolls, and even as we straggled in Wooden Eye demanded a circle of us. It has to be said he did his level best but it was a bit of a futile task what with the sheer volume of both hashers and their constant thunderous chatter. It must have been like trying to conduct the London Philharmonic while the members were all half pissed.
He soldiered on with a bellowed version of “The Cow Kicked Nelly in the Belly Last night” kicking mud frantically at the crowd and their cars, but called social drinking as the rain drizzled on and we huddled under various wantilans, lean-tos and sausage preparation areas chomping, gargling and swilling away like the mud spattered swine we were.

Verdict: good run, good food, good tee shirt, good piss up and a valiantly attempted circle. Thanks to all involved for 20 years of this incredible bloody nonsense.
On on!

_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,045
Hares: Multigrip, Running Stool, Parson's Nose, Adeje
Site: Sobangan

Is That Your Water Dragon or are You Just Happy to See Me?

They say getting there is half the fun and yesterday was no exception. After being pulled over and extorted by a Galungan – money hungry cop for being the last of three cars and eight bikes (with four or five generations stacked precariously atop them) to go through a red light; I ejaculated (verbally, the cop was the one just about coming over his Rp 200.000) “Hardy har har, he didn’t even notice the international license was 2 years out of date.” Yes, mine was the moral victory alright, so there.

Moving right along, there was not only no HHH sign at the Blakiuh temple turnoff again, but nothing at the turnoff to Sobangan after that. So silly us, we kept on driving towards Reykcevic and almost got there when a Hasher who was foolishly following us finally decided we were idiots and we were pulled over for the second time that day. We weren’t lost - honest - we just didn’t know where we were.

So, Sobangan…It’s definitely one of the prettier drives in the run up to getting there and it was least as pretty a run. It’s just that, well dammit, 2 or 3 of the last 4 or 5 runs have been there. But who’s counting? Not me evidently. There was plenty of good wide padi subek on which you could actually run, not just squelch along doing the super model strut, and it was mercifully overcast enough not to fry to death out in the great wide open. The up ups were also mercifully gentle and there was a judiciously small amount of jalan. Pretty good all round, trims to Multi Grip and his crew.

A circle or something was almost formed by a startlingly present and politically correct Wooden Eye who honoured our honourable Chinese friends with respectful, elevated and sensitive suggestions such as “Shut yer yellow hole” and lavish flattery like “Yer chinky bastards’’. Visiting R.A. Colonel Bloodnock mustered the descendants of Cathay and had them sing a rousing rendition their national anthem, “Ying Tong Tiddle I Poo”. Just as well the race relations board wasn’t around. Gillard and Abbot have been dragged off in an undignified manner by their bodyguards as a result of less incendiary commentary. Who cares on the Hash? Nobody. It’s a much more democratic institution than, for example, Australia.

The sons of the Diaspora did however get their own back when they refused to shut their lobang kuning during the inevitable Jangle Balls and his Dung Beatles continuing retrospective: this week “Stuff me Dead” and “I Saw her Standing Bare”

In yet more honour of the Year of the Water dragon and in the interest of multicultural understanding, here are some common English phrases and their Chinese counterparts:

That’s not right – Sum ting Wong
I hit my knee on the coffee table – I bang my fuk in nee
Your body odor is offensive - Yu stin ki pu
Our meeting is scheduled for next week – Wai yu kum nao?
Stupid man – Dum fuk.
Okay, that’s enough of that, daddle doo.

On on.

_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,044
Hares: Monkey Balls and Dancing Queen
Site: Pura Dalem, Singapadu,

The Mud People of Singapadu

I bet you’re thinking “Why is this idiot always on about mud”? And you’d have a point. It’s a fact of life on the hash in Bali, and as the shrink said to the Tom Jones Syndrome sufferer, it’s not unusual.

There’s even a HHH2 tee shirt somewhere with “Run a muck in Bali” on it. So why, you surely must be beseeching the heavens, doesn’t he shut the duck up about it, quack. Because, my pointy headed little buddies, it’s such great mud. It’s luscious lumpur, its mercurial muck, it’s superb slop, it’s… it’s…it’s world beating shite, it’s better than anybody else’s plop.
Sure, they have mud in America, but it’s cigar chomping, ten gallon hat wearing, god fearing mud. They have mud in England but it’s supercilious, sarcastic upper crust mud or football lout mud. Whoa, I’m making a lot of friends here, who else can I offend? Our mud is the genuine article, richly textured, beautifully hued gack, full blooded with a faint whiff of cow shit and chocolate suggestions. Wait a minute, that’s wine, but you get the picture.

Where was I? Oh yes, the run. Well, it’s not as if it was a jaw droppingly unfamiliar landscape, it’s not like we were staring at a psychedelically tinged dreamscape featuring unicorns and figures with cowls and crooks. No, we had been there before, once or twice. But it had plenty of mud, and we got covered in the lovely slippery slop, couldn’t get enough of it. There were great views of the volcano rising through the clouds, lots of padi and inevitably the zoo, the hotel grounds and river running adjacent, all very pleasant, terima kasih banyak, selamat jalan.
The real reason we were there of course was to assist Monkey Balls in his favourite hobby, drinking Bintang, and it was his thirteenth birthday, no that was Balderdash in June . Shoot, it seems like only a few minutes ago we were helping him (Primate Testes) celebrate his last one. Time flies when you’re in a coma. Being his fortieth and all he naturally got involved in an ill advised jug drinking competition with a South African who looked as if he cold chug the jug, rip M.B’s ears off and shove them up his arse (Simian Knackers’ bum, that is, there would be little point in the alternative action, but you never know) before you could say begorrah. Nobody won fortunately.

Anyhow, it was all beer and skittles, and quite the entertaining circle what with Jangle balls and the two mop tops, Spook and Organ Grinder performing Hash band the Dung Beatles’ “Get Pissed and Shout”, “I Wanna Hold Your Glands”, Dancing Queen’s (surprise!) gay joke and Comes Up’s spurting weapon of masturbation. Camaraderie was rampant, and to top it all off Wooden Eye did the disappearing trick, again. He’s getting good at it.
On on.

This week’s Limerick Corner is in honour of an unfortunate sighting on a Seminyak beach:

There was a young man from Brazil
Whose dress sense was terminally ill
He wore next to fuck all
Which showed off his tackle
And a scrap of Lycra ‘round his pills
_____________________________________________________________________

Run #1,043
Hares: Gordon Bleu and Anonymous
Date: 14th January 2012 4:30pm
Site: Puri Damai, Tunon (Actually it wasn't at Tunon)

Slip Slidin’ Away

If anybody’s ancient enough as I am to remember that particular Paul Simon song it goes: “Ya know the nearer your destination the more ya slip slidin’ away”, which pretty much defines the run at Puri Damai, Tunon on Saturday. Holy Crapoli was there mud, and moss, and slick, slime and dare I say scum, liberal lashings of it. Hashers were going down like flies, every so often a wailed expletive followed by splashes, ploppings, and mumbled curses through a mouthful of padi were to be heard.

I hate to say it, no I don’t, it was funny. A sepatu or two also vanished without trace, sucked down by the bog; one unfortunate soul completed half the circuit a la Nightjar, barefoot, but not deliberately. Serves her right for starting early, neh neh, neh neh neh.

It was a pretty dang good run all things considered, not that I’m about to consider them being the lazy bastard I am. Let’s just say it had all the ingredients. The views were quite spectacular, if you had the opportunity to stop intensely concentrating on four or five square feet of subek and muck in order to assure perpendicularity (rhymes with herpendicularity, a socially transmitted complaint). The ups and downs were mercifully gentle after last week’s wall scaling and elevator drops. What was particularly nice (shit, I used the word nice) were the waterway complexes and crossings thereof, a lot more viaducts and mini falls than usual, cool bananas!

A returned Wooden Eye rounded us up for circular activities and demonstrated what recent circles have been missing in terms of continuity and (what passes for) discipline on the hash. Virgins were duly relieved of their intactness etc. In a spectacular display of carrying out the Hash Commandment “So Shall He Be Shriven”, Arsehole for Short was severely iced for an inappropriately ageist “grandfather” remark, tsk, tsk. We can’t have that, and we didn’t. HHH2 is heavily weighted with those not exactly in the first flower of their youth, or hadn’t he noticed.

Anyway, up we pissed it, and then off.
On on.
It gives me great pleasure to announce a new addition to the Trash, folks. Yesiree, welcome to “Limerick Corner” wherein every week an original or not limerick will be presented for your enjoyment, or not. Feel free to post one of your own in the comments section if you don’t like mine, or not. This one’s not original but I like it any old how:

There was a young man from Australia
Who painted his arse like a dahlia
The colors were true, red, white and blue
The fragrance a total failure.

Wait a minute! This is HHH2, maybe he should be a middle aged man.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,042
Hares: Vingt Cinq and Petrified Walrus Penis
Site: Pakudui, Tegallalang

Mud Surfing in Bali

As you all know there many world class surf spots on the Island of the Dogs, but few have heard of that super secret spot Tegallalang. All that’s changed since yesterday when about fifty intrepid dudes, dudettes and grommets rode the wild mud, performing radical cutbacks, executing boogie board type barrel rolls without boogie boards and generally waving our arms around like Italian motorists in desperate and sometimes futile attempts to stay upright. Ciao!

Yes, the word’s out now. There’ll be hordes of mud surfers with their bums strapped to the roofs of Kijangs or on a rack on the side of a Yamaha in convoy along that famed handicraft highway.

Vingt Cinq and the indefatigable Petrified Walrus Penis (now there’s a phrase that is rarely used in written English) put us through our paces and gave us a hell of a run for our money through possibly the most scenically beautiful rice paddies anywhere on God’s green earth. It’s a remarkably attractive area, let’s hope it stays that way. There wasn’t that much garbage to wade through. We had giant bamboo stands, huge trees, pleasantly trickling and rushing water to remind us of our basically basah state.

Back at the beer truck it was not immediately apparent there would be a circle at all until Bali’s loudest expat, St. Tits, startlingly bellowed instructions that we should reconvene at an adjacent grassed area. Now, all heartfelt thanks must go to those who tried valiantly to conduct the circle and carry out the usual order of business, Dancing Queen, Shitty dick and an incredulous Organ Grinder who refused to accept that the generally anemic half arsed affair was dribbling to a close with inaudible announcements and hashers wandering aimlessly in and out of the circle centre. He announced the birthday of brother Spook (not Brother Spook in a monastic sense, his actual brother) in the only interesting and relevant down down event of the day.

Wooden Eye, God speed!

By the way, who was the pedophile dressed like a Samurai nun who told jokes based on the fact that he seemed to all intents and purposes be a pedophile? Just some pedophile, I guess.

Verdict: great run, thanks hares, good piss up too.

On on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,041
Hares: Long and Strong, Pearl Necklace
Site: Sukawati

The Perplexing Case of the Disappearing Hash Master”
(in which Holmes, Watson and the HHH2 Irregulars comprehensively lose the afforemrentioned personage.)

So, where is he then? We’ve looked down the back of the sofa but only found a couple of left over Christmas guests. Under the sink, no, with the car keys, no. Speculation was rife at Sukawati on the New Year’s Eve Hash. Rumours and tales abounded, conspiracies that included Elvis, Darth Vader and Kim Il Jong (notice how he and the vanished H.M. both disappeared at around the same time, coincidence? Ha!)

There was of course a much more unlikely explanation that his visa people had horrendously screwed up and left him hanging out to dry a ridiculous amount of time overstayed, but I don’t believe it for a second. That would never happen in Bali, harrumph!

Wherever you are, Wooden Eye, good luck and all the hairy breast for the new year from BHHH2, two! We had a beer for you. Just the one.

As far as the run went, which wasn’t terribly far, hares Long and Strong and Pearl Necklace pulled one out of the party hat and gave us quite a good ‘un, considering… Okay, so it wasn’t Pejeng or Sobangan but that was why it was arrestingly novel.

We always have Pejeng or Sobongan. This was Sukawati and it had some quite good jungley bits, concrete steps, subec, padis, and checkbacks thank you very much.
Spare a thought for those who didn’t read the hash map closely enough or left it home or both, in other words me, and showed up at the time the hash has started at for 30 years, i.e. 4.30 p.m. not 4.00.

When pressed on this issue Long and Strong enigmatically replied “Oh well, It’s one of those days”. Which ones? The tropical equinox? Was this an attempt to introduce daylight savings to Sukawati?

The short was a tad short in the same sense that the universe is a tad spacious, but it was just as well as some of us had started 30 minutes late through no fault of our own, not that I want to dwell on it.

The circle was a moist affair, hashers huddling under brollies and wearing hats in the circle. And if you think exceptions were made because of the weather then you probably have a muddy, beery, hash shoe imprinted hat.

Comes up conducted events admirably in W. E.’s absence, but his threatened squirts lost a bit of their juice under the drizzly circumcisions, whoops.
It was left to a Christmasified Jangle Balls to lead the choir in an unfortunately truncated rendition of “And so that was Christmas” cut short by an over excited Floral Shit who should not have been allowed to stay up so late on New Year’s Eve (6.30, not that I’ll dwell on it).

All’s well that ends well, and so it was with the last hash of 2011, another merry, pissy close to another Hash year.

On on in 2012, let’s hope the Mayans are wrong, which they probably are but they were bloody good hashers anyway.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,040
Hare: Oxzy, Bemo, Muddyman
Site: Bonkasa
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,039
Hare: Yeti
Site: Bukit, next to GWK

_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,038
Hare: Disco Wanker
Site: Sobangan old map page 26 C7 new map page 76 C7

_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,037
Hare: Rabid Manky Dog
Site: Padang Bai

_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,036
Hare: Pigfucker
Site: Sobangan
November 2011 | By: The Scrutable Scribe

Quick, Quick, close the boot!

The run at Sobongon this Saturday was fantastically well signposted if you managed to intuit that you had to turn left at the police station in Blahkiuh. If you didn’t and kept heading north, you are probably now on the outskirts of Ho Chi Minh city scouring the streets for that comforting red and white sign on the left.

This one had all the hallmarks of a total balls-up for a start, what with the unorthodox parking “arrangements”. It actually turned out a pretty damn good hash in the end.

It began as a pleasant stroll in the countryside, and because there wasn’t that much to demand one’s visual or aural attention, I listened to various hashers in conversation. I’m not taking the piss here, but I always find exchanges in Dutch like listening to English, but in total gibberish. This is what I swear I heard two Dutch people say:

Dutch person 1: “I just got back from rotten rehab.”

Dutch person 2: “ Atomic nun with a stillborn camera.”

Dutch person 1: “Bitter stool bin?”

Dutch person 2: “Ya ya, Stephen Hawking.”

Dutch person 1: “Hobbledy hobbledy hop hop hop.”

Dutch person 2: “I stuck him in the boot.”

Dutch person 1: “Quick, quick, close the boot.”

Dutch person 2: “Are you a sexy mouse hole?”

Rather than falling on the ground pissing myself, which I decided wouldn’t have gone over that well, I caught up with some Americans. Now I am taking the piss. Some of our seppo cousins, as we know, talk for the sake of talking. In several U.S. states conversational pauses are punishable by lethal injection:

American 1: “Hey, there’s my gal! We don’t catch up with each other twice on every run.”

American 2: “No, we don’t, what a guy, huh!”

American 3: “ Hey, is this a long short or a short long? Hahahahahahaha.”

American 2: “Thank God for that breeze, huh?”

American 1: “Oh yeah, gotta have that breeze.”

American 3: “ Gotta have it, gotta have the breeze.”

Before my head exploded and left bits of brain and ears festooning the greenery, I accelerated to a couple of Aussies whose exchanges were altogether more laconic.

Aussie 1: “Hot, mate.”

Aussie 2: “Fuckin’, hot mate.”

Suddenly an amazingly steep river valley clothed in massive trees on either side hove into view; we ran alongside gaping at it for a good 10 minutes. I allowed myself a “Wow!” or two to nobody in particular, and suspected this was the point of the whole run. But there was more…

Down, across tinkling streams and up again we went, and again. The second on-down was a drop dead quaint mossy and susu filled dale, fabulous! Fun Bag Glen.

The Circle: In any western country what we do at this time of a Saturday would be insanely illegal. Shouting bawdy obscene ditties and drinking like Huns outside places of worship would inevitably lead to some nazi constabulary frog marching us in chains to some form of incarceration or other. I mean can you imagine icing a half pissed hasher and singing about the current state of his sphincter outside the Church of the Latter Day Saints in Spotweld, Ohio? Or pulling the pants off an inebriated Frenchman on the common opposite St. Nigel’s in Great Stuttering, Shipshapeshire, England? I didn’t think so.

The Balinese are an astoundingly, spectacularly tolerant breed of folk. I’m usually flabbergasted at how welcomingly liberal they are. Saturday night left me scratching a bemused head after we were told by a local to keep it down because we were keeping the cows awake in a nearby beef battery, huh? The cows? Are you sure? Oh well… great run, excrement fun.

On on!
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,035
Hare: Whitebait and Creepy
Site: Pantai Sabah
November 2011 | By: The Scrutable Scribe

Hot as a Wharfy’s Armpit (In the Heat of the Night)

As you all know it’s been so bloody humid lately you could take the goldfish out for a walk, especially down in the coastal badlands far from the cool mountain air. At Sabah beach on Saturday at Whitebait and offspring Creepy’s run, though I won’t mention any names, you could have taken your pet giant squid for a stroll. Mr. Christ, it was humid, and friggin’ hot and we sweated like children born out of wedlock , or rapists. Did I mention the humidity?

After a mercifully short drive (from where I was anyway) and remember who set the run, though they shall remain nameless other than to say they are penduduks of a certain seaside suburb not wildly far from the aforementioned pantai, we set off down the black sand and immediately became embroiled in a raging but short lived controversy over whether the paper may have been set at low tide ignoring the possibility of a higher one.

Shoot! It’s too hot for sentences that long, I’m buggered already. I think I’ll go and have a beer.

I’m back (burp). Anyway, we kind of ran around in circles for a while, drat those fiendish every - two - minute checkbacks, under a highway overpass at one point in maybe a first for BHHH2. Truth be told, it probably would have been a fantastic hash anywhere else in the world, say the Hamersley, Fremantle or Rockingham City, Kuwait perhaps. It was nice and green and flat and a bunch of high grass was involved. There were flowers and trees and an ocean, I believe the Bandung Straits part of the Indian. Nobody complained, why would you? We struggled to stay conscious and on our feet, crossed Jalan Professor Doctor Anak Agung Ida Bagus Mangos In Season Watchamacallit at risk to life and limb, found the beer truck and immediately osmoted gallons of the life giving stuff.

We circled up under the watchful eye of the U.S. navy who were anchored offshore monitoring our every down down and gauging the potential threat of suicide jihad ice sitters and explosive burps.

Comes Up once again conducted festivities and Juggled a very ambitious array of events including dolphin fellatio, dart throwing, administering alcohol to overage primates etc., a program so comprehensively Barnum - and - Bailey - beating that most of us utterly forgot, with the passage of time, why we were, or what we were doing in the circle.

The Ringmaster, various animals and somebody who looked a lot like Bob Hoskins or Danny DeVito finally wilted in the devilish heat of the night. A manic and quite possibly inebriated Jangle Balls succumbing to the heat in a more crazed fashion, assaulted the crowd with a medley of famous Hash band The Rolling Drunk’s greatest hits e.g. “ I Can’t Get No Hashisfaction”.
I suppose it had to come to this. There was a second wind, so to speak, Wooden Eye led us in urinating on people’s sombreros and Bob – Danny gave us a warble or two.

Then we all pissed off to the Sanur Village Fest and drank Dancing Queen’s stall dry. It was yust next door to “Flapyacks”, honest, ask him.

Good run, good fun,

on on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,034
Hare: Vingt Cinq
Date: 12 November 2011
Site: Yayasan Senang Hati, Tampak Siring

The Curse of The Short Stranded Paper

NOTICE TO HARES: PLEASE, WE BESEECH YOU, NO MORE SHORT STRANDED PAPER, USE THE LONG STRANDED VARIETY. THE SHORT STRANDED STUFF WASHES AWAY IN THE RAIN CAUSING US TO GET LOST AND SHOUT OBSCENITIES AT PADI FIELDS AND COWS CONCERNING THE LEGITIMACY OF YOUR BIRTHS AND THE TRAJECTORIES OF YOUR MOTHERS’ CAREERS.

Once again this week hashers were on all fours minutely examining plastic hessian binders, grains of rice, molecules of anything vaguely resembling material that might be construed as paper, or at least whiteness.

Also please hares, if you are going to use spray paint, we implore you to use clear, large, easily read characters. Yet again a valuable clue was lost, this week the letter “S” next to the letter “l” which would have changed everything. A dozen or so poor wretches were diverted onto the long going in the wrong direction resulting in a confused jungle collision of sweaty long runners and befuddled shorters shouting and gesticulating in several languages.

It’s certain that this week’s hares had nothing but good intentions to set a beautiful and slightly challenging trail, which they largely did. There was some astounding scenery and deep canopied jungle sections alongside gurgling streams. One of these claimed a gurgling St Tits as he sunk beneath the surface in a particularly graceful double back flip and twirl dive into the sungai. It was a thing of beauty and it must be said that it still didn’t interrupt his constant, admirable flow of high decibel address.

As last week, many of us simply gave up, erred on the side of caution and took the path of least resistance to the beer truck, asking locals directions to the Yayasan Senang Hati along the jalan, what a pity.

This week’s circle was largely the Adam Aqua (Comes Up) Show, who stepped in for an ailing Wooden Eye, kept us chortling along to beer snorkeling, monkey mask drinking events, and under control with his fearsome spurting weapon. The man seems mighty partial to anything involving liquid.

A couple of coconuts dropped from a very tall and gravid tree narrowly missing a harriet, but being Bali hashers this is the sort of thing up with which we must put, so we bravely soldiered on until the very last amber droplet vanished. The beer truck drove forlornly away, after which, off we pissed.
On on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,033
Hares: Drunken Bastard, Gizzard, Mr Antik
Date: 5th November 2011 Start Time: 4:30pm
Site: Petang Market,
November 2011 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Trackers and Crackers

In old Australian movies “blacktrackers” (in these enlightened days no doubt “traditional owner person locaters”) whose names were always Jackie, were called in to trace the runaway bush child or the miscreant on the run. Jackie was the kind of bloke who could look at a twig, put his ear to the ground and report to the outback policeman mounted on his steed: “Boss, bloody bad bugger, him drinkin’ a Fosters at front bar of Nah Nah Goon Hotel”. We could have done with a Jackie or two on Saturday’s run from pasar Petang.

He would have been handy behind the wheel of a Taruna for a start just finding the place. Who Knows? There may have been a Biblical deluge after the trail had been laid, but paper was virtually non – existent. The Hubble telescope couldn’t have found any.

It was truly a case of the blind leading the blind. At one point, I and another poor wretch were hunched on the jungle floor like C.S.I. cast members trying to determine whether the white stuff we were studying minutely was paper or rice. Some other forensic hashers caught up with us and put forth their theories: “This is another Hash’s paper”, “Wait, there’s an arrow here that says ‘No’.” “No it doesn’t it says ‘On’ if you look at it upside down, you stupid bastard.” “I reckon we’re running the trail backwards”. “Where the fuck is Jackie?”

As it turned out we were indeed running the trail backwards, or part of it, but at that point nobody gave a shit about anything but the beer truck.

Needless to say, I can’t comment on the scenery as I mostly didn’t see anything but the ground. The mountain views were majestic enough. I believe I saw padi mud and jungle mud, both very attractive types of mud in their own way.

Back at the site there was action aplenty with fireworks being shot into the afternoon sky, circles being formed, blond female Greeks being auctioned off by visiting concerned Euro Zone member, Col. Bloodvessel, to aid the ailing Hellenic economy (one of them went for 34 rabbits and another for two goats and a gerbil), blondes being iced and down downed, Pope jokes, cow jokes, gallons of gaiety, when (play “2001, A Space Odyssey” music) … Well, let’s just say there was a confluence of events featuring a Hasher who was having a very good day, a kampong Klion who seemed to be having a very bad one, and some fireworks.

It culminated in everyone pissing more quickly than usual in the direction of off before the angry torch and pitchfork bearing villagers arrived with tubs of boiling Blue Band.

On, cepat, on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,032
Hares: Jorok, Oxy, Bemo
Date: 22nd October 2011
Site: Bongkasa,
November 2011 | By: The Scrutable Scribe

Invasion of the Circle Snatchers

You’ve gotta love the name “Bonkasa”. It’s a great name, isn’t it? Exotic, romantic, especially when you break it into three parts, i.e. “bonk”, “arse”, “her”. You dirty buggers, I was thinking no such thing, never crossed my mind.

Jorok and co. led us on a merry chase from the Pura Dalem Bonkasa across the Ayung and up the valley into more your Ubud territory, down the Stairway to Heaven (or Hell for those of more mature years) to some of the most arresting views in Hashdom, and back across the river again, good challenging, scenic, mucky stuff.
Old Father Ayung was flowing quite energetically and we nearly lost a few (only a few) of our visiting Aussie Hashers that weren’t assisted in their crossing by sheer bulk; but that’s okay there were plenty more where they came from, groaning busloads of the bastards.

It was a case of spot the Bali hasher in the circle. There were more high – vis size xxl spandex tights and tees than you could shake a golden wattle at (hi - vis clothing is now mandatory in Australia along with obesity, goatees and mullets, and that’s just for the women – Julia Gillard is required by law to wear bright red jackets and matching ridiculous hair).

To be fair they were a jolly and enthusiastic lot, as good hashers should be, full of puerile songs and worse jokes, but nowhere near as bad as HHH2 when we get up a head of Binnie fueled steam. They enthusiastically took over the circle, installed a pro consul Hash Mistress, an incredibly annoying woman with a Klaxon horn, possibly the only horn she’d ever held, and populated the proceedings with other Aussie hashers.

They seemed to be having a good time so we let them have at it, even helped. There was beer snorkeling and pie eating events, general fun and hilarity, then as quickly as they appeared they jumped into their buses and pissed entirely off.

A clutch of regulars stayed on to suck the last dregs, but most had gone at that point to wherever we go when we get that usurped feeling, another great run but a surfeit of fun, tsk, tsk.
On, on.

The Victor Awards: a Night to forget

The stars lined up for this glittering evening of talent, fashion, music, top flight entertainment, drinking grog and getting untidy in various physical configurations.

Being seated seemed to be favoured mostly but then there was standing near the keg, dancing and or appearing on stage with glass in firm grasp. A little decorous staggering was also observed on this night of nights.

But seriously folks (drum roll, cymbal) it was indeed a barrel of macaques and Bali HHH2 would like to thank, above all, Bali HHH2 for showing up and enjoying ourselves.

Several other individuals should also be spanked, oops, thanked. Our undying gratitude goes to the following sponsors for helping to make the evening the resounding whatever it was: Bali Moon, Bintang, Bali Bakery, Café Smorgas, Le Hamptons, Villa Ellora, Fly Café, Bali Mojo, Taco Casa, Bali direct, Sky Blue and The Melting Pot. Thanks guys for being “associated” with us, bravery above and beyond the call of common decency.

For the rest of you ratbags that were lucky enough to witness the Dancing Queens in their lime green mankini clad glory first hand, keep a weather eye out on the website.

On, on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,031
Hares: Sex on the Desk and Captain Pugwash
Date: 22nd October 2011
Site: Pura Penarungan,
October 2011 | By: The Scrutable Scribe

Who’s got short shorts?

We do indeed have some ridiculously short shorts, look at Mud flaps for example, but I was referring to the run at Pungutan on Saturday taking off from Pura Dalem whatever. Ah, what a pleasant amble it was, how Constable – like the scenery with its ready to harvest rice, how dry the hash shoes if you were careful, how swift the appearance of the beer truck and its charms, how much more time to stand around drinking piss and bullshitting in the sunset tinged countryside, how serenely, meditatively uneventful the whole deal was. Who’s complaining? Not me, but it does make writing the Trash a little tricky.

So anyway, umm, er, a circle wafted together in ethereally slow motion. Comes Up and his spurting weapon were unleashed on the crowd which livened things up microscopically. Virgins were sacrificed and, in a first for the Hash, visiting Hamersley Hashers sung their Hashional Anthem and drank down downs WITH THEIR HATS ON, EEK! What happened? How was this travesty, this atrocity, allowed to be perpetrated, in the holy sanctum of the HHH2 circle? Is nothing sacred? Jupiter!

Banana Bender from the wilds of the Gold Coast showed up unannounced, and Shitty Minje’s “life partner’’ was christened “Shitty Dick” even though his name is not Richard, hmm, what can it mean?

Weird Jangle Ballsovich tried to resuscitate languid events with “Loud Hairy”, hash version of “Proud Mary”, but fucked up his lines. Dancing Queen, treasure trove of strange and funny jokes came up with another jewel. Little Johnny made a familiar appearance incarnated as St. Tits, all very déjà vu, the oldies are the goodies. No pun intended but it petered out.

Suddenly, if you could say there was anything sudden about this week, the piss ran out and we drifted, rather than pissed, off.

On kind of on
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,030
Hares: Jack Shit, Trender Bender and Gender Blender
Site: Sumbuwuk (Badminton Court), Sanding
October 2011 | By: The Scrutable Scribe

You All know Jack Shit

He’s Dutch, he makes a mean pie, he runs, he runs a bar, he’s somewhere between the ages of 45 and 62, but what do I know? (Jack Shit to be exact), he’s a good bloke and he set a pretty good dang run on his birthday bash on Saturday at the Pejeng badminton court. Well that’s about it, see you next week, but seriously folks, it was a very pleasant afternoon all round except for those who didn’t make it back at all and had to sleep in a cow shed or the bottom of a river.

Let’s just say playing The Eagles “The Long Run” on the way to the site proved to be eerily prescient (Twilight Zone music: nee nee noo noo nee nee noo noo). The hares were either on Amsterdam time or were trying to outdo last week’s lengthy performance. I believe we may have passed through Antwerp at one point.

Never mind the bollocks; it had its moments (plenty of them, more than advertised). Yours Truly was personally involved in an almost fatal incident, I tell you, in which a hasher who may or may not know who he is, let out a deafening bellow a centimeter away from the back of Yours Truly’s head (okay, two centimeters) while Y.T. was delicately balanced on a concrete berm causing Y.T. to elaborately shit himself and fall into the subec on the lucky side of a 50 foot drop. It was actually funny at the time or maybe I was hysterical with relief. I haven’t had so much fun since Auntie Edna died.

Then there was the German lady who somebody brought along and comprehensively failed to explain the most fundamental fact about the H.H.H. The poor woman had not the faintest idea where, perhaps even who she was or what she was meant to be doing.

Unless early Alzheimer’s had set in she had been told utterly fuck all. “Vhy are Ve to runningk?” she beseeched me. “Vhat doing am I vhen dark and no lamplight?” , she implored. “Follow us”, we advised her, though that was no guarantee of success. “Nein danker”, she replied somewhat unexpectedly and made off to the dubious safety of the Jalan Raya, though not before asking “How longk is an hour?” we had no answer.

A circle was loosely arranged. Jack the birthday Shit suffered four down downs (in the interest of journalistic precision), before pissing off with his back teeth underwater. The return of The Dude was announced, who proceeded to dude the virgins and level dude charges at, as it absurdly happens, the runningk hausfrau who had miraculously found her way back to the site.

A brazen attempt was made by two Harriets to remove the Hash Master’s shorts, perhaps they were electricians. Either the eye was not amused or he was tickled pink, hard to tell. The result was the same, they wound up going the cold hole route.

Dancing queen told, guess what? That’s right, a gay related joke and the Song Master, Wierd Al Jangle Ballsovich did “Check Back” by the Dung Beatles (a hash band) featuring Blow Joe, Organ Grinder and an absent Mud Flaps.

We had way too much fun for our ages and put ourselves to bed.
Great stuff,
on-on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,029 Date: 8th October 2011
Hares: The Bali Babi Gulings
Site: Pura Ukur Ukur, Pejeng
October 2011 | By: The Scrutable Scribe

Raiders of the Temple of Doom

The Babi Gulings pulled out a real cracker this Saturday at Puri Ukur Ukur in Pejeng known to many hashers as The Temple of Doom. This run was as adventurous, scenic and thrilling as any Indiana Jones movie plus about half an hour longer (ahem). We ran and scrambled through incredible river, valley and jungle scenery. We mud surfed on our arses inches from sheer drops as if the evil (Hash) Nazis were hot on our trail. No stopping for breathers on the 300 step (I counted them) Stairway of Misery and on to the Village of Exhaustion. The Mad Kali Death Cultists (long runners) were breathing down our necks with hideous intentions (Passing!).

We puzzled urgently over the meaning of esoteric hieroglyphics laid in paper. “What can it mean, Dr. Jones?” “Well, at a certain time of day the sun shines through that bamboo stand right onto this paper that is fashioned in ancient Gaelic script and says “cows’’. “But what can it mean Dr. Jones?” “Fucked if I know, cows, I guess”. “Thank you Dr. Jones, you have saved the day once again, what about this one that says “Shoooo… something?”

Cue Indiana Jones music, da da da da, da da DAAA. Da da da da, da da da da DAAA. On we climbed, slipped and staggered, at one high point we were literally in the clouds that wafted through the valley, brilliant! Jungle clad valley walls rose impossibly high on either side of the river. Shit, did we just climb down there? Shit, do we have to go up there? We had babbling brooks, ranting rivulets and raving streams, laughing waterfalls that pissed themselves from on high, excellent!

We got to the end of the movie and the good guys won, more or less. A muddy circle was conducted by Monkey Balls and Goes up who came down on talkers with his liquid filled instrument. jollity, camaraderie and piss were abundant until it wasn’t.

Here are some extracts from the next exciting installment starring “Holland” Jack Shit: “Are you?”, “Checking”, “ON ON!”
_____________________________________________________________________
Some Previous Runs:
Run #1,028 Date: 1st October 2011
Hares: Petrified Walrus Penis, Virtual Erection
Site: Pura Dalem Pengali
October 2011 | By: The Scrutable Scribe

Form a Trapezium

Another fantastic run on Saturday at Pura Dalem Pengali brought to you through the good offices of Messrs.’ P. W. Penis and V. Erection, thanks phallus, I mean fellas. There was an almost medieval flavour to this one what with burning torches and candles on muddy cave walls and heart – in – mouth river crossings on dubious foot bridges suspended above rushing rivers, great stuff!

I wouldn’t have been too shocked to come across Robin Hood’s encampment with Friar Tuck in tight jeans on a sepeda motor with a hand phone. Come to think of it, maybe that was how the Hash started, a bunch of piss heads running around in the forest dressed weirdly and giving each other down downs and silly names, generally being merry and looking for susu in the 15th Century.

Sometimes, one does get that mossy, feudal, Middle Ages vibe about Bali’s nether regions, so to speak. Maybe it’s because it seems like you’ve been running since the 14th Century to get to the beer truck. Anyhow, it was a great run and far enough away from the cares and woes of civilization to forget what century we’re currently obliged to suffer. The Bali Hash (Two!) does that.

The circle this week however was anything but a circle. It started out with the best of intentions, virgins were compromised, returning Sarth Efrican Yarpie Hasher, Winnie (Mandela – get it?), got the worst of it after his four year absence in India. Maybe ageing and hard of hearing hashers had heard the R.A. announce the following: “Form a rhomboid or a parallelogram or a turtle or a mongoose, a trombone will do”. It was all over the shop, contracting, expanding, and cellularly dividing. Mini and sub circles formed and de – formed, Holy Toledo what a cocking shock up.

Never mind, everyone involved or otherwise seemed to have feaps of hun and sitties were dung about Chresus Jist and why he hoesn’t dash (he’s got foles in his heet). It was all foody blood gun, really. (Damn, I should have worked in a Spoonerism of Friar Tuck, wait, I almost just did). We prank all the diss and ucked foff. Next week we’ll goo it all over adain.

No no.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,027
Hares: Bird Balls and Gudang
Site: Gunung Kawi Sebatu, Tampax Earring

God Dang, Gudang!

Stop the presses, hold the weddin’, alert the media, call the Sheriff! We may have a winner, unless somebody comes up with a better run than the one we just had at Gunung Kawi Sebatu on Saturday. Words fail me, again, but probably not for long ‘cause I’m such a windbag. You know how certain people, whose nationality shall remain obvious, constantly abuse the word “awesome”, well this run deserves the term in all its flatulently overblown and threadbare glory. It really was an awesome run in the original sense of being full of awe, not full of what the abusers of the term are, whoopsie, off paper.

There was so much scenery: dells, glades, waterfalls, forests of (was it acacia trees?), rivers, padis, valleys blah blah, stop me that my head almost exploded. I haven’t even mentioned temples and Susu, yes I have. I can only say “vundabah” or whatever it is they say wherever it is that Gudang comes from. And everybody seemed to agree.

Free sandwiches after the run were followed by an excellent choccie cake and tee shirts to mark the 40th day after Uncle Leong’s departure from this vale of tears. A round thing was formed and Silly Buggers were played. Especially Silly buggers were performed by St. Tits, who was told to shut up then told to tell a joke, both of which he kind of did, and Jangle Balls who resurrected Elvis (again) with “New Hash Shoes”. Several new hash shoe wearers were implicated and therefore executed.

It was a long drive home, in fact I rented out my house for the occasion, so we all pissed off early which was just as well because by the time we got back it was time to move into aged care facilities.

Ha!

On, on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Some Previous Runs:
Run #1,026
Hares: Broken Hole TJ
Date: 17th September 2011 Start Time: 4:30pm
Site: Pura Dalem Cangaan, Pejeng

Monkey’s Muddled Meander

There were more obstacles in getting to the run at Pura Dalem Cangaan in Pejeng on Saturday than anything encountered on the run. There was the usual stand - up comedy performance by the polisi at the crossroad lights of the bypass and Jalan Raya Tohpati. They barricaded the right turn and naturally everybody turned back at the next putar on Gatot Subroto about 25 meters up the street. The whole plan, whatever it was, of course, rendered pointless but incurred 15 minutes of screaming, cursing and purple apoplepsy on the part of a certain driver. A huge truck jam nearer the site almost finished him off in terms of cardiac arrest.

Next time he’s taking Jalan Professor Doctor Anak Agung Ida Bagus F’tang F’tang Biscuit Barrel Rock and Roll Mango.

The run was a completely different story altogether (kind of). It was bloody interesting, running through almost invisible graves, up huge flagstone steps then around and around and around the garden like a teddy bear (or a monkey bear). There were plenty of nice jungley bits, lovely green terraced padi views and some children wearing black and red uniforms, Segi Tiga cement bags on their backs, cans of rocks around their waists and blue coolie hats with paper sticking out of them (??). They looked like a cross between the Red Guards and the Wizard of Oz characters, WTF??? Bali factor…

It was a bit light on in the departmen kertas and there was a lot of head scratching while rotating 360°. The long river section was especially confusing with hashers abandoning the whole thing and streaming up the valleys looking for non- existent paper. There was the odd strand hidden on the riverside perfectly evident to those with X-ray vision. Never mind say what you like, you mean old Hash Trasher me, it was a good run.

Circular action ensued, well it was more of an oblong this week that turned into a rectangle. Chants went up to ice the monkey for failing to get the hash sheet out until 8pm on Friday night. “Frost the primate, chill the chimp” they yelled, but he got away with it, testicles at room temperature. Co - hares Broken Hole and the yet to be named Penile Delinquent or Grievous Bodily Function etc. were given their just desserts. Virgins, visitors were dealt with and Little Johnny was channeled by three separate mediums. Speaking of channeling, the hugest hasher of them all, Elvis was channeled by Song Master, J.Balls, who had the crowd (what there was of it this week) rockin’ to “New Hash Shoes” (uh, uh, uh) and closed it down with “It don’t have a Wooden Eye” in reference to the Hash Master’s (ahem) “pursuits”.

We drank the beer truck out of house and home and off was the direction in which we pissed to wherever we piss off to after the hash.

On, on!

_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,025
Hares: Mustafa Shyte, Barnacle Balls, Woodeneye
Date: 10th September 2011 Start Time: 4:30pm
Site: Sembuwuk, Pejeng

Supersize My Pejeng.
Your what?

There was nothing pocket sized about the run at Sumbuwuk in Pejeng on Saturday. The car park was the size of a small Central American republic, perhaps El Salvador. A banyan tree the size of a nuclear explosion stood adjacent a Pura you could have fit Sanur into, and two massive wantilans completed the ensemble. The view from the car park alone stretched as far as the eye could see. This was big sky country, Bali style, and if I’m exaggerating, then, I do that.

First things second, the run was a gem and congratters to hares, Messrs B. Balls and M. Shite, for making it two in a row.
Under starter’s orders we were informed by a certain Irish hare, shameless Seamus, who shall remain nameless, (it was himself above) that there would be no ups and downs and that it was pretty flat. We promptly spent the next half hour descending valleys and climbing gorges, wheezing like steam trains and clutching our hearts, some of these were none too small either (valleys and gorges, not hearts).

There were some decent sized waterfalls followed by bloody big bamboo stands, and then came the valley of the giant ferns. The hares too, seemed infected by this reverse Gulliver syndrome; there were drifts of paper on which long distance skiing events could have been conducted. Stevie wonder would have easily found his way back to the beer truck.

There was PLENTY of room for the circle. We bellowed at one another across the vast wastes between one point on the circumference and another as if searching for lost children in a cave. Songs were shouted at hares and virgins, the Song Master all but collapsed from the effort of screaming the National Anthem at barely comprehending hashers. We strained to hear Nightjar’s delivery, which had us in the usual fits when we caught snatches (ahem) of it on the breeze.

We gargled the very final glass of piss, stumbled around for a while and drove home. How the bloody hell do we get home anyway? I don’t remember. It was a big day all round, a BIG DAY.
On on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,024
Hares: Organ Grinder
Date: 3rd September 2011 Start Time: 4:30pm
Site: Abing Terrace, Tegallalang

Cool Runnings… or, Son of the Return of the Bride of the Planet of the Attack of the Killer Bees!!

Just when you think all is lost and you have to write articles trashing the trash on the Hash in the Hash Trash (huh?), you get a run like this. An unmitigated corker, a ripper and a snorter, a snifter, a ball tearer in every sense, if any, of the words, it was. Yes indeedy folks, if you missed the run on Saturday from the Abing Resort in Kebon Tegallalang, my heart bleeds for you or at least my piles do (it was also a bit of a tough run).

Words will fall short, superlatives will run out, there they go now, come back here you cowardly superlatives. Even on the drive in Hashers were wowing and hooly – doolying. Drivers (none who shall be named specifically) were taking no notice of the road whatsoever, and the view was even better once we crawled from the wreckage.

What can I say? Terraced emerald padis plunged into gorgeously overgrown valleys. Giant bamboo stands tussled with jurassically sized trees and ferns etc. etc. There was that one magic point you get in the best Hashes when padis, palms and trees stretch as far as the eye can see and, except for the bird scaring plastic strips snapping in the breeze, it could have been 200 or 1,000 years ago, bloody marvelous!

Everything was proceeding just duckily, including the dreaded Bridge under the River Kwai cave which everyone would have enjoyed immensely if they hadn’t actually been shitting themselves. Then, (cue scary music from the pre – Stabbing shower scene in “Psycho’’) they struck! (Play ee, ee, ee, ee, music from stabbing shower scene in “Psycho”). The giant killer hornets, wasps, bees, things with stings, whatever, scored pin point attacks on several unfortunate wretches.

Here is a breakdown of the damage done and upon whose person it was visited: Long Dong Silver, direct hit in the back, Mudflaps: right cheek of the arse (several Harriers bravely offered to remove the poison orally, but unfortunately she died rather than have the dirty bastards sucking on her butt), Balderdash seemed to get the worst of it: head, neck, bum and finger. It was touching to see the Chinese guys and Balinese ladies fussing over the poor little blighter with their herbal cures and potions and thanks to them, he survived, but alas without his beloved Frankenhat.

We circled the wagons and gave the bookend Hares, Organ Grinder and Spook, a well deserved drink, more Hash hymens were broken (there must be a virgin factory somewhere). Jangle Balls semi - led us through a semi - recital of the semi – National Anthem and Wooden Eye retaliated by having his sister Belinda piss on our sombreros, several times. Thirsty social drinking in the cool mountain air ensued until the last drop vanished down our greedy Hash gullets.

Brilliant, on on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,023
Hares: Seaman Stains
Date: 27th August 2011
Site: Pura Penataran Topeng, Kemenuh

God’s Little Acre (of garbage)

We all know that God is a bit of a practical joker. What with giving capitalism to the Americans, bequeathing communism to the North Koreans and letting Muammar Gadaffi have his taste in hats and five hundred ways to spell his name, he must be rolling around up there pissing himself.

I sometimes wonder if he’s not having a little snicker about the results of his (God’s, not Col. Quadoofi’s) handiwork here in Bali. At the kampong garbage run in Kemenuh this Saturday, there it was in all its glory, unbelievable! What, can’t they see it? Have they all got garbage blindness? What do they talk about at that Banjar meeting? Has anybody seen any garbage around here?

One bloke was up to his knees in Sedap packets, Pop Mie cups, Silvikrin sachets and Marlboro packs polishing his Kijang. The astounding contrast between the stunningly beautiful countryside in the area and the grotesqueness of the drifts of trash everywhere has to be some kind of cosmic joke. Oh well, enough cultural insensitivity, naughty me.

Balletic forward roll and backward dive into the subec of the day goes to Worm who performed this difficult maneuver with Baryshnikov - like grace before announcing that he was “Just cooling off”. This was immediately before our entrance into the rubbery shrubbery of the pandana plantation – incredible, psychedelic even.

Circling up, Wooden Eye did most of the heavy lifting (just as well he’s got a new truck), defloration of virgins etc. New addition to our hash and one that’s making his presence felt, Dick the Wonder Boy (somebody ought to), he tells jokes, he plays guitar, he juggles rubber chickens on a unicycle, regaled us with a little Johnny joke which set off the Tukang Tinggi of all little Johnny jokes, St. Tits. He, naturally, was iced for his trouble.

Jangle Balls led us in a choral tribute to Uncle, was given (another) drink and wove out of the circle, perhaps forgetting his National anthem duties for reasons of perhaps insobriety. Social drinking continued in the balminess of the evening under the tall palms, as we all know, the best time of the week if you don’t count Auntie Edna’s call from home on Tuesday.

Hash sight of the night had to be the craziest of Dave’s on his knees holding onto the keg table as if he was praying to a small shrine, maybe he was. He could still be there judging by the amount of people who were busy ignoring this spectacle. Apparently he had conned some hippies into a ride by telling them the Hash was a tantric meditation meeting in the jungle. They seemed to be impressed by the amount of people and cars there for the event.

Anyway he got totally pissed on somebody’s rum, perhaps Dick the Wonder Boy’s, and lost the plot. The hippies were still hopelessly lost on the run in the dark at this point. If they ever made it back, It’s doubtful they would have been falling over themselves to give a paralytic C.D. a return journey, tantric meditation or no.

Happy birthday to hare Seaman Staines, who turned twenty one for the third time, and on on.

_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,022
Hares: Tartar
Date: 20th August 2011 Start Time: 4:30pm
Site: Villa Bumi Linggah, Batubulan

Merdeka! Give me a pie!

As that famous hasher Julius Ceasar (what, you didn’t know?) said: “Veni, vidi, we ran, we drank a bunch of piss, we went home.” That was about the size of it.

There were several grumbles about the lack of views and the somewhat economical 45 minute length of the run. Yes, the Grand Canyon was conspicuously absent, Niagara Falls and Ayer’s Rock were nowhere to be seen, but hey! Time flies when you’re in a coma, and as that other famous hasher, Basil Fawlty of Fawlty Towers , scolded a complaining guest: “What do you expect to see outside a Torquay hotel window, herds of wilderbeest?’’

It was a hash, it was in Bali, how bad could it be? Okay, it was a bit hot and the padis were a bit browned out and scruffy looking, but padis and palm trees there were. The satay came in for a few barbs as well: “Where did they get that cow, Somalia?” Gristly, chewy and scrawny as it was, it was satay, in Indonesia, say no more.

The tee shirt distribution also had its detractors. I must admit, I was a bit nonplussed as I proffered my green ribbon when there were about 15 of us back from the run to be told “Nien, nyet, tidak, No tee shirt for you.” How did that work? I dunno, but I thought to myself: “Self, you’ve got about 400 of the bastards in your draw at home”. You might well ask why there are 400 bastards in my draw and… good question!

Anyhow, a circle was described and shenanigans began again therein. Guest hash master Labia quizzed a slew of ex – hash masters on Indonesian presidential factoids. This, of course, degenerated into gibberish and giggling but actually worked quite well and Labia seemed to enjoy himself. You might say it was a labia of love.

Nightjar delivered a moving eulogy to Uncle Leong and revealed a few things we didn’t know about the oldest hasher. Just as well we were pissed or there wouldn’t have been a dry eye in the circumference. There were a few lumps in throats, garunteed.

I guess the hit of the day were Jorok’s pies, distributed from the back of a truck like aid after a Bangladeshi flood, a rabble of well fed hashers acting like starving Haitians. “Merdeka! Give me a pie!”

And to all of us including those can’t afford to drink beer but do anyway, Cheers!
On on!
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,021
Hares: 96er, Ringtail, Filthy Slut
Date: 13th August 2011
Site: Pura Hyang Api, Desa Kelusa,

Let the Good Times Roll

As the actress said to the bishop, it's hard to put your finger on, but Saturday's run at Kelusa in Payangan was outstanding (to extend the bishop metaphor) and straight up bloody good fun, for no single reason.

Was it the imposing and elaborately beautiful Pura overlooking an entertaining kid's soccer game at the hash site? Was it the fantastic views on the gently undulating and forgiving runs? Was it the non - stop hilarity of the circle under a fat golden moon peeping above the palms? Who knows? Forgive me for waxing lyrical, but it was just one of those hashes when everything comes together and there just isn't a better place to be, anywhere…

The drive in after turning off the Sayan road was arresting enough for a start, but deceptively up and down as it turned out. The immediate reaction among my fellow car occupants was "Oh shit, here we go", but they ate their words later, which didn't taste so good.

The runs were chock full of misty jungle vistas and blindingly emerald padis, enough semi - dramatic drops to quicken the pulse but no grasping for twiggy hand holds on sheer cliff faces or desperately groping for a rock in the rapids, not that there's anything wrong with that, ahem. It was just good to get away from the macho stuff, but perhaps one jadi tua.

The weather was perfect for it as well and as the moon rose we circled up in a non-sweaty format; not too many of us or too raucous, again, Goldilocks zone conditions. Johnny Lips, or Labia to his intimates, late of Legian more lately of Laos executed some introductions and hares. Colonel Bloodwurst was stellar, marrying Nigerians (who admitted to sending emails) and punishing anarchists in the U.K. for various looting crimes e.g. Organ Grinder and Spook for stealing hair dryers. Wooden Eye formed and deputised the Pussy Posse to water pistol - whip garrulous hashers. We've been warned!

Songs were sung, jokes told. Closet, sorry, Dancing Queen regaled us with yet another disgusting gay joke. Pants were predictably pulled down and penises exposed, yawn. Somebody should pull that particular Harriet's own pants down, shove 'em over her head, spin her around a couple of dozen times and make her sit on ice, but that's just me. I used to levitate bats, but nobody cared either.

Never mind that, I can't be more effusive about this run. When they send me to the last paper trail and I'm in Hash heaven, that's one of the runs I want up there.
Are you?
On, on!
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,020
Hares: Multi Grip, Tartar and Parson's Nose
Date: 6th August 2011
Site: Pura Dalem, Singapadu,

Happy birthday to………?

We all gathered at a very familiar run site in Singapadu for Uncle Leong’s birthday. Everybody, that is, except Uncle Leong who was gathering himself at another location in a different country.

Most of us could do this run with our eyes closed. Judging by the amount of muddy arses at the beer truck, some of us did. It was a pleasant padi filled run, though, and we had beautiful breezy weather for it. There were three, or four river crossings and th-th-th-th-th-th-th-that’s all folks!

The circle was a truncated affair with half the hashers hugging the beer truck lovingly close to their breasts and the other half actually forming a circle. Some brightly feathered Guamian natives regaled us with bird song and had us in stitches; Jangle Balls was literally as he’d just been really stitched up at a Denpasar hospital.

He then took a turn for the worse in the circle with half a dozen national anthems and the Supremes, Mud Flaps and another Supreme. Monkey Balls got patriotic with his own national anthem. It was a battle of the Blands; the Guamians took the prize, whatever that was.

On-on for Uncle’s next birthday, which is next week.
_____________________________________________________________________
Some Previous Runs:
Run #1,019
Hares: Closet Queen
Date: 30th July 2011
Site: Canang Sari Cemetary

To Bee or not to Bee

This week’s run at Canang Sari was more of an adventure than usual given the preponderance of swarms of angry and violent flying insects at the start of the run. Something or someone pissed them off and, honest it wasn’t me. But it could have been Organ Grinder considering the sustained attack under which he came. It was like Messerschmitts on a Lancaster over Berlin. He ran for his life flailing his arms around and managed to fling his wedding ring off his finger, much to the disappointment of Spank My Monkey.

Dancing Queen and the rest of Abba did a splendid job on this run. We were confronted by lots of frustrating check-backs and check-arounds however. After following the paper into a valley we were led out again into a decent-sized Kampong, and then back into another valley. Goes Up went up the wrong way and found himself having to go down the right way and then back up again to get to where he was. It was a smorgasbord of deep, dark valleys, dim jungle and nice green sawah, sangat bagus.

The circle was business as usual, returners returned, virgins were deflowered, achievers achieved, visitors visited. Kucit couldn’t taste his beer because of a bee sting to the ear. Who knows what other faculties were effected in this dyslexic manner. One wonders what it was he couldn’t do with his tongue.

The search for Organ Grinder’s ring was called off as he did have a spare one. Social drinking was called and a sudden downpour sent us scattering to our cars.

Good run, on on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,018 Bastille Day Run
Hares: The French
Date: 23rd July 2011
Site: Yayasan Senang Hati, Tampak Siring, Old Map Page 27 K3
Sacre Bleu!

Last week’s Bastille Day run at the Yayasan Senang Hati foundation was an excellent mixture of padis, gorges and kind of romantically dimmed tree lines, very appropriately French looking. Just before we set off the hares exclaimed in heavy French accents the short would be up and down like frogs legs and the long flatter than a plate of crepes; the long was, however, not as flat as our Gallic friends said it was; it was more like up and down like the Eiffel Tower. The run was very unique scenery wise and it was some of the best I’d ever seen on the Bali Hash House Harriers Two (DEUX, DUEX!).

Just before the end of the run we were welcomed back by some shirt wielding Frenchmen, the shirt had an ecstatic chicken pissing into a beer (pissing from his chest by the looks of it; see Facebook page, Gallic humour, we guess). After coming up the steps, grasping our baju baru we dawdled over to the beer truck where we were given a something unidentifiable and tomato sandwich (Yum!).

The circle was the climax of the run, featuring frog songs, frog jokes, frog men (not literally). Later into night Colonel Bloodnock attempted his French skills on some (believe it or not!) French people and tried some magic on the cast of Harry Potter. Night Jar regaled us with some other French songs and told French jokes as the circle tried, with all their might, to understand him.

All round the Run was a great one, Good job you amphibian bastards!

On-on!
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,017 Himself
Hares: Barnacle Balls, Icehole
Date: 16th July 2011
Site: Pura Dalem, Tanggayuda New Map P52 D2, Old Map Page 100 D2
The last two times we ran from Tanggayuda we had ugly weather; a fearsome downpour last October that made us feel like salmon coming back up the Sayan road, then on the Valentine’s day run even butt uglier transvestites. This time was mercifully free of biblical deluges and bald, hairy-chested cross dressers.

Barnacle balls himself, virgin head hare that he was, gave us a hell of a run for our money. It was a beauty, a run with everything including a soundtrack of Balinese drama, which the run was: padis, jungle, gorges, bamboo bridges, flagstone steps, startlingly beautiful river rapids, and valley views. It had just the right hint of danger.

Suspended on the side of a practically vertical cliff face I heard my self-remark “imagine doing this voluntarily……wait a minute…” The paper however, on the short, was a bit like Michael Jackson’s career – way too much of it, then barely visible, kept changing colour and then too much of it again. On the long too the paper came in short bursts.

We filed into the site in various states of exhaustion and circled up. Jangle Balls was down – downed for his hundred and twentieth birthday, instructed by Night Jar to get plastered and informed he had no parents. Other sinners, virgins, jokers, returners were introduced and ejected after being summarily dealt with.

Jangle Balls was down – downed again, for not showing up early to teach the hash master the new national anthem (“We’re Bali hash two, who the fuck are you?”) due to a hangover and a wifely painting being broken over his head. He was finally embarrassed into a rousing refrain.

Jenny Two Melons lost her car keys and Long Dong Silver found them against all odds with the hash lampu guided by the hand of Jesus. All that was well ended well with Night Jar in fine throat, warbling “Barnacle Bill” as tribute to the hare himself, fine job the lot of you.
___________________________________________________________________
Run #1,016 The Lost Run
Hares: Arsehole For Short, Bali Belly, Virgin in the Ridiculous
Date: 9th July 2011
Site: Pura Dalem, Sibang Gede.
Ahem, umm, small problem with road signs for last Saturday's run at Pura Dalem Sibang Gede inasmuch as there weren't any, as such; nothing on the left turn onto Mambal Market road, nothing on the right turn to the Pura.

There was however a lime green, canary yellow blindingly high vis. H.H.H. sign on the tree adjacent the beer truck, assuring us that, yes, the milling hashers, parked cars and beer truck did indeed mean that we had inadvertently stumbled on the hash site.("Look! There's Blow Joe over there, but this can't be the hash site.")

Jack Shit was dispatched with this very sign to save the day at about 4.29 p.m.

The short was a very pleasant 50 minute amble through padis, past waterfalls and river views and over a miniature bamboo Golden Gate bridge. The long had all this PLUS a disappearing paper trick that the hares were duly iced for in the Circle.

More tiresome dick and bum displays followed. Since when did the Hash become a venue for Chippendale performances? I guess it's a case of one man's meat being another man's poison… Some Dane or other proudly waved his privates at us after losing his shorts. He wasn't a Great Dane by any means.

Chariots were swung low, clowns, jugglers, fire eaters were conducted in and out of the Circle by the Ring Master. At leasht I'm shure I remember shomeshing like shat, hic! Social drinking was called, the last drop drunk and we staggered off to our cars, as you do.

As we drove out to the main road, there in all its glory, spray painted in foot high letters on the asphalt, which will last a very long time, was "B.H.H.H. 2" with an arrow – just when and where you would expect to see it.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,015 Dandy Doodles Yankee
Hares: Worm, Blow Joe, Peterphile, Marble Balls and Petrified Walrus Penis
Date: 2nd July 2011
Site: Nyukuning, Ubud
Huge props to the Seppo boys Worm, Blow Joe, St Tits, Marble Balls and Petrified Walrus Penis for the gala event that was the July 4th run in Nyukuning last Saturday.

Truckloads of people showed up, so they were loaded onto trucks. One wonders if the healthy turnout may have been due to the words “free”, “beer”, and “food” being in such close proximity to each other on the hash sheet. Whatever, it was terrific.

The short was a tad longer than the advertised forty five minutes. There are still people out there trying to find their way through the Monkey Forest back to the beer truck.

The long featured splendid and sweeping views of Ubud Ridge, herds of wildebeest, the Sydney Opera house and at one point passed briefly through Albuquerque.

The circle was a riot, literally, and nobody would shut up. It was much like Damascus or Yemen in that way. More than one talker felt the wrath of the Hashmaster. Visiting Assistant Religious Advisor Colonel Bloodclott paid tribute to the Jakarta Obedient Wives Club and the crowd laughed like hyenas. The man is as hilarious as Muammar and Gaddaffi put together.

Jangle Balls sang the national anthem and was given the American digital salute. A clutch of cloghoppers got out of control and more than immaturity exposed itself.

On on to the Melting Pot, a Texas sized bar run by a Texas sized Texan. In what shall forthwith be known as “The Miracle of the Beer and Gumbo”, upwards of a hundred thousand hungry hashers were fed, of all things, gumbo, which was delicious and a dish rarely found outside the general area of Jalan Bourbon in the Seperempat Perancis in Orleans Baru.

Spectacle of the evening was St Tits dry humping a sexy dancer up against, or pretty much on, a pool table who was about a quarter his age (the sexy dancer not the pool table, but come to think of it…) Talk about Peterphile.

Great night, great day, the Yankee Doodles did it again and it was Dandy.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,013 Heavy Heavenly Hashing
Hares: Lost
Date: 18th June 2011
Site: Bongkasa

On a scale of one to ten, Saturday 18 June’s run from Pura Dalam Bonkasa was freakin’ awesome, albeit a tad challenging. Here are some hasher’s comments: Blow Joe, “Dude!”, Old Goat, “Broody good”, Monkey Balls’ dog, “Wow, wow!”, Monty’s dog, “Dude!”

There were adventures to beat the Pope. In mid stream of the first river crossing, Long Dong Silver went under but as his name suggests he is endowed with a natural snorkel and survived the ordeal. A rescue dog was dispatched to rescue a rescue dog.

We descended some 325,000 flagstone steps (I counted) to a stunningly pretty river valley followed by jaw dropping white water views from the trail above on other side. On in through a small forest of giant banyans that made the tree in “Avatar” look like a bonsai plant.

The circle featured some charges and counter charges that were jutht thilly, and yet another sprinkling of virgins (where do they all come from?)
Props to the hares on the day, thanks for reminding us that if there there’s anything better than the best of Bali hashing, it ain’t on this planet.

On on!
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,012 Business Monyet
Hares: Drunken Bastard
Dates: 11th June 2011
Site: Sangeh Monkey Forest

At the Sangeh Monkey Forest car park last Saturday the primates approached the beer truck quite brazenly and had food, beer, durian and ice thrown their way. Some were monkeys. A few more of the more forward of the group found themselves tangling with the Hash Master and the Hare. Some of these were also monkeys.

The runs were a little different than the usual around the perimeter of the forest; there were three of these, all with scenery, all good. I don't know if it's just me, but there seems to be something quietly eerie about this area. If Hanoman the Monkey God himself were to step out of a bamboo stand and scare the crap out of you, I wouldn't be surprised. The long featured a scary, dark teak forest with a house made of cake ... kidding.

A blessedly macaque - free circle formed and returnees Long Dong Silver and Jenny Two Melons were dealt with. Whitebait and his much maligned leg sneaked off before they could be rewarded, and Balderdash was down downed for his 13th birthday along with his poor old grey haired Dad.
-
A representative of The Netherlands was shown the pleasures of es batu with a peremptory "Take a seat"'. It was suggested that some poor virgin drink Binnie out of his Shoe with which he actually complied. He is possibly still among the living.

Organ Grinder and Night jar sent us on our way in stellar fashion with complex ditties that human beings couldn't possibly remember when pissed.

It was more fun than a barrel of monkeys.

On on!
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,010 A Mangy Miserable Birthday Run
Hares: Rabid Mangy Dog Site: Ambara Stage, Mas
May 21st, 2011 | By: Scratcher the Scribe
Rabid Mangy Dog’s birthday run at the Hati School in Mas was a relaxing affair of beer, mud and conviviality. The runs were pleasantly scenic ambles and surprisingly garbage-free considering we were quite south of the rubbish line, not at all bad for Mas.

There was, however, more than one padi misadventure. Jangle Balls went for a not-so refreshing dip in what seemed to be a 10-foot deep mass of mud and rice and was feared drowned until re-surfacing in the vicinity of the beer truck.

Speaking of mud, the unsinkable Ms. Flaps made her good return bearing horror stories of a Sydney winter.
Uncle Leong trumpeted in the circle as, business as usual was conducted by the indefatigable Hashmaster and Nightjar lead the choir in a stirring version of “Get Plastered You Bastard” to honor the Rabid one.

Achievers were awarded with their baju, which of course was accorded all the reverence and treated with all the delicacy due to the crown jewels – Balderdash with 50 runs, Worm with 200 and Tartar with 700 runs, do the math.

Konkord, who entertained the crowd with one-liners like “I taught my dog to be a blacksmith, I kicked him up the arse and he made a bolt for the door”.
This Saturday is Worm and Libby’s (little Worm) birthday run, also in Mas, which makes that two (TWO!) in a row.
On, on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,009 Toiletbrush's Troublesome Totter
Hares: Toilet Brush, Teja Sinatra, Tek Siang Site: Petang Rafting
May 21st, 2011 | By: Spurious Spewing
Last week's run at Banjar Sigaran presented a pleasing palette of patchwork padis, but I won't P on about it. It was like a pied and pastel pastiche painting, pretty and flat - pretty flat, but a genuinely good run.
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,008 Martin's Mystical Meadow Meander
Hares: Virtual Erecetion Site: Bj Sigaran, Sadang
May 14th, 2011 | By: Scratcher the Scribe
Last week's run at Banjar Sigaran presented a pleasing palette of patchwork padis, but I won't P on about it. It was like a pied and pastel pastiche painting, pretty and flat - pretty flat, but a genuinely good run.

Whoever supplied the excellent and gratis pisang goreng from the back of the silver Avanza needs to be heartily thanked and mentioned in dispatches, consider it done.

The circle was one of the most scintillatingly silly of the season so far if you stuck around to see it, but I won't S on about it.
Susan from San Francisco was anointed with the dubious honour and title of "Used Rag" (she's in the Trade).

Warning: The following is a sentence not often heard in the English language. Newly named "Dognapper" took offence at the ceremonial sprinkling of the holy Bintang and flung her water at the Religious Advisor; the Eye was not amused and ice was applied to the appropriate parts.

Beer and hilarity ensued and kept on ensuing. The Eurovision Joke Contest was jointly won by Wales (clean) and Sweden (gross). In homage to Blow Joe someone came up with "Satu Yaggi" for getting another beer, I've got a feeling that one will stick.

All in good fun, enjoy the coming run + on, on!
_____________________________________________________________________
Run #1,007 Cockroach’s Pejeng Perambulation
Hares: Marco Polo, Cockroach Site: Pura Dalam Cangaan, Pejeng
May 7th, 2011 | By: Scratcher the Scribe
In the Long Run…
Last week's run at Cangaan was as excruciating as it was scenically stunning. The long was, well, long. The short was up and down like Julia Gillard's nose, as towering wide and deep as her bum. It was not for the faint hearted, the near sighted or the accident prone, just like Julia's arse. A bloody good run though if you survived it, and we all did with the exception of a couple of virgins who vanished without a trace. Oh well, plenty more where they came from.

Circle - wise Nick B. alias Inflatable Bedmate suffered a couple of frozen moments for the unforgivable sin of forgetting his punch line and most of his joke. Nightjar followed up with an unusually inaudible comic effort that may have been in Swahili for all the good it did. The good Colonel (Welsh wizard) re-executed the re-re-escaped Bin Laden disguised as some tall bastard nobody knew. He was later re-buried at sea, no photo.
_____________________________________________________________________

Add you content here and it will appear... there! Provided you are using a theme that has ExtraContent enabled of course. Tip: 1. Check to see how many extra content area your theme supports. For each support instance, you'll need to change the trailing number in the id to suit. For example, "myExtraContent1", "myExtraContent2", "myExtraContent3", and so on... 2. If using ExtraContent in a styled text area, be sure to highlight from "≤div id="myExtraConten..." to the beging of your own content, then mark it as "Ignore Formatting" (RW Menu » Format » Ignore Formatting). Repeat the process from the end of your content until the end of "...#myExtraContent --≥"

Join us on the antisocial network