BHHH2 Hash Trash Run 1357 Gula Bali Ubud 27-Jan-18

BHHH2 Hash Trash Run 1357 Gula Bali Ubud 27-Jan-18


If Music be the Food of Life, Make Mine a Babyshit Puce Tee Shirt and a Hamburger

 

It’s a dangerous thing these days to let your inside leg measurement, what side you dress on and whether you’re a roundhead or cavalier out on the street. Beware! We are all in the belly of the cyber-spacious beast and up Shit’s Creek without a poodle should we have some nasty little secret about what exactly was the nature of that “illness” we may or may not have caught from a holidaying nurse from Melbourne in Kuta Beach in 1984 when we decided to sell our stone and iron houses in South Fremantle with the Federation green Sydney lace and mission brown bull nose veranda and take our chances in the exotic north, after our divorces fom our first wives. Or have I said too much?

 

As usual, I haven’t even started yet. Some dang fool let it slip last Saturday that there would possibly be the chance of a free cotton jersey upper garment and some equally affordable fast food containing minced beef and radioactive coloured mustard at last week’s Hash in the car park of the Gula restaurant on the Tegallalang Road, and the next thing you know, old Jed’s a millionaire! The place was swarming  with Hashers that hadn’t been seen on BHHH2 since the Eisenhower administration. They were crawling out of the alang alang, between rocks and hard places. It was like “Fear the Living Hashers”; but of course I jest in a gigglingly-high-pitched-with-snorting way. Naturally, everybody is welcome on our Hash, we want people from everywhere and we’ll give the Dreamers a pathway to citizenship if you’ll give us billions of dollars to make new signs for the Statue of Liberty that say “Tired and poor: $12.95, huddled masses: $15.50, no discounts”. Okay?

 

Spikking of wheech, Allez Allez was Le ’aire on zees particulair ruhrn and he did a zhob that was tres magnifique weez fromage on zee top. It was a Cootie Grah (pronounced “cut the cheese”) if evair there were such a seeng. I’ve said it before: Allez Allez is an etre humain and le homme fantastique on every level despite his self evident Frenchness. But eet eez a zhoke comedique, non? (uh, hor hor HOR.)

 

There was so much mud involved in such shocking depth on this run that a five kilo short run took an hour and a half and at least four Hash shoe washes in as many rice paddys. It was on fairly flat territory too. Most of the time it felt like trying to run away from a bunch of Mafia Wise Guys named Mickey the Semi-Automatic and Frankie the Sledge Hammer etc. who had already fitted your “Sleepin’ wid da fishes” cement shoes when you somehow affected your futile escape.

 

The scenery however was surprisingly countrified, quite open and rural for an area so close to the insanity and gridlock of urban Ubud. A very pretty run indeed, alright, alright I know that’s not a sentence, that’s why I added this bit, smarties pants (plural of smarty pant). The payoff came close to the end with the concrete  bridge that crossed a jaw droppingly deep gorge. It was just after this that I picked up quite a nifty embroidered hat that someone had dropped, plus I had already been awarded my 26th Anniversary Run tee shirt in its arresting baby poop shade not a moment earlier. A local Harriet came at me with hands outstretched saying “thank you, thank you Mister”. I almost offered her the tee shirt when I looked down at what I was carrying, but relented and gave her the hat. Once again, I jape and caper like a monkey, I really must stop that. They were fine hats, I mean tee shirts.

 

And I haven’t even mentioned the marathon that was the circle. We had so many guest stars and hilariously silly digressions it was like a Kenny Everett Show featuring Captain Kremmin in the late 70’s. I can only say: “Rude word, it was funny.” Organ Grinder mustered and mastered his ring then there was Koncorde with his Ministry of Silly Walks and a “long winded” joke about a farting hooker that was so funny in the telling that I’ve comprehensively forgotten the punch line. Both were way past being well worth the 8 bucks o’ beer entry fee. Disco Wanker made a rare and Master Class appearance.

 

Night Jar and his shriving of everyone’s favourite ice-sitter, Kenny the Rabid Mangy Dog, was classic and Victor-worthy, even. Col. Bloodnok upbraiding and down downing those from “shit hole countries” (except Norway) had us doing something similar in our pants. The Penguin imitating a penguin and Jangle Balls imitating “President” Ronald J. Dump (the “J” stands for “jenius”) took us to the wee smalls, so to speak, both in Hash time and in physical stature, no half pints intended. Fortunately the piss lasted all the way through to the bitter end of Social Drinking and all 125 of us, eventually, walked away contented.

 

So take heed Hashers, the next time you detect  a whiff of single knit jersey and a white bread bun in the air, keep it to yourself. It just won’t do to have all these Hashers on a Hash. It ruins the ambiance, not to mention the fromage. 

 

On on,

 

J.B.

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