Blondes 

In a parallel universe, Knickerless is hammering back home when a lamp-post leaps out of the darkness and attacks her car.  Before losing consciousness she grabs the Blondefone and punches in the emergency code (to be continued)…

Arriving early at the A-site, BNB and I had plenty of time to help the hares, V.V. and Mr. Sheen, lay the tripwires they had thoughtfully provided to add to the Circle entertainment. Visiting luminaries include the legendary Sir Wanda, later to be icily recognized for near-Nordic feats of rape and pillage by envious GM Flying Frog.  Welcome back Sir Wanda, and may your knees not hold you up much longer (er, unfortunate choice of words: Ed). I irritate Poncho and Peler by brandishing the multiply-laundered Free Run Ticket they have steadfastly refused in previous weeks to believe I had mislaid. Knickerless is proudly recounting how she had to purchase an entire new hashing ensemble on the way to the run (incorporating, I notice, the word “Diesel” interesting placed above her anal sphincter).  This is a fairly blonde thing to do, and Karamba it is who suffers the necessary running-shoe down-down. And then, all of a sudden I am forced to drag my creaking and protesting 92 kg frame through pineapple, tapioca, coconut groves and elephant grass for the best part of an hour.  Checks are few and far between, and so are most of us. To ease the pain, I consider words containing strings of four or more letters in their correct alphabetical order (the way people do).  I catch a rare glimpse of the Big-Nosed Bastard, disappearing across an ocean of pineapple like a kipper on the horizon, and “superstud” springs to mind.  Nowadays I have to settle for “understudy”, while Energiser Bunny in front of me unwittingly contributes “gymnophoria” (the sensation that you are being mentally undressed).

Wah-wah-wah goes the Blondalarm as the Blondemobile screeches to a halt alongside the carnage, disgorging Bottleblond Karamba, Bogusblond E.T., Blondeboiler Pissed Pole Dancer and their youthful assistant, Blondboy Allah’s Arsehole (who was born when he was 40).  Bottleblond flexes his hair and wrenches the entire driver’s door off, revealing Knickerless slumped in a pool of blood (to be continued)…

Subsequently, Sir Airhead is dismayed by the woeful choral standards of the Pattaya Hash, and reminds us that “singing is a duty, not a privilege”.  Apple’s Turnover and Drippy share the bucket in recognition of this simple truth, but nothing can stop the Arsenal boy still smiling at Man Utd’s FA Cup demise (spare a thought for Mancunian Big Nosed Bastard, or rather, don’t). In the real world, it transpires that Odd-Job has been watching a few too many episodes of CSI, and had discovered a corpse while recce’ing last week’s A-site. After much soul-searching (theirs, not the corpse’s), our public-spirited Viking decided after a mere 48 hours to inform Pattaya’s finest.  Who, on being told that 120+ uncontrollable hashers would be trampling all over their crime scene in a few days, decided to dispense with the yellow tape and write the whole thing off as another indecipherable farang incident.  This was of course brought to Sir Airhead’s attention, and Odd-Job duly iced with all his Fjord Escorts.   

"Where are you bleeding from?” shouts the intrepid but dentally-challenged Nordic mason, hopping around on one leg and doing funny handshakes.  “Yorkshire originally”, replies Knickerless (to be continued)…

Despite the need for exercise, it was adjudged a good runner’s run by King Yao Yao, and a minimum of ice-time endured by V.V. and Mr. Sheen. Earlier, Sunflower had done her raffle thing, her less-than-dulcet tones fearfully interpreted by Festering Streaker as “Shut up or I will cut your cock off!”, and Mrs. Head had issued a more mellifluous warning to the kamoy sapporot amongst the local cracks. Although the Kloster was by now beginning to bite, I recall Poncho the Pervert picking up the last Spanish version of the Hash Book, and only No More Cum being left among the leavers.  And of course, Arse-holeo receiving Hash Shit (and being assaulted by the rejected down-downs of over 20 cracks) for being Arse-holeo.  There was also something about a pink jeep involving notorious gay trio Free Willy, Fini the Faggot and Terminal Four.  Oh, and the entire Jungle Hash, led by senior sewer rat Jello Butt on ice for sabotaging the Disco Bus. At this point there was, I thought, an eclipse of the moon, but it turned out to be nothing more than the vast bulk of Planet Clit Face slowly orbiting between the beer truck's lighting rig and my clipboard.

Using his superpower Blonde specs, E.T. immediately notices the rapidly-deepening pool of blood in the twisted foot well.  Allah’s Arsehole waves his hand in front of the prone and concussed Knickerless: “How many fingers am I putting up?” he yells (to be continued)…

The Good R.A. Sir Chicken Fucker, bored with his title, attempts unsuccessfully to ice the kids (Chicken Nugget is having none of that), and then takes it out on cheapskate Knob Marley for providing his schoolgirl protégée with a Hash Asia ’92 shirt produced while she was still in embryo. Norwegian orienteer Peler is trying to commandeer his beloved clipboard before the Circle has ended (and tough shit boys, they’ve given me another Free Run for scribing this)!  Quickly then, beer police on ice for preventing the short guys from reaching the drinks, Angel Fly and Sunflower bafflingly take part in the Virgins’ Circle, Sir Chicken Fucker and Seaman Stains do their vocal things, and that’s it! Happy Hour at Flying Frog’s was, I am sure, as excellent and generous as ever, but unfortunately my quest for a consecutive five-letterer made it impossible to attend. “Forstuvning”, the vernacular Danish term for anatomical distortion, is pushing it, but it does appear in one English dictionary.  Any distorted Danes out there who can confirm this?

“Christ!” moans Knickerless, “I must be paralyzed from the waist down!”

Boom Boom & On On!
Ringworm