Being (a) an infrequent visitor to the PH3 (b) in the latter stages of dementia and (c) visually and orally impaired, just how was I lumbered with this job? Well, I was minding my business when the circle was called and the GM (called the Fat Frog I believe) asked, “who likes Belgians?” Well it is universally known that nobody likes that miserable country, not even the Belgians who want to give it away, so I voiced my opinion. This was rewarded with the job of scribe.
My first thought was what language to use? I seemed to be surrounded by ‘randy Scandies’ and Francophiles, so trying to have a sensible conversation in God’s given tongue was difficult. Anyway, English it is so here goes. Apologies if I get some of the names wrong.
The GM started proceedings with the call for new shoes. There were 4 or 5 sinners, one particularly charming young lady with new micro shorts. Did you think what I was thinking? The hares suggested we follow pink or yellow paper, which was completely ignored by the FRBs who shortly after the start led the whole pack astray by following old, white paper. A foretaste of things to come?
Anyway, the correct trail was eventually found, so off we set ploughing across flat, boring tapioca fields and through the occasional wood. We skirted a reservoir, but no use was made of that and eventually headed towards the only hill in the region. Surely, we had to climb that but no, a short way up the tarmac road the trail dived off to the left into yet more tapioca fields. It was about this time that one of the randy scandies came past puffing like an old shunter. Surely, I thought, he will not last until the end of the run. He did. Just.
On arrival back at the run site after about an hour, Lord Lucan was strutting his stuff all clean and changed. It seems that his navigational skills had managed to shortcut half the run and he had led half the pack with him. Who would fly with this man?
And so to the circle, which started with the icing of the hares for what was universally acclaimed to be a s**t run. This was followed by Seaman Swallow (it seems that one does make a summer), who promptly iced a Belgian (Dog Pimp) for being just that, or was it for not singing. Hell Boy was also iced for talking in the circle.
The names of the sinners were provided by assorted people who had gathered round the beer truck like flies round s**t. I think they are collectively known as the Black Sheep, failed NZ ruby players I suppose – there are lots of them. Anyway, they were nattering all night long (the price of sugar, etc.), which made it extremely difficult to hear what was going on, but here goes.
The Fat Frog then took over and iced a number of people (Scarlet and Lone Wolf) for being stupid. A “no brainer’ really. This was followed by a welcome to the visitors including myself.
The circle was then taken over by Sir Dickhead (since amended to Airhead), who for some reason seems to have a fixation for the bottom of a beer carton. Strange man. A couple of visitors were iced for defecating on someone else’s vehicle and it was politely suggested to one non-drinker that he was in the wrong organization!
He then turned his attention to the hares who, quote “had f****d up everything except for the extravagant picnic for themselves and their entourage”. This was some distance from the run site, so the starving masses could only look on in envy while they stuffed themselves with fine food and drink. Specific problems with the run were the pathetic signs, poor distance estimation that led a number of people astray and lots of paper everywhere but on the trail. The lead hare (the second was a virgin) was duly awarded the Hash S**t and was allowed to cool off in the ice bath.
The same fate befell a tall wimp called Brett Trip who had donned waterproofs in anticipation of sitting on ice. The opportunity was taken to provide him with a Hash name and Phoney C**t won the day.
The next to be iced was Rear Gunner and friend (Pinkaboo), who appeared to be impaled on him. Lucky man! This was followed by down downs for the virgins (it seemed about 14), the returnees, who numbered about 20% of the circle and Seaman Swallow for her 200th run.
The circle was then turned over to Sir Chicken F***er, who’s distinguishing trait is to circle his victims like a cannibal waiting for his next meal to cook. The first sinner was Lord Lucan who, despite immense wealth, refused to pay for a sausage from an impoverished Thai vendor. The next was another private party, dubbed “The Last Supper”. Karamba was Jesus and other participants included Hell Boy, Scarlet, Lone Wolf, Bottomless Pit, etc. This was followed by a various people including:
- Three lesbian toy boys who were offered vice protection lessons.
- The C**t family, comprising Miserable and Phoney
- Two romantically inclined couples, (the fairer halves fed female Viagra so that their partners could have a good time tonight). This was well deserved because they were noticed on the run holding hands, frolicking through the tulip (tapioca) fields.
- The hares, who were given a rendering of “Oobla De Oobla Da” before disappearing down to Boy’s Town.
- The Belgians for organizing a private bus and for being Belgians
- The Black Sheep (at last!) for incessant talking in the circle
- A couple of virgins and 2 other ‘ice lovers’.
- VV, for returning with 1,000 condoms, 2 of which were missing, presumably used on the way home.
Finally, the On On was advertised at TQ1, with the prospect of roast racks of lamb served up by nude waitresses.
The proceedings ended with a rendering of the Hash Hymn, ably led by Seaman Stains and the Hash ensemble of various castrata.
On On
Captain Prickhard