The Morning after. 18 March 2008
Where to start? Here at my laptop computer, quite amazing technology, what ever happened to a pen and paper!
Anyway nursing a slight hangover, and having enjoyed a mid morning shag with my young old lady, and with a coffee in front of me, here we go.
A fine run site provided by Mother nature and the Seaman team, and a happy crowd of hashers out to enjoy Saint Patrick’s day saw the usual motley collection of bikes, cars and the ancient bus in a secluded and perfect laager, where the hairs had laid on a superb scoff.
A quick, business like orientation by his arse Holiness Spaghetti Head, and a few words from Seaman Stains, plus a nice smile from his missus, saw the pack head off up a slight incline.
Ten minutes later I’m asking myself what am I doing, sweating and struggling up what seemed to be a permanent incline, sand underfoot, sweat stinging the eyes, and hurdling a steeplechase of a course with fallen eucalyptus sapling put down purposely by our Oirish hare. He’s definitely for the ice, I note to myself darkly.
Suddenly a mood change. A pair of pretty girl runners sprint gaily past, chatting about the bottle of Whisky they are bound to find.
What’s this? A watercourse to cross! “Fuck that”, sez I, as the FRB’s jump down into the stinky looking water. “Pussie’s!,” one of them calls, as myself and a few of the smarter types continue along to the convenient bridge which we knew was going to be there.
I was struggling a bit, couldn’t get into my stride properly. Actually I’d been in the hospital for a couple of days recovering from a horrible dose of the shits, but you don’t need all these details.
Anyway fifty minutes later saw me stagger into the circle area, gasping for cold beer. Soon got myself sorted out, and received a tasty drop of the hard stuff from Seaman Stains.
The virgins were invited into the circle, some sweet things too, one particularly wearing tight pants.
Seaman swallow handed out a couple of hash photo’s, one to Retard Wanker who placed his picture in the handle of the ice bucket, sort of inviting himself. Truly well named that man. Sure enough, he was soon cooling off in his favourite seat.
Actually he was in there a couple of times, one session particularly long while Chicken Fucker, by now well in his cups, was carrying on in his usual way having lost the plot, and forgetting all about the poor sob in the bucket.
Charlie Manson was called into he circle where he received his 30th Hare T shirt.
Well done Charlie!
Then a young lady from Chiang Mai, a Muay Thai boxer no less, with the name of Beautiful Box, was called in by Sir Airhead, and interrogated as to how the Chiang Mai Hash is famously frugal with their Ice supplies. Think Tom rather fancied a spot of personal Martial art coaching from the lass!
Anyway, some courteous type who had carried her over a leach infested stream was iced for being a gentleman.
Lone Wolf won a bottle of Jamesons, for running the proper false trail. It was noted that he didn’t open it.
Next in was a tall willowy thing called Paris, who, rumour has it, is very well hung, and shags her boy friend, a Scandi named Scar with two T’s. She downed her beer with obvious relish, prettily smacking her licks.
Scar later took over the circle and iced the pony tailed Texan, Dick the Boy Wonder, who had earlier sang us a great song about large testicles. Perhaps he’d been spying on Paris, the lovely poofter?
Chicken Nugget was iced for scoffing too many toffee bars, his inebriated Dad warning him to brush his teeth when he got home.
There was one extremely fit old fart called in, who confessed to being 78 years young, still going strong too, amazing.
Redcoat sang us a St Paddy’s day song, while the scribe, along with a few other sort of Irish sorts, panted and wheezed our way through an Irish jig.
The Hare then sang us an Irish ditty about some geezer forgetting he was dead.
He was iced for his troubles along with his missus who flashed us a perve at her pink panties. (Or maybe they were white, and it’s her time of the month).
Free Willy and Flipper was invited to sit down, can’t remember exactly why.
Like wise Sir Airhead, Redcoat and S. Chicken Fucker enjoyed a seat.
A great day out. I earlier commented to Seaman Stains about the huge amount of paper marking the tail, and himself with only one arm. He confessed to having four young blokes from his missus’s family assisting. Well done to the Seaman family.
On On!
Barnacle Bollox