“To Hell and Back”
Upon waking, I realized it was going to be “one of those days”. My left eye was sore and swollen. Was this an unlucky, nocturnal blow (not the type gents like) from Hooker from Hell (my long-term incumbent)? She denied any wrong-doing or night-time interference so I just put it down to a temporary alcohol shortage and proceeded to the A-site.
Somewhat later than usual the GM, through no fault of his own, called a circle for us to hear about the run ahead. It was announced that I was today’s scribe – then the terrible truth hit me: as part of my ongoing commercial transaction with Hooker from Hell I had negotiated 2 of her cigarettes as a contra against consideration in kind for a previous ex gratia advance for her monthly room rental. The deal was signed sealed and delivered but left my diminished cigarette portfolio sadly lacking for the extra two hours I would now have to spend post-run at the A-Site writing the Run Story. I was exposed! I asked myself: would my generous Hash friends relieve me of my dilemma? They did not let me down, although they must remain nameless as I fear for abuse of their generosity from sponging types.
The run commenced and we were quickly into wet, sodden, semi-reclaimed land. The men from the Low Countries felt at home and were quick to joke about broken dykes and so forth. However, being English and from the Land of Political Correctness, I could neither tolerate nor publicise in this Hash Sheet jokes about lesbianism which, in any case, has always left a nasty taste in my mouth. Accordingly, I stepped up a gear and left the homophobic Flemings in my wake.
After suffering the boggy pastures and Flemish humour, a group of us were then attacked by a swarm of Killer Bees (disguised as small wasps). We jointly exhaled in their general direction and they quickly dispersed – a true example of Hash camaraderie and teamwork.
Water buffalo and many dogs were then encountered which culminated in us coming to the “House from Hell”, guarded by a pack of savage dogs and inhabited by a bald, decrepit, gummy, old hag (not too dissimilar from our own Uncle Fester). We quickly bypassed this ugly grandmother of Medusa and, to our relief, things actually got better. The run became dryer and more scenic and there were no more hellish obstacles to overcome.
In fact, for me, it was a bit of a “landmark” run where I finally looked like I had almost returned to full fitness and could contend for my front-running mantle of yesteryear. Leading the way in with our regular front-runner, Jello Butt (that’s when Shit Through a Duck is on one of his professional runs), it was a photo-finish as to whether he or I came in first. The Patriotic Yank on-lookers obviously felt duty-bound to support their fellow-countryman’s claim that he had won by a short dick. However, being a lawyer and fully conversant with all Hash Rules and Regulations, I rightly claimed top spot on the podium due to being first in to touch the beer truck.
Anyway, even if the Yanks were right, if I could just give up smoking other persons’ cigarettes then I’m sure I could turn a short dick disadvantage into a long length in my favour and shall remain “Housewives’ Choice”; whereas Jello Butt, through his competitiveness and lack of checking and calling, may not be so popular. In fact, I would not say that he has any enemies but his Hash friends dislike him intensely.
On to the Circle with many icings, the most memorable of which were as follows:
1. 2 young male Virgins iced for not moving away from the beer truck all afternoon. A great start lads! Let’s keep it up for another 60 years.
2. Emperor Airhead (hereinafter called “the Bad RA”) iced the GM, GI Joe and Sheikh Me Me for supporting “back-checks” with the Bad RA purporting to set a new law prohibiting back-checks (but see below).
3. Beer policeman “Stan”, a Merchant Navy chef from Norway, was christened “Seaman Ella”. Evidently, he was consigned to the “Merch” for doing despicable things with roll mop herring as a trainee at a 5-star hotel in Oslo.
4. 3 Thai cracks respectively (if not respectfully) christened “Open Zoo”, “Tiger Zoo” and “Crocodile Farm” – conjuring up erotic images of “4 in a bed’ in most male Hasher’s minds with lots of scratching, gnashing and grinding of teeth.
5. General Kidney Wiper iced an embarrassed Bad RA for himself setting a back-check on a run in 1988, a skeleton in the closet conveniently overlooked by the Bad RA when icing the recent back-check supporters. Perhaps we have a future President of America right here in our own back yard.
6. Karamba iced in an attempt to improve his sperm count.
7. Beverly Hills Pink Cock iced for his 50th birthday and providing cake with suspiciously excessive cream which I politely declined having by then not only discovered Seaman Ella’s culinary history but also already had my daily intake of vitamin C (in tablet form).
Then a song from Seaman Stains entitled “Finger In” which, no doubt, would have been of professional interest to our absent but recently discovered, resident gynaecologist, Lord Lucan – more on that at a later date.
The GM then thanked everybody for coming despite the weather and after the Hash Hymn it was off to TQ1 for excellent beer, hot dogs and someone else’s cigarettes.
On On
F the Truth