(Courtesy Brown Finger)
Two weeks ago, good old Skid gallantly stepped up to the Mark at short notice to set a run for those
of us who were not fortunate enough to be joining our brother hashers on the Burma outstation. I
recall it well. It was very long, lots of circle checks, lots of shiggy, and a number of water crossings
with swirling depths the like of which I had never before experienced. And then there was the on-on
at one of the two German restaurants that Skiddie likes to frequent. What I remember most, though,
is how much I enjoyed that particular run; it made a welcome change, but not the kind that I would
want to experience every week, and Skid Mark agreed, not for a long time hence, he said – too long,
too wet, too shiggy to do again anytime soon . . .
So, we came to the Skid Mark / Tulips run with hope of something different, maybe a short, dry,
scenic run, with the odd gentle hill to keep the heart rate up. After all, he wouldn’t be doing the
same again for a long time . . . No he wouldn’t, would he?
As we set off on strangely familiar terrain, the two craftiest of all FRB’s, Graven and Chucky Doo,
stayed at the back, conserving energy, waiting for the first few checks to be kicked out for them. Did
they have inside info, I was thinking? Is this going to be a long one after all? As I was drifting away on
a cloud of ominous, ugly imaginings, a nervous Humperdick led the way, yelling for me to pass him
– he was getting a nose bleed from the pressure of leading the pack – but I thought I would further
his FRB education and let him do the checking up front. And to my surprise, and I expect to his, he
got them all right – well right until Chucky and Graven decided to do something for a change; they
breezed gently passed us all as we checked a circle about 3ks into the run and hit true trail without
breaking sweat – devious bastards.
So by then I was pretty sure that the trail would be long; Gravy doesn’t usually hit the front until half
way, so it had to be at least 6k, didn’t it? But what about the terrain, would we be getting our feet
wet like last time. The answer to that, dear hashers, is most definitely yes. Off we went across acre
after acre of wet rice fields, thankfully on trails that seemed not to destroy the farmer’s crop, where
only our plates of meat got wet, nothing more delicate higher up. So maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as
last time . . .
And through more of the endless green and wet fields we went. We were running on strips of white
paper fixed to the greenery at around chest height. It was a very visible trail and on several occasions
we were able to see the paper hanging far away on the true trail from the check itself. We began to
play an amusing game of I Spy With My Little Eye . . . And then we hit a Wimp Rambo split; I knew
things were only going get much worse when I saw the wily Graven slip off the pack and take the
Wimp trail dragging Angry Inch with him. What the F. . .? Surely he must have inside info and didn’t
want to run the risk of not getting back alive! My already grim imaginings for the rest of the trail
were growing gloomier by the second.
And so it came to pass that for all the hare’s protestations that he wouldn’t do it again, not at least
for some time to come, we came upon a set of lovely orange Skiddie Sticks, oh joy. But the pack
was close together, and we all began to search back on the trail. But where the hell was it? Through
abandoned, overgrown, shiggied concrete roads we ran, checking, checking, but we couldn’t find
true trail, and after five minutes or so we were beginning to think we never would and that we
would have to wing it back to the A. Ah, but thank god for eagle-eyed Shit House, who spied a thin
strip of white hanging from a bush . . . but on the other side of a horrible, slimy, dirty, rat-infested,
shit-filled dyke, where undoubtedly vast shoals of those very small fish that swim up your penis
were lying in wait for an unwary hasher to pass through. But hold on, this might not be so bad after
all; Skiddy had given us rope and there was a place that we might, just might be able to cross. Well,
we had no choice but to try or fail the trail, and we weren’t going to do that. HRA, Chucky, Mr Poo
appeared to get across with a lot of stretching and pulling but with only minor damp-damage. But, of
course, as my turn came around the whole bridge-type thing collapsed under my enormous weight
and there I was, yet again, up to my fat armpits in watery crap, with little slippery thingies trying to
find a way into my underpants. Right, enough said about the water crossing, the type that we were
definitely not going to do again anytime soon . . .
We headed for home . . . surely we would be heading for home now . . . More rice fields, more
wetness of the feet, more shiggy, more distance until Chucky, Mr Poo and I fell upon a circle check
off of which we found a single piece of paper, hanging from a tree, leading us over a bridge, but
there wasn’t any more paper. What the F . . .?
We had been hoodwinked! HRA, Horny Asshole and Alice caught us up while we were sniffing the
trees on the other side of the bridge, and found trail, and they were off like weaselly little ferrets
chasing hares down a hare hole (do hares have holes?). As I began to follow the sly, slimy, rats up
front, I caught site of the cars at the A, so I relaxed and tried to catch up with Alice for a chat on the
way in, but feeling my heavy breath on his delicate neck he decided to run for home . . . unsociable
racing bastard!
Anyway, so Skiddie, with the help of Tulips, had done exactly what he said he wasn’t going to do
again, at least not in the near future. It turned out to be a long run (about 7.5k), a very wet one, one
full of shiggy and rice fields . . . but I guess it was – after I had showered of sorts and changed out of
my fishy pants – a largely enjoyable run, and the circle was fun, and despite early resistance Chuck
Wao did eventually take the circle to lash the hares to shreds with his ever-more-savage tongue.
And then, it was off to a German restaurant . . . again, but the one that we didn’t go to after Skiddies
last run. And it was great . . . again; pork roll, sausage, ham, ice cream, as much as you could eat, and
there was “Das Boot”, and Mr Poo had Fishy Fingers to his right who dedicated himself to drinking as
much of the Chang inside the boot as he possibly could, and Mr Poo had to pay for it, twice, and at
last the elusive Graven had to pay for one too – yipeeee! And then Fishy Fingers fell over at the Hash
Pub, absolutely pissed out of his tiny Pee-wee Herman head.
Great stuff Skiddy / Tulips! Let’s do it all again, but later, hey? Much later, hey? Give the boys a
sodding break, hey!
Courtesy Alice:-
Wet Wet Wet
What do Skidmarks, hashes out Sankampaeng way and German food have in common? LIQUID! Both kinds in fact – the type you wash in and the type that buggers your liver. And both were much in evidence last Monday.
The extreme distance from CNX meant Superman was late but we missed the rain showers over the city. Despite that, most were pretty sodden by close of play.
Call Me
Skiddie’s hare brief was interupted by a call from Snail Trail so even more ice time for the half German was assured. The rope and machetes used by the hares in their trail laying were brandished and a collective tightening of sphicters from the pack ensued.
The run was flat, soggy and often devious. Humperdick confounded his critics from the off with correct decisions at check after check and only relinquished his FRB status when the trail finally crossed some streams and rivers at nasty points rather than just making circle checks along one bank or the other but continuing straight in the main.
Chucky, Brown Finger, HRA and even yer ‘umble scribe shared leading duties in turn along and thru the paddies until the Skiddie sticks to end all Skiddie sticks bunched us up, stopped us dead and chewed most of us up!
The Water is Wide
The pack checked for ages along the right side of a stream to no avail when suddenly paper was spotted on the other bank. Two bits infact, altho no-one wanted to believe it.
ChuckWao and Bus Bitch showed great agility to get over using SM’s green rope and two steep branches in place from about half way across. HD did similar, using his reach to good effect, his huge bulk fatally weakening the smaller branch alas! HRA just ploughed into the drink and Horney Monkey followed soon after. Fishy Finger was spritely, I fell in as the smaller branch snapped and Dogshit was seen thru the ordeal by the public spirited FF.
Back in the circle Doggie was outed by Poo for having a boy band ring tone. Tiptoe and Skidmarks were condemned for being two half Germans put together to make too many Germans. Blanks have been drawn about the rest of the circle until Gunter’s German Sausage On On, with the boot doing the rounds and some very hetero drinking from Fish Finger and others. All in all a challenging, pretty creative run with a variety of water crossings, some of them feasible! The ONON food and rehydration topped off a superb male hash.