“First of all, I got to thank the new Hash scribe for
letting me back on again to write the preamble to the December 2016 Hash. This
guy, he’s gonna do great. He knows words, he’s got the best words. There may be
someone with tomatoes looking to throw ‘em at him ‘cause they don’t like his
words. If you see ‘em, knock the crap out of ‘em will ya? Seriously, just knock
the hell. I promise you, I will pay the legal fees.
Last few Hash elections have made some bad choices, some very, very bad choices. They’ve been getting killed, people have been laughing at ‘em. The Hash has been going to hell.
And I gotta tell ya folks, I gotta tell ya, these Hasher folks in general are some bad dudes, some seriously bad hombres.
They’re bringing false trails, they’re bringing down-downs, they’re pissheads, and some of ‘em, I assume, are sane and sober people.
But I love Hashers. I have a great relationship with people from the Hashing community. And these guys, they’re simply terrific, they're gonna do great. They’re gonna fairly but intelligently do many good trails. They love me, I love them. They’re going to be very successful. They can do anything. They are going to take back the Hash, and make Hashing great again.”
- United States President-Elect and God-Emperor Donald J. Trump.
The setting was Santiburi Golf Course. The setting was chilly, overcast and gray as all fuck, which ‘triggered’ in this scribe wistful memories concerning life in old Blighty, also known as the (perhaps) soon-to-be-less-than-United Kingdom, also known as the ever so slightly damp corpse of the British Empire. Said corpse’s post-mortis muscle twitchings have left the world several things, both good and bad, one of those being the network of Hash House Harriers that now spans the globe. I will let you decide for yourselves whether the Hash is a good or a bad result of our Imperial ambitions.
Last few Hash elections have made some bad choices, some very, very bad choices. They’ve been getting killed, people have been laughing at ‘em. The Hash has been going to hell.
And I gotta tell ya folks, I gotta tell ya, these Hasher folks in general are some bad dudes, some seriously bad hombres.
They’re bringing false trails, they’re bringing down-downs, they’re pissheads, and some of ‘em, I assume, are sane and sober people.
But I love Hashers. I have a great relationship with people from the Hashing community. And these guys, they’re simply terrific, they're gonna do great. They’re gonna fairly but intelligently do many good trails. They love me, I love them. They’re going to be very successful. They can do anything. They are going to take back the Hash, and make Hashing great again.”
- United States President-Elect and God-Emperor Donald J. Trump.
The setting was Santiburi Golf Course. The setting was chilly, overcast and gray as all fuck, which ‘triggered’ in this scribe wistful memories concerning life in old Blighty, also known as the (perhaps) soon-to-be-less-than-United Kingdom, also known as the ever so slightly damp corpse of the British Empire. Said corpse’s post-mortis muscle twitchings have left the world several things, both good and bad, one of those being the network of Hash House Harriers that now spans the globe. I will let you decide for yourselves whether the Hash is a good or a bad result of our Imperial ambitions.
The time was close to 3pm, at which point most people
arrived on time, which is somewhat unusual for anything that happens between
Mae Sai and Narathiwat. There was a turnout of around fifty people, which may
or may not have had something to do with the fact that there was free food on
offer.
The festivities commenced with a talk given by Virgin Bruce,
now known as the Invisible Man for his absenteeism from hashes over the past
few months. The talk was somewhat delayed as first, due to some in attendance
farting around, not listening, and acting like the average Thai student, which
gave this scribe (and choir) an opportunity to get warmed up with a rendition
of “Why are we waiting? We could be fornicating”.
Bruce gave a demonstration of things like how arrows work,
something which (as people commented at the time) positively blew the minds of
all in attendance – which is no bad thing at all; as Neil DeGrasse Tyson
recently informed us, everyone should have their mind blown once a day.
And then we were off, the frontrunners being both scribes past and present, who have previously shared several experiences together, including getting lost somewhere near the White Temple, held up by a Royal Motorcade, and coming in DFL (Dead Fucking Last), on which by way of celebration this scribe, feeling his Muay Thai was becoming rather rusty, decided to practice with a worthy sparring partner, this sparring partner being Mother Earth herself. This experience was no less memorable or without engaging literary discussions, an example of which went as follows:
Bad Hobbit: “Fair is foul and foul is fair, hover through the fog and filthy air”
Pussy Rainbow: “Where was that from, Game of Thrones or Tolkien?”
Bad Hobbit: “Neither. It was from Shakespeare. From MacBeth”.
Pussy Rainbow: “DON’T SAY MACBETH! Say ‘the Scottish play’, or you’ll be cursed!
Bad Hobbit: (shouting) “MacBeth MacBeth MACBETH!!!!! Tell you what, if the name MacBeth is indeed cursed, may the curse strike *you dead* . . . see, nothing happened.”
The group of front-runners was completed by the lovely Many Men A Night, and Balls Up, all four of whom took the Long Trail while most others p̶u̶s̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶o̶u̶t̶ decided, which was totally understandable, to take the short trail. We went up and down hills, through fields plowed and buffalo-stomped to all buggery trying to solve the cross-checks, including some exceptionally sneaky ones from Bruce, which this scribe only discovered more or less by chance.
After finishing the long variant of the trail (which we may or may not have done *entirely* correctly according to what I’ve been told), we caught up with, and promptly passed, all the l̶a̶z̶y̶ ̶b̶a̶s̶t̶a̶r̶d̶s̶ short-trailers.
It was shortly after that that we caught up with a massive fucking herd of buffalo – the second time that a hash has been threatened by buffalo in this scribe’s experience, and the second time that this scribe has had a problem with a buffalo in the non-literal sense of the term (In Thai culture, “kwai” is a word for a slow, stupid arse with no manners, which in light of events just over a month ago, would appear to be rather apt).
Fortunately, this scribe, undeterred, simply circled around the herd, keeping a wide berth, ignoring the menacing waves of their horns, and pelted home to victory, despite managing to initially go to completely the wrong house, thus earning stares from the local people living there, wondering why there were a load of hung over, sweaty hashers suddenly farting about on their driveways.
After waiting for a while for everyone to get there, it was over to the new temporary GM, with Frozen Ring looking on with some consternation. Her first circle went well, if by ‘well’ you mean ever so slightly rusty, hindered by unfamiliarity with the procedure for holding a circle, but remedied by lots of helpful hints from all in attendance. There were plenty of frozen arses on the ice, including Shocking, Chiang Rai HHH’s first ever ‘spiritual advisor’, and Virgin Bruce, who mercifully did not on this occasion get his bare arse out for his time on the ice.
When it came to the turn of the four front-runners, the two scribes ended up one on top of each other, due to a bad case of overcrowding in the centre of the circle - too many big arses, not enough space on the ice - in other words a predicament that the average set of polar bears would be able to relate to exponentially well.
And then we were off, the frontrunners being both scribes past and present, who have previously shared several experiences together, including getting lost somewhere near the White Temple, held up by a Royal Motorcade, and coming in DFL (Dead Fucking Last), on which by way of celebration this scribe, feeling his Muay Thai was becoming rather rusty, decided to practice with a worthy sparring partner, this sparring partner being Mother Earth herself. This experience was no less memorable or without engaging literary discussions, an example of which went as follows:
Bad Hobbit: “Fair is foul and foul is fair, hover through the fog and filthy air”
Pussy Rainbow: “Where was that from, Game of Thrones or Tolkien?”
Bad Hobbit: “Neither. It was from Shakespeare. From MacBeth”.
Pussy Rainbow: “DON’T SAY MACBETH! Say ‘the Scottish play’, or you’ll be cursed!
Bad Hobbit: (shouting) “MacBeth MacBeth MACBETH!!!!! Tell you what, if the name MacBeth is indeed cursed, may the curse strike *you dead* . . . see, nothing happened.”
The group of front-runners was completed by the lovely Many Men A Night, and Balls Up, all four of whom took the Long Trail while most others p̶u̶s̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶o̶u̶t̶ decided, which was totally understandable, to take the short trail. We went up and down hills, through fields plowed and buffalo-stomped to all buggery trying to solve the cross-checks, including some exceptionally sneaky ones from Bruce, which this scribe only discovered more or less by chance.
After finishing the long variant of the trail (which we may or may not have done *entirely* correctly according to what I’ve been told), we caught up with, and promptly passed, all the l̶a̶z̶y̶ ̶b̶a̶s̶t̶a̶r̶d̶s̶ short-trailers.
It was shortly after that that we caught up with a massive fucking herd of buffalo – the second time that a hash has been threatened by buffalo in this scribe’s experience, and the second time that this scribe has had a problem with a buffalo in the non-literal sense of the term (In Thai culture, “kwai” is a word for a slow, stupid arse with no manners, which in light of events just over a month ago, would appear to be rather apt).
Fortunately, this scribe, undeterred, simply circled around the herd, keeping a wide berth, ignoring the menacing waves of their horns, and pelted home to victory, despite managing to initially go to completely the wrong house, thus earning stares from the local people living there, wondering why there were a load of hung over, sweaty hashers suddenly farting about on their driveways.
After waiting for a while for everyone to get there, it was over to the new temporary GM, with Frozen Ring looking on with some consternation. Her first circle went well, if by ‘well’ you mean ever so slightly rusty, hindered by unfamiliarity with the procedure for holding a circle, but remedied by lots of helpful hints from all in attendance. There were plenty of frozen arses on the ice, including Shocking, Chiang Rai HHH’s first ever ‘spiritual advisor’, and Virgin Bruce, who mercifully did not on this occasion get his bare arse out for his time on the ice.
When it came to the turn of the four front-runners, the two scribes ended up one on top of each other, due to a bad case of overcrowding in the centre of the circle - too many big arses, not enough space on the ice - in other words a predicament that the average set of polar bears would be able to relate to exponentially well.
Everyone handled their time in the circle as well as could be
expected, especially as the new choir’s memory for down-down songs was one of
the things that went fairly smoothly on this occasion, remembering all the
words to a variety of songs word for word, note for note, including to the GM’s
dismay the traditional Hash songs about providing suction to an equine private
part. Mr Paul and co also did an amazing job, providing enough food to make the
average class of Thai students stop complaining about being hungry for
approximately one minute or so.
There was drinking, there was dancing, and at at least one point during the night, there were actual fireworks – though someone should probably tell Pussy Rainbow that fireworks are supposed to be set alight outside, as opposed to in a confined space, inside someone's house, while sat on the shitter - - this scribe has yet to be informed of the full story, but that promises to be quite the entertaining yarn from the previous scribe in the aftermath of the next Hash.
There was drinking, there was dancing, and at at least one point during the night, there were actual fireworks – though someone should probably tell Pussy Rainbow that fireworks are supposed to be set alight outside, as opposed to in a confined space, inside someone's house, while sat on the shitter - - this scribe has yet to be informed of the full story, but that promises to be quite the entertaining yarn from the previous scribe in the aftermath of the next Hash.
No comments:
Post a Comment