Another warm night in our ongoing Indian summer and the expectant crowd of hashers were waiting for the pre-run address from the GM; it was a few minutes before I realised Dingo had started as I was waiting for her to stand up.
Anyway, there I was at the back being my normal inconspicuous self, when I was nominated run scribe due to some crazy story about my refusal to wear a bra. Antipodeans are obviously a few years behind the times and have not yet realised that the equality issue has moved on from gender to personal freedoms – my preference to wear knickers was completely ignored.
The hare Bhopal gave the usual run signage details for the benefit of visitors and we were off. We could tell the run had started by the fact that within one minute Pope, PF and Mad Cow were deep in conversation being overtaken by More On.
At the first check, I asked Butt Plug whether he enjoyed the roller disco, he replied that it was a great night apart from the roller skating; I thought this could be a good opener for the down-downs until finding out that he was RA for the night. And to be honest that’s about all of note that I can remember of the run until we arrived at the beer stop. I was thinking what a good idea this was until the gang planks leading to Bhopal’s barge got a bit tricky in the dark and my thoughts turned to what a brave fellow he is to manage them after every hash. I spent a few minutes speculating, whilst enjoying the rum and coke, how long Pope would last if he lived on a boat as he breaks a foot running in the park.
Talking nautical reminds me of my son’s first joke which at the time I thought was pretty good for a seven year old – ‘Why are pirates called pirates? Because they just arrrrr!’
That said, the run was pretty good, with the more erudite amongst us – some would say obsessive anorak types (Wacker), referring to a figure of eight run pattern with Hammersmith bridge as the fulcrum. I wouldn’t know about such things but remembered that when we crossed the bridge for a second time another antipodean hasher called on-on in the direction of the original out trail.
Which brings me to the down-downs which, quite frankly, are a bit of an issue from my point of view. Hashers will remember that they were held in a small room which could not hold all the attendees. Whilst this is to be expected from mismanagement, it resulted in the scribe not hearing a thing. But I had a cunning plan – I would ask the RA for a set of his notes to crib from after. Little did I expect a crumpled up Christmas menu with the spidery scribblings of a madmen all around the edge and in between such delights as ‘bacon wrapped cumberland sausages’ and ‘spicy coated king prawns’. Suffice to say the only names and associated misdemeanours I can decipher are (in no particular order): Optimist lining up for a ride behind All Fours at the roller disco, Table Whine being first to the drink stop, PF guilty of eating alone, Pope being propositioned by Eric (again), Dingo walking backwards into cars, visitor Crengi’s nude deli (?!), How Long being a fitness freak and attacking a pizza man and finally Muff Diver (so that’s his name), going across the bridge the wrong way round, upside down.
In my alcohol induced happiness towards the end of the night I took down Plug’s email address (in between ‘beer battered onion rings’ and ‘chocolate brownies’), thinking I would contact him to fill in the missing gaps but fortunately in the morning common sense prevailed and I returned to my usual indifference.
On On, Roadkill