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Run 1311
Sunday 23rd September 2007
The Mean Streets of Persley
Hare One Liner and litter of kids.
Ghost Writer Pigiron
The King is Dead! Long Live the King! The sun shone briefly this week on the New Order. Following the landslide elections at the AGM (read all abaat it on the website) the new GM stepped into a rebellious circle to announce new exciting policies and a better deal for single lesbian Tasmanian fathers but no tax cuts. Sergio, for it was he, immediately stunned his new subjects by having absolutely no idea if any beer was going to be provided. Apparently, under the cover of last week’s monsoon, 3d bit vanished leaving her number two hash beer in command. Trouble is, no one can remember his name, not even him. The GM’s assurances that Sans “o” would bring supplies and guarantee any deposits on bottles did little to calm the crowd who immediately formed a queue outside Tesco. This crisis made it even more vital to reach the beer stop where supplies had been brought in by the hare.
To cap an already disappointing start, Sergio awarded the job of hash horn to Stainless. An act of pitiless cruelty for her ghost writer if there ever was one.
Looking excitedly around for a glimpse of the new celebrity RA few noticed that Numbskull was standing in the circle holding a tankard of fizzy. Apparently he was re-elected to the post last week on a wave of euphoric indifference and took the result seriously. Such is democracy, another year of quiet desperation. He started off the new year in his usual opaque manner, awarding the pre-run down to the GM for reasons known only to himself.
Once the runners had set off One Liner escorted the walkie talkies across the river in a scene reminiscent of “Paint Your Wagon” with marauding bands of ankle biters riding point while Aunty Pasta wrestled with a covered double baby wagon and Sans “o” looked on indulgently.
The hash normally avoids the North bank of the Don and today we were reminded why. Leave the slums of Persley for the dark, dank woods beyond and you will come across the set for an apocalyptic war movie. Mysterious ruins pockmark the area, strange stretches of abandoned tarmac lead nowhere, nasty organic things lurk in the bushes. One particularly bleak clearing resembles a Roman Circus, left to crumble into ruin once the last lion had finished his lunch.
The walkie talkies, being left to their own devices and a detailed map, immediately became lost and spent most of the morning circling Tesco like a bunch of shopper moths. To their joy they were joined by Bruce Almighty, Batty and (I think) Tonguey, also lost while shortcutting. As for Stainless who was supposed to be leading the hash…well words wisely fail me.
Thanks to the hash being set mainly on tarmac in a well populated area with street signs most of the hash made it back to the magic Walled Garden to receive the new proclamations from the GM. Viz: 1) hash handles will not be awarded until someone has actually thought of/earned a suitable name, as opposed to the practice of everyone standing around in the circle making silly suggestions. 2) the RA will only award two downs, in addition to the hare, thereby avoiding the need to think. Idle bastard.
Implementing the new diktat Numbskull awarded the following:
Life Boats and Coxsin for returning to the hash without cheese. T Rex Cock for trying to sneak back once a new Hash Beer had been safely appointed. All Because for disturbing the RA’s Sunday morning wank. (Sorry Numbskull, there have to be at least two people in the bed for it to qualify as a bonk.)
On On
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