It was well and truly dark by the time the run began and the bush was lit by a bobby dazzler of a full moon. The late start was because half a dozen hashers have been participating in extra curricular activities – and surreptitiously improving their fitness – by being legs for Sammy the Dragon. (Clearly the extra Monday night rehearsal for the dragon didn’t make much difference come float parade time. Sammy looked more twisted than a middle intestine, several times, during his lap round
The late start also left 12 mile resident Ranger in the dark, literally. Hoping to cadge a lift with a passing hash car the bold lass sat on the side of the road, with the hash box of cups, for a good half an hour without so much as a pickup –not even from a burly truckie or three looking for some company on the long and lonely road to port headland!
Ranger was subsequently charged the following Monday – a run which ended in every hashers idea of heaven; in a brewery.
Blondie enlisted the help/hindrance of Red to set the September 3rd run. It was actually the attraction of Red’s wheels (yes the Suburu has four, despite reports to the contrary!). Early on it was the Hares’ wheels that showed the way, rather than the (very) random flinging of flour in the parks and wildernesses that are Broome’s mangrove cloaked foreshore.
The Suburu has since taken on mystical proportions – a la the flying car in Harry Potter – because the wheel tracks lead over a deep concrete lined ditch, which had short-legged hashers (of which there are many) leaping like they were trying out for Beijing 2008.
An hour later, the foreshore was echoing to the triumphant hash call of Brewery, brewery, brewery…… and the runners powered through the sand towards Matso’s.
Blondie’s employer generously allowed us to sit at the Captain’s Table, surrounded by legitimate diners who cast a few ‘nasturtiums’ as they looked us over. As the jugs of boutique beer were refilled, the hash song was sung in whispered tones and down downs adhered to the ‘responsible serving of alcohol’ policy. Then there was a feast of threadfin salmon, chips and salad.
The entire range of Matso’s beer was sampled and declared lip-smackingly quaffable. Some, it must be said, quaffed quite a lot and paid for it the next morning.
Charges included Ranger’s lack of pulling power for highway pickups, Director’s beret wearing in the circle, and the return of Alphabet (moi) who’s tuneless singing and mucking up of the four line hash song has been absent from the Circle for the duration of the football season. (I know how you’ve all missed that!)
Aquarius must be in Ranger’s moon or something, because she’s copping it from all angles. She was drafted at the last minute as Hare for September 10th run, and used 4 kilos of flour and pink chalk to set a run that the runners couldn’t find. (Admittedly the runners forgot their torches and were relying on night vision, which clearly didn’t work, because it was the walkers with their torches who were doing all the On Backs and directing traffic.)
Setting out from the new broome visitors’ centre, the hashers had an experience most tourists will never have, and that’s slip-sliding through the salubrious ditches and mud around the arse end of the airport. The total darkness of Old Broome’s streets also kept the pack together (were the runners afraid of the dark?).
Blondie later declared that he had saved the life of Cockup, by pulling him from the path of an oncoming 4WD (Cockup claims it was more likely a push into the path). Then the pack was called upon to push a station wagon out of the sand on Kennedy hill. It was beautifully bogged in the biggest dune in Broome, but a bit of sweat and muscle from the hash club set them on their way to the sounds of profuse thanks.
After last week’s amber fluid, the hash splash tasted more like “muddy water” in the words of one hasher, but that didn’t stop Cockup coming back for thirds. Virgin hasher Chris was welcomed, while Norm was transformed in a naming ceremony to become Chardonnay (or is that Kardonnay?) for his dislike of beer and preferring a cheeky glass that resonates with the bouquet of gooseberries, wet grass and whatever other crap wine label designers come up with.
Jokes were told, Red tried to lay charges wildly, and the possibility of a hash club trailer was discussed.