Sunday, December 9, 2007

H3 scribbles for late Nov-early Dec 07

The philosophy of Buckleys and None fits well into the Hash lifestyle, so it was fitting that the November 19 run was on Buckley’s Plain. To get there you have to drive past the last resort, to the cul de sac that denotes the end of Broome (some of you may suggest that is in fact Derby). Under a cheerful sign that reckoned the Minister for Lands would have your guts for garters if you dared set foot upon crown land (the Minister is Alannah McT, and, scarily she’d look good wearing your guts as garters) quite a crowd gathered for the run. The plains are teeming with wildlife as I discovered when I set the run that morning; brolga, kangaroo, dingoes (luckily no Hashers have the moniker Azaria) and plenty of birds.

The sandy bush tracks quickly dragged the pack out. The frontrunners were in for some nice surprises, starting with a circular jog around a large quarry, while the walkers bypassed them and took the lead. Kamakazi showed how he got his name by taking a shortcut over the steep edged quarry. He promptly fell groin deep in soft sand and for the rest of the night was shaking grit out of creases and crevices. Barge Arse and The Director had a more surprising encounter with some bloke pretending to be Robin Hood (very fetching he was too in his green tights) who was startled to have a band of merry men & women dart through his target practice shouting On On.

Check backs were a feature of the run, and it gave me great pleasure to watch fleet footed Cockup, Red and Chris disappear into the distance only to return later cursing, swearing and sweating. The most spectacular check back was several kilometres in length, and after the ruse was sprung, the runners didn’t catch up the walkers/slackers at all before the scheduled Wet Stop some distance away in the opposite direction. An esky was camouflaged in the bush and filled with cold amber beverages, which were sooooo welcome in the steamy stinking afternoon.

Back at Home the mood was light, the laughter loud and the laughs kept on coming. Hash flash DDD took a zillion photos in the darkness. Some of which may have even turned out. But then the conversation fell quiet as a car’s headlights got brighter and closer and closer and brighter… and the police arrived. Yes, someone had called the cops on us! The paddy van circled and the constable leaned out the window. We braced ourselves for a ‘roight sunshine yer all nicked’ but he took one look at us motley lot (holding our stubbies) and said ‘oh you’re all right’ and drove off.

My sources, who live nearby, tell me the neighbours out in ‘rural Broome’ were so alarmed at having Dullsville livened up by some harmless chatter & laughter they called the cops!! Is this a Broome H3 first?

On the evening of November 26th H3 explored parts of Director’s mind; creative, zany, very entertaining but sketchy in parts. Director had boldly declared the week prior he would be a live Hare. Thankfully, for his sake, that was modified to half a live Hare. He planned to cut ahead of the pack midway through the run and race us back Home.

He assured us that the markers were mostly on the right, although sometimes on the left, and sometimes in the middle of the road, but – and I quote – “they were consistent”! Nor are Director’s trail markers simple straight and sturdy arrows or neat circles at logical intersections. The opening arrow resembled a cyclonic weather system, and it sent the gullible runners off into oblivion. We finally made it back from the long false trail to discover the walkers had disappeared into suburbia via the drainage system. Marks were placed on rocks and twigs, occasionally on footpaths, around whole cul de sacs, at checks there were up to half a dozen circles radiating arrows, cheeky messages, and in the Solway Loop car park the world’s largest ON ON. Director then blew the Hash Horn at us all from the drivers seat of his Landrover, before speeding away.

The pack was well and truly strung out even before the live run took effect. Some were too fast, some were too slow, some were distracted by ripening mangoes, while most of us had just got bloody well lost. But back on trail the Wabbit Was Live – a large carrot cartoon outside the primary school gates told us so. What happened exactly after that is known only by three people; Red, Chris and the Wabbit. (The rest of us took a wrong turn and made our way home any means we could.) As it turns out in the Januburru estate the Wabbit was witing on the woad when a wunner spwung him. The beers belong to Chris.

If you ever need some advice on how to drink beer from a shoe, Blondie will be only too happy to tell you. His first piece of advice would be not to wear new shoes to a Hash meet, and thus avoid the need to drink from such an unsavoury vessel. But more on that later.

Blondie and Red teamed up again to bring us the December 3 run from Town Beach. One of the little rituals that get played out before a run begins is the stowing of car keys. And Blondie inexplicably became the Keeper of the Keys. Every few minutes as a hasher pulled up and locked their car, they said “Can I put my keys in your car Blondie.” Blondie unlocked, dutifully stowed the keys and relocked his car, just as another hasher pulled up and said…. etc etc. Repeat scenario 7 times (and pray Blondie’s very nice 4WD wasn’t the one to be stolen.) 6 o’clock ticked over and just as Red was about to say in which direction the On On was, Chris arrived on his bike. “Can I put my keys in your car Blondie?”

It was a textbook run, full of false trails, check backs, and varied terrain. Again Blondie couldn’t help but be the man of the moment as he roared full steam ahead to lead the pack by half a K. Now here’s the bizarre bit. He, the Hare, did all his own checks and on backs! Blondes really do have all the fun! The pack just breezed on up the trail bypassing any devilry at the intersections.

Naturally the only hill in Broome was on the trail and the weary runners straggled up Kennedy Hill, to be cheered on people living under a bush. Just on dusk we returned Home and, like the other party going groups on the lawns, we were bent on cracking the top of a few cold ones. Just as we dragged the esky over, the paddy wagon rocked up. This was now the THIRD week in a row the cops had done a drive by. Were they following us? No as it turns out, there were other people to arrest that evening. We made our circle a discreet distance away, Red fetched the pizzas, and Chris officially became Slow Lane (he may also answer to “Slip” or “Life in The”).

Suddenly Blondie’s bare feet were observed. He’d tried to wiggle out of the christening by pretending there were no new shoes at all. He was forced to bring a sneaker back to the circle to be filled with Splash. He didn’t look very thrilled at the prospect and took a deep breath. The Splash started to seep out through the shoe laces. “… drink it down, down, down…” Gulp gulp gulp and it was all gone. Just like Prince Charming guzzling out of Cinderella’s slipper. Mmmm, lovely sweaty shoe Splash. Gee, I hope he doesn’t have Tinea.