Report – Run 1559
Christmas Pub Run – the 12.12.12
Our flock lamely ambled in, in dribs and drabs from 19:20 to 19:50, to the start line, that was the King’s Belly (Bar #0 for some reason). Milling around outside Eunuch thought it was funny to kick Salesman whilst the latter was on the ‘phone to his boss. Salesman thought it was funny to tag Eunuch back, when he was on the phone to his boss. This killed another 5 minutes.
The mood was initially subdued, and we were light on regular superstar hashers (Dram, Dingaling, Velcro and Cheese-Port, BJ, Zimmerframe, Farty, Walky Talky, Bog Brush, Desperate Dan, Stuntdouble, Hoover etc…) basically the intelligent ones and those with proper jobs. Was it humbug? Or were they actually there? One Eyed Jack got the beers and kitty going though, the banter started and all was suddenly jovial. It wasn’t too hashy or silly, apart from Goldenballs whacking off to a copy of The Fellrunner. Victim, our resident Professor of English, stated that the word “fell” must be a typo as such a word does not exist. There were no hats, cans of spray snow and streamer gunk, tinsel or women C this had the makings of a good sporty attempt at the record of 23? (as if anyone could remember or confirm that). Some of our lovely women like Beer Tits and Sam Miguel the Carlsberg lady also materialised. Being an auspicious date, it was imperative that at least 12 pubs were visited. Eunuch, who had run off for 1 minute, returned with silly hats, snow and streamers. Terryman opted not to join us.
Plod set the first leg. That’s all about your scribe can recall ….. hang on …. Erm… let’s tell the rest in discrete flashback nuggets….:
First check was by the stairs beside the King’s Belly. Nobody (Victim) bothered to check even a few stairs and ambled off into the main street. Salesman eventually checked, however, and ran up the hill, through the park, around the back, and into Johnny Tripod Bar #1. Big Moany was already there. Then we went to some more pubs, and in each one endeared ourselves to the locals by spraying them, popping balloons, being gay hashers, sloshing drink around, and attempting to sing in Cantonese. Gunpowder Plod was shaping up to become an early liability. By Bar #3, most hashers were sprayed up, Beer Tits’ work on GoldenBalls being worthy of artistic mention (see pic).
Some very short legs lead to zig-zagging across a side street. Only Salesman strictly followed Mango’s trail to the Hippo Bar(?) by vaulting the metal fence, but with no You-Tube WTFFail.com face-plant. Farty and Walky Talky sudden materialised, I think, and then teleported off. There was a sing song in the Old Booby London. It was all getting a bit fearsome, so Luk Sup Gow, perhaps, set a long trail to Tai Wo. Chemical Ali provided ample sustenance for the journey. The German Bar (#9) was the only one with decent beer in full pints. We were thirsty. Plod suddenly jerked his hand and spilt his beer, but swung around, eyes darting, convinced that someone else had just soaked him. From about bar #7 to #12, we started losing hashers one by one. Big Moany got the call from She Who Must Be Obeyed. Not sure how Eunuch faired, he seemed to be around for much of it. Cleaver Bar #12 or #13 must have been around midnight. Upon stepping out into the cool air, OEJ called it a day.
Chemical Ali, Come On Eileen [shorely shome mishtake – Ed.] were the last standing couple, and strolled off into the moonlight. Salesman, sole returnee to the King’s Belly at 1am (Bar#14), lost Victor and Kenny with psycho-babble before lurching off for McD’s, taxi, and a long, dehydrating kip on the sofa.
In short, a long run, hilly, shiggy, river crossings and mad dogs, about 2.6km in 5 hours. Merry Christmas Batty Boys and Gals!
Next week’s run: Fartypants