The Night of the Long Chopsticks

By Gunpowder Plod

The Hare, Dingaling, promised lightning, torrential rain and thunderbolts. What did we get? Clear skies and mosquito-free balmy breezes wafted in on the cool night mountain air of Ma On Shan.

The hare had prepared for the cataclysm by using shredded high-speed rail documents or some such which mostly blew away in the balmy breezes. There was some flour though.

Your scribe, thankfully, got completely lost at the first check, heading determinedly up a long flight of steps in the wrong direction. By the time he arrived back at the check, all he could hear were the plaintive wails of the pack on the hillside opposite:

I’m Not Feeling so Good Eunuch (having walked to the start from Ma On Shan MTR, car having gone to a graveyard in Kam Tin – he really is every  2nd hand car salesman’s wet dream), My Ankle’s Still Fucked/CotD’s Driver Salesman, Back Seat Driver/CotD’s Chaperone Mango, Catch of the Day, Gail Says No and stand-in Hash Beer One Eyed Jock

So your scribe made a half-hearted attempt to catch up but stopped to admire the views of the Shing Mun River and Tolo Harbour before descending for beer instead.

Here I found Hare Dingaling and Mrs hare cuddling and canoodling in a shelter and joined them before they got too carried away.

Eunuch appeared first; Jolly Good Run he says. Then Gails Says No, Mango and CotD, muttering darkly about a large rock slope with an inviting rope which, being a little too short, would have left anyone tempted to use it dangling over an abyss.

Ah, yes….

We had to wait awhile before OEJ stumbled in, scathing in his criticism and sticking the chopsticks in for what he called a really crap run. I think it became clear that he didn’t appreciate the suicidal, slippery descent on an unmapped path over rocks and tree roots to the bottom of the hill and a long slog back up the road to the finish. And not forgetting the fucking rope to oblivion!

Anyway, after this entertaining diversion, we all got stuck in to OEJ’s wonderful selection of obscure alcoholic beverages and crisps (Golden Balls being absent, we all managed to get a few) before we realised that the GM was still out there.

He eventually hopped in on one leg, grabbed the chopsticks off OEJ and plunged them unhesitatingly into Dingaling, heading not his pleading cries of GM! GM! (We’ve all heard THAT before….)

Mrs Hare protested not until she realised that she would have to drive home.

Before the circle, we were entertained with the spectacle of the GM washing all the gore off and treating his armpits to lavender scented deodorant while lustily singing (and demonstrating):

 

The Mango Stingray Show

After the accusation and counter-accusation of who was on the right trail, where and how, Mango and Stingray decided to get lost together and went blithely on up unmarked trail “because it was going uphill and we like hills”. Eunuch, wary of the snakes that were out in force, called them back but the boys were being overbatty and carried on. And on. Eventually doing the tour of Lin Au.

Meanwhile Salesman, daughter Emily and One Eyed Jack were the first back on the relatively short Bogbrush-laid trail. Dram and Plod were the other miscreants on trail, while Golden Balls, Luk Sup Gow and Golden Jelly all showed up late for another delightful evening of philosophy at The Glade.

Welcome to a landmark blog post – post no. 100. To mark it, we have a special write-up.

“We’re all dooomed, DOOOMED, I’ll tell yee…”

By Luk Sup Gow

The scene: Ho Pui Village (just ootside of Scotland). The Hare: Dram

Usual man not working wants to get the pack going early, no committee, usual man working getting beer is late scenario…and welcome back to NT hash running for me!

Usual hare nonsense…“Four trails set for the evening: rambos, wimps, superwimps and confusion – if you don’t want to go up the hill, take the rambo split and all will be plain as mud to get home…but it’s not marked…”

Cough, splutter and they’re off!!!

Like a troop of well fed zombies, the pack lollopped their way UP and out of the village…this is where the pack became no more and the hashers became separate entities for the evening…UP the catchwater, UP the mountain bike track…and still no sign of the wimp/rambo split. The lone hashers in the mist and rain did different trails, ran into each other, ran away from each other but all within earshot of each across the spooky Ho Pui Reservoir…

Meanwhile back in the village, the hare slept on the comfiest sofa in whole wide world…dreaming of conserving his camera batteries by switching off the flash utility…

….dreaming of his next letter to the SCMP….

Dear SCMP,

I would like to complain about an incident that was perpetrated against my good self on the afternoon of Weds 7th May 2014, whilst I was out cycling the rolling hills around Ho Pui Reservoir. To my horror I came upon a wild Scotsman, flaying his arms and speaking in tongues of undetermined origins. He was flinging suspect white substances (I suspect it was cocaine) and soiled toilet paper all over the place – I assumed that he was either high on drugs or a complete lunatic. Not only this but he was using chalk sticks to doodle on every exposed rock that he could find, there were drawings of large women’s breasts, satanic circles and what I assume is code for “you’ll never take me alive” – NO NO. There were even arrows to guide him back to whatever looney bin he came from. I left him to his own devices and I feared that I may be subject to physical harm, as it was very apparent that he hated the sight of my bicycle!

Imagine my horror now turned to downright disbelief, as not only was the mountain biking trail now littered with paper, flour and chalk profanities but the path was also covered in muddy footprints and putting my life in complete danger. If my tyre was to so much as touch one of these trainer footprints, I would be off and surely die…

Signed: D. Miller

.…”what was that, did I drop off?… and… ZZZZzzzzzz….”. Meanwhile back in the land of nod…

Dear SCMP,

As an avid cyclist and a love of tearing down the countryside paths on my mountain bike, I have discussing with a fellow cyclist the rules and regulations regarding the cycling ordinance in Hong Kong. I have thought deeply about writing this letter and have the following questions:-

Where designated cycle paths are available, you cannot ride on the road alongside.

How am I supposed to win the Olympics or the Tour de France if this is the case?

Every bike must have a bell, and no other warning system is allowed (such as a horn or perhaps even a loud shout!).

Seriously, how can I carry a church bell and cycle at the same time – surely that is really dangerous?

When ridden at night (or in poor visibility), a cycle must be fitted with a white lightat front and a red light at the back.A rear-facing reflector is required, apparently at any time. It should be at least 40 mm diameter or equivalent.

My fellow cyclist rides a unicycle and wants to know how to hold the bell, the white light, red light, the reflector and still maintain a safe balance? Again another set of dangerous rules.

A brake must be fitted to any unicycle, bicycle, tricycle, or multicycle wheel larger than 460 mm.

Again my unicyclist friend does not like this rule, he keeps breaking his nose!

Cycling while under the influence of drugs or alcohol can result in a fine the first time, and up to three months imprisonment for a repeated offence.

Ha ha ha….

Signed: Clucking Bell

…..”Arrggghhh, I’m having a nightmare. Um, Oh, you’re back… Ock aye the noo!”

No committee, the circle is called and the nightmare continues…

 

 

 

 

 

Double Vision

There are two write-ups for this run in the southwestern NT.

Hare’s Eye View

By Nick Goodyer

Having just recovered from hernia surgery (all I’ll say is, in your underpants two’s company, three’s a crowd) I was unable to take part in the run itself, so instead manfully volunteered my services to mark the wimps’ trail, an endeavour that was to go down in hashing history as being entirely unremarkable in every way.

Setting off from the palatial country seat of Golden Balls and Jelly, we headed towards Siu Lam Psychiatric Centre where Balls recounted a story of how, when he’d previously recced a run, a kindly nurse had let him into the facility. Sadly, but perhaps understandably, she had mistaken him for one of the patients, resulting in the delay of the run by three years: the time it had taken to convince the authorities to release him. In view of this, we hurried past, but a number of the residents gave him a cheery nod and a wave, no doubt fondly remembering happy times in the showers.

Then, off road and up a ridge, topped off with a trig point. There were pig trails everywhere, but the pigs themselves kept at bay, much to my relief – perhaps down to the scouting efforts of redoubtable dog Malu. After Balls had set a few fiendish checks and checkbacks, we headed down the slope to the dam, the scene of the epic rambo/wimp split.

I was on my own now. As Balls and his hound headed off into the shiggy, an eerie silence descended, broken only by the sound of banjos and screams coming from a distant farm. This was the untamed, backwoods New Territories I’d heard the Hong Kong Tourism Board talking about in hushed tones over their wheatgrass frappuccinos. Time to think – and quick. I headed down the side of the dam, chalked an arrow, and headed for the barrier to mark a check. “Ha, they’re buggered now,” I thought, as I marked the next arrow not 10 yards away and in full view of the check. The banjos picked up their pace. I hurried on, past a pack of mean-looking dogs, no doubt destined for some grizzly scene of tourist baiting. There could be trouble ahead.

But further down the road, I emerged blinking into what passes for civilisation in these parts – the Grand Pacific View estate, in all its monumental tackiness. Dozens of people were around, and as I chalked the pavement in front of total strangers and tutt-tutting old ladies I was forced into the exquisite embarrassment of the kind known only to Brits. After all, there are only so many times you can pretend to tie your shoelaces. Then, I was through the underpass and back to Château Balls, where an excellent curry, Dram’s fascinating descriptions of his daily bowel movements, and copious ale, all made for a great evening.

I came, I chalked – and I had conquered.

Harrier’s Eye View

By Harrier-at-Large

The pack, comprising Gail Says No, Gunpowder Plod, Dram, Stingray, Golden Jelly and Velcro Lips, set off on the dark path around the back of Château Balls where the hare split his face open a few years ago. Minutes later a flustered One Eyed Jack arrives on foot, his plans to do the hash sans car – and drink loads of piss – frustrated by the lack of taxis. Five minutes later Eunuch turns up in stalwart style with a vanload of trampjuice, and bounces off into the night to a cheery “You’ll catch ‘em” from GB.

Trail goes up Siu Lam Road, through the government quarters and up the Siu Lam hill where a couple of checkbacks keep everybody within calling distance, before going down a rough, never-before-hashed path through trees and badlands to the long/short split on the reservoir path. Gunpowder Plod, Dram, Velcro Lips and Golden Jelly all elect to do the short trail. Meanwhile One Eyed Jack, short-cutting as usual, second-guesses the trail wrongly, running through a checkback to find himself down by the main dam of Tai Lam Chung Reservoir.

Stingray is first onto the rambos and finds himself on some good running trail. “Hmm, I quite like this,” he opines nasally as he chugs along like Barney McGrew. Then, after cresting a gentle hill and cantering down the other side, to his dismay he finds a checkback. “Sod that for a game of soldiers,” he thinks, “I’m going straight on this nice trail and round the side of the hill.” Only trouble is, round the side of the hill means So Kwun Wat and a doubling of the run distance.

Meanwhile Gail Says No crests the brow of the hill and finds the checkback but, being the uncorrupted, non-cheating hasher that he is, gamely goes back to look for trail. After 10 minutes he pokes his head through some bushes on the brow of the hill and sees trail marked not five metres in, and as he crashes through the overgrowth Eunuch ascends to the brow of the hill and follows him in. It’s a deteriorating trail hard to follow in places, with spider webs, fallen trees and head-high grass, and it eventually leads out to rejoin the wimps at the tunnel under the highway.

At the finish nobody is particularly bothered by the disappearance of Stingray, who eventually trots in halfway through the circle, panting and strangely flushed.