Sake In Da House

By Mango Groove

GIVE IT TO ME BABY!!! The most eagerly awaited run for some time, touted as a Catch of the Day house-warming bash, and believe me we were going to get warm…very warm. As the usual hounds made it to the start near Zen organic farm, Ping Che, panic ensued as there was no ice for the beer. A few phone calls later and our nerves were calmed as One Eyed Jack was going to get ice. OEJ never showed up so there was no ice. This was looking like it was going to be a repeat of the run we last had from Ping Che, three years ago, when Billy Jizz showed up with no ice and Gunpowder Plod had a neckie because he ran into some barbed wire on the hillside. It was on that same run that Plod called the cops to report a stunt driver who was busy showing off his kerb skills.

Anyway, back to the run…after appraising COTD’s house, admiring the glass-fronted bathroom/toilet and wondering where she sleeps it was time for the briefing. This has got to go down as one of the most surreal hash briefings ever. It went something like this: COTD says, “I am very happy to welcome you all with a pre-run cup of sake, and I have set a nice traditional style N2TH3 run with lots of shiggy.” At this point Eunuch starts jumping up and down like a jack in the box. COTD continues: “It is no more than 10km.” After the gathering calmed down COTD pointed to the concrete paving stones. “Here are my markings.” What then followed was an elaborate description of flour, bizarre chalk markings and toilet paper plus hell money. Then the hare mentioned something about an unhappy old lady with lots of dogs, very nasty dogs that may or may not be tied up, and a locked gate. Finally, she tried to tell us what to do at her innovative check-backs but by this time the gathered mass was in complete disarray with no one paying attention apart from Golden Balls.

So off we went with Liberace managing to find trail along the road and then rightwards past an on-home marking and onto a second check that was solved by Golden Balls leading us out to the base of the hillside. It was here that Liberace showed what a wonderful f*cking guy he really his. Not only did he manage to easily spot the hell money, but at every point when he did come across hell money he proceeded to pick it up and hang it on bush so that we all could see it.

As we ascended up the hill, passing several graves, Salesman, Ah Duck, Stingray and Eunuch each managed to find trail through the dense shiggy – which seemed at least one quarter elephant grass and one quarter poison oak – calling as best as they could for those behind. Near the top of this shiggy was a check that Eunuch solved, leaving poor Mango behind and falling into several holes along the way. Slowly we worked our way down and then up through more dense shiggy in trackless forest on steep ground liberally lined with strands of rusty barbed wire that had to be hurdled along with the usual thorns, vines and trees.

Out of the shiggy we burst onto an old military road and a check that took us left along the ridge, the one with the painted dragon that you can see from a distance and the very same ridge that Go West tried to impale himself on a few years ago. Now we figured that the run would take us straight along the ridge and back down into the villages; however, a well placed check actually took us left and was solved by Eunuch who did not bother to call, leaving Liberace and Mango running along the ridge for what seemed a lifetime. From the check we descended down more shiggy interrupted with rolls of barbed wire – no path, just the odd bit of paper stuck on a bush in a random direction – and eventually arrived in at an abandoned chicken farm with the dreaded doggy house, where a huge barrage of barking came from the mostly locked up dogs – and not a human to be seen. What are they guarding?

Mango remembered this place from a few years back, when he came upon the same concrete building with about 20 nasty teeth-baring dog, but this time it did not seem so bad as Ah Duck, showing excellent hashability, managed to negotiate a route around and over the gate. It was here that we ran into Eunuch, who was not happy as he had spent the last 20 minutes looking for trail off a check. We did find hell money but it led to a locked industrial yard so we just headed back down the road and onto a check that was designed to separate the brains (Stingray, Ah Duck and Mango) from the buffoons (Eunuch and Liberace). Trail was found to the right of this check into swampland that was demarcated with ropes, but eventually the trail ran out so we decided to head back onto the road. Once back on the road we could clearly see the village and the route that would eventually take us back onto Ping Che Road and home, but Eunuch, in a moment of supreme commander madness, suddenly proclaimed, “Hey guys, we’re going the wrong way! Surely we should be going this way,” pointing to swampland infested with all sorts of pestilence and probably an alligator or two. But, my dear friends, it was to get better as Liberace joined in, “Are you sure?” to which Eunuch confidently replied, “Of course I am, let’s go.”

So the lead pack that was one concerted group split into two. The brains only had to run less than half a kilometer and they were back on trail as predicted leading back along Ping Che road. We did encounter Velcro Lips (who had opted not to run) and the hare driving towards us – obviously a bit worried as we had been out for almost two hours – but Ah Duck directed them to where Liberace and Eunuch went. The run-in was a simple 3km, only to find the short-cutter Plod at the buckets, eating all the crisps, and LSG, who had been present at the start, long gone.

Meanwhile, at the back of the pack, Golden Balls and Golden Jelly held hands through the shiggy with Plod chaperoning, but when GB stopped to tie his laces Plod got away, never to be seen again until the front-runners nabbed him gobbling all the carbs. As the Golden ones hit the doggy house they found Salesman milling around madly trying to get out, and all three decided to head out to Ping Che Road after having had a gander at the rubbish dump that led to the feculent bog. As a minibus came past, GB and GJ jumped on, but Salesman declared: “I want to run!” only to accept a lift from the Velcro ranger five minutes later.

Eventually everyone made it back, Eunuch and Liberace arriving last covered almost up to their waist in muddy swamp stuff. Eunuch’s most favourite shorts had been destroyed, the arse totally ripped out of them climbing a barbed wire fence, but Liberace’s smug-satisfied expression suggested another explanation…

After some quick refreshments and more sake the GM called a circle, with what looked like 90 percent of the down downs going to COTD. As it was getting very late we had to keep the business short but as Eunuch said, “This has got to be one of our best runs for a long time.” Jolly good show COTD…we want more of the same next time.

Boiled Hare with Hash Browns

By Gunpowder Plod

The Saturday Run No. 3 was held on a gloriously sunny afternoon at sunny Sunny Bay with an early start to accommodate the partygoers. It was a decision that would turn around and bite the hare on the arse. With Disneyland just round the corner, the pack got into character, comprising Dumbo Dram and his virgin mate Hetero Harold, Mickey Mango Mouse, Stinky Stingray Pete , Sher Stuntdouble Khan, Happy Hoover, The Incredible Shrinking Violet Velcro Lips, Donald Duck, Golden Grumpy Balls, Gunpowder Goofy Plod and GM Salesman the Sheriff of Nothinghome.

The pack assembled at the start moved by first arrival Goofy to a thankfully sniper-free grassy knoll under the shade of several flowering trees. Beer and softies were iced while we awaited the return of Jack Sparrow, who did not stagger in from setting the trail until 15 minutes past the start time, nicely stewed in his own sweat and mumbling even more incoherently than he normally does. Sparrow later admitted to laying a similar trail for the lesser Monday night lonely men’s hearts club (gay) hash marked with pretty red ribbon. So we had a regurgitated and shortened version after the hare had almost collapsed setting it.

Dumbo translated the briefing and after a quick flash by Grumpy, we were off. Still very hot but nice and shady under the trees to start and then through a subway under the MTR towards the hills. To steps. By now the FRBs in the form of Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse and Sher Khan were well away and off down the service road towards Tung Chung and… a check-back.

Nobody got this right. We should have gone back up the road to a gap in the hedge but, oh no, the FRBs called the whole pack on through a dank and dirty overgrown ditch to some steps. Here Stinky Pete guided Goofy into a large wet hole assisted by a push from Grumpy.

Then it was up and up several flights of steps to a check. It is now suspected that Mickey solved this immediately, having done the lonely men’s hearts club hash on Monday. The trail led into some tasty shiggy uphill and down t’other side to another check. Then straight on to an abandoned school house and a further check. The trail led left and down from here to a rambo-wimp split.

Only the Incredible Shrinking Violet chose the wimps where she encountered a sweaty and spider infested Sherrif, a late arrival doing everything backwards as usual.

Dumbo, Hetero and Grumpy complained that they never saw the split, preferring to follow calls of on-on rather than follow trail. Happy had little difficulty shaking off Goofy and Stinky following in the wake of the long gone FRBs.

So with the Sheriff the last in with most taking about 40 minutes, we lounged about on the grass, jealous of Happy, Sher Khan, Grumpy and Dumbo who had grabbed some chairs from the intimidated disabled octogenarian toilet attendant nearby.

After much lounging around finally the frantically scribbling Incredible Shrinking Violet could take no more and forced the Sherriff to start the Circle. Which he promptly gave back to Violet for the ritual humiliations, and then it was hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to the party we go.

 

Tell It To The Marines

For the second week in succession the run, supposedly in a part of Kam Tin that isn’t Nobble Park, was rained off. Golden Balls got a 6pm phone call from a more than usually stressed-sounding Big Moany: “It’s hopeless. Trail’s being washed out as I lay it.” “You’ll just have to live hare it then, won’t you,” came the equally stressed reply from GB, who was desperately trying to finish his work in time to keep his appointment with a gang of newbie hashers and bring them to the much talked-up run.

Five minutes later, Big Moany was back on the blower. “Can’t do it. Run’s at Nobble Park. Oh bloody hell, I’ve just upset a bag of flour in the car.”

GB was not sympathetic.

And yet, an hour later, under a sky remarkable for it’s lack of moisture or anything resembling rain, more than a dozen hashers and protohashers descended upon the “pagoda” round the corner from Big Moany’s gaff. Fartypants and Walky Talky with Dylan, Dram, Ah Duck, Liberace, Catch Of The Day, Mango Groove, Eunuch, Golden Balls, One Eyed Jack and a trio of strangely young-looking men peered at each other through the sodium glare of the streetlight. The three young men had taken a taxi all the way from the Hyatt at Chinese University, and were marines, or sailors, or both – two medics and a PTI. They looked impressively fit and…young. Tim, Levan and Doc Lick-a-lot (an Okinawa hasher) were about to be introduced to hashing, Northern-style.

The run was of necessity not very long, but it was quite clever, disorientingly so. At one point Fartypants was encountered running the wrong way along Kam Sheung Road: “I used to live on this road but I’ve no idea where I am!” There was even a short shiggy section to muddy the shoes, and various bits through mazy villages and along broad, sweeping nullah roads. The pack soon fractured into two chunks, Ah Duck, Liberace, Catch Of The Day, Mango Groove and Eunuch getting a jump on the rest, with Mango romping home first (a factoid he was not going to let anybody forget). As most of the second group came home in a clump a disgraceful sprint ensued, with Tim holding off a surprisingly nimble One Eyed Jack ahead of Doc and Walky Talky. The shortcutting Dram strode in last. Justice.

The usual makeshift circle ensued and then it was off to the Kam Tin daipaidongs for most of the pack. The three visitors were heard to enquire where the action is in Sha Tin. How on Earth they ended up there is anybody’s guess, but as we dispersed into the night COTD was seen giving her number to them so she could show them Wanchai the following night. Hope they got out alive.

Scuttled

Eunuch’s keenly anticipated Tai Mo Shan run, high up in the cool mountain air, was scuttled by incessant and sometimes torrential rain alongside brown-trouser lightning, and so the hare took the better part of valour, strangled it, gobbed on its face and shoved it up the RA’s arse. in the end it didn’t rain on the run but after a last-minute call to meet at Hong Lok Yuen for a surprise run only the usual suspects turned up: Mango Groove, Liberace, Stingray, Golden Balls and Catch Of The Day.

Off the convoy drove on a mile-long traverse to Wo Hop Shek roundabout, where we parked up and gave Eunuch 15 minutes grace to live-hare the run. Up the hill to the cemetery gates, then – unintuitively – up the hill again to the end of the road, through some nice wet shiggy and down a steep slick slope. Plenty of skiddies performed here. Then it was over the highway on a footbridge, over the railway line, onto the cycle track and through a muddy building site out to Cowpat Road. Another ascent up the flanks of Bird Hill and a tricky descent brought the trail back to the outskirts of Fanling and the on-home for Eunuch’s “runette” (his words). Only GB and Liberace short-cut the trail but everybody was back at pretty much the same time to wheel the trolley of eskies and bevvy up to the hexagonal pagoda in the park – a real pagoda with two levels. 

An evening salvaged.

Mighty Dread Had Seized Their Troubled Minds

Approaching Sheung Tsuen from the Kam Tin side, we spied a stressed-looking One Hung Low laying trail outside what we used to know as Borneo Lines, a good 2 kilometres from the start and with 5 minutes to go. Apparently the hare used to be a handy runner in his day but a world record-breaking performance was hardly on the cards on this hot August night. Seamus O’Pressed was in the car with me fresh from the airport on one of his visits from Blighty, and when we got to the start, where once again throngingness abounded, he started to announce the hare’s plight, only to be silenced by a surreptitious kick from yours truly. If you have intelligence of the trail, keep it to yourself for later hashcrafting.

Tim from Dublin was also in the car, Golden Jelly’s 15-year-old nephew. He looked a bit scrawny. Knowing the lamentable physical fitness of some of GJ’s other nephews, I was concerned he might not be up to hash muster. “What sports do you play?” I enquired casually. “Gaelic football and hurling,” came the reply in an almost unintelligible brogue. Should be all right then. And indeed he was.

Another virgin appeared on the scene: Cecil, an earnest and eager young man who’d got intelligence of the run from this very website. I introduced myself. “You’re Golden Balls!” he said. “You run the website!” If this wasn’t disconcerting enough, he continued with “One Hung Low is the hare!” At this point, Hard Up had recruited Liberace to help order pizza by phone. I indicated that Hard Up was the hare’s wife. “So that’s Mr One!” deduced Cecil, pointing at Liberace. It was then that I noticed his footwear. Not a shiny new pair of Inov8s, not an dilapidated pair of Nikes held together with masking tape and badger entrails, not even a pair of old-school plimsolls. “You’re not running in those are you?” pointing at his sandals. “Oh yes,” he enthused. They’re my trail running sandals!”

Meanwhile, the rumour was that there was a problem with the beer. Stingray had succumbed to some flesh-eating disease and had very ungraciously declined to turn up. Not only that, but most of the “regulars” were absent. Moonie was in a fine funk. “Noooo beeeer?!?! What kind of a hash do you call this???? Last time I run with this shower!!!” spluttered the GM of the lesser Shek Kong Hash.

Then Eunuch arrived in the manner of Greeks bearing gifts – or in his case, eskies. Large eskies full of ice and delicious beer. Moonie put his arse away and Hard Up gave the briefing: short run, flat, lots of checks. No on out direction given, so hashers milled about the various park exits looking for trail, which was eventually found leading out past the temple. A clever T off a split kept the group from fragmenting early, but then…the dreaded airfield perimeter road. A leading group formed comprising Eunuch, Moonie, Tim, Cecil and Liberace, with the others (Ah Duck, Seamus O’Pressed, Golden Balls, Catch Of The Day, Golden Jelly, Tangerine Dream, Jackie and Dram) all spread out. As we neared the Kam Tin end of the airfield, trail went south across the nullah towards Kam Sheung Road for a village loop, where Ah Duck got lost. Meanwhile, there was some serious hashcrafting going on as Golden Balls and Seamus O’Pressed cut straight to Kam Tin Road, where they’d spied the hare earlier. Sure enough, trail was picked up and followed home as GB related how the first Hong Kong Marathon was held at Borneo Lines in 1978, comprising four loops of tonight’s trail – and included a pig-hurdling challenge on each lap. A huge dead pig lay across the pavement at Shek Kong, a revelation to the invited 2:14-level marathoners from the States, who couldn’t believe their eyes (and noses too probably).

Cecil, he of the winged sandals, came in first of a fairly solid top 5. Moonie kicked off the circle with input chiefly from Eunuch, Liberace, GB and Dram, and after the hare had been roundly lubricated for his sins, and Cecil called Cyril, Cuthbert, Cedric, Cyrus and everything but Cecil, the pizzas were broken out alongside Hard-Up’s salad. Another fine night on the Northern.

The Thronging Hawdes

By Fartypants

“Farty old chap, fancy doing the write up for tonight’s run?”

“Well I don’t think…

“Splendid, brother’s in town, gin and tonics at the club tomorrow – he used to fly Spits in the war, what? You know how it is”.

“Well I don’t think…”

And so, with dismissive flick of wrist and touch of forelock, Golden Balls danced topless away into the night.

And thus I came to be sat in front of a blank screen the next morning.

The challenge is of course to write something original, or at least something with the teeniest whiff of the stuff. How does one impress the most revered wielders of the mighty pen ever to have donned a running shoe? The editorial Shakespeare quoting Golden Balls for example, Victim the English Professor (a Yank for fuck’s sake-Ed), Bogbrush the Thespian (recently departed for a better place – literally rather than mortally I hasten to add – Coventry) and the commentaries of the downright lunatic Salesman.

How then, when all suitably descriptive words (they’re called adjectives you arse– Ed) have been regurgitated, swallowed and then re-regurgitated onto blank sheets a thousand times before, does one proceed. Has the reader ever noticed how packs are always “thronging” at run starts, the list of “illustrious” GMs is long and erm….illustrious and clouds do nothing but “scud across rain-washed skies” or, as in the case of the N2TH3, “hide moons that list like drunken galleons on a smorgasboard sea of Shenzhen smog” (eh? – Ed).

So, not for originality but rather for general annoyance, let’s plump for the adoption of the highly pretentious sounding pronoun “one”, as in “one sounds so pretentious when using the word one” (alright, alright get on with it – Ed).

On arriving at the run location, one Ho Sheung Heung (pronounced Haw Sheung Heung), one would have indeed been surprised not only by the throngingness of the pack but the distinct lack of available non-virtuous totty being alluded to in the village name. Indeed when one considers the hash in danger of imploding not a few months ago there was a not inconsiderable amount of thronging going on; in fact as many as 17 runners were thronging about in all directions (I’m warning you – Ed).

Whilst we waited for late arrivals Liberace and Eunuch, that old windbag and hare DRAM gave a convoluted explanation of the run; nasty razor wire to watch out for but all would be well, we’d see it. In fact we wouldn’t need torches coz it was really quite bright up there. Well I’m sure it was at 3pm when you set it you daft old….(can it! – Ed).

Anyway, on the stroke of eight, tip-toeing and in single-file (so as to avoid any hint of thronging), the pack set off round the corner and past Lung’s Farm (a collection ramshackle buildings housing rusting musical equipment and owned by Hong Kong’s answer to John Lennon) and then, in the fine company of some wild boar (according to the over-zealous imagination of Tangerine Dream) cut up up up through the shiggy towards the lookout tower, taking in the fine vista of Shenzhen by night and then down down down towards the bright lights of “Lo Wu Prison for Large Ladies” where Stingray was spotted running back and forwards in front of the gates hoping for brief incarceration. It wasn’t to be though, although back at the buckets Golden Jelly said that for a small fee it could be arranged.

Meanwhile the first hasher home was the army officer known by many names (none of them Tim), despite getting the last check wrong, running almost to the finish then back to the check to do the village loop, chasing down Liberace and Eunuch in the process.

And so, with all the runners and their running dogs back, the stand-in GM, DRAM handed out down-downs in his cultivated Edinburgh brogues (Brogue, you buffoon! – Ed) aided and abetted by Dingaling, none of which one can quite remember so as an alternative let’s have a quick run-down of others not mentioned above who were there:

Walky Talky – fresh back from the Philippines

LSG – fresh back from Macau shenanigans

T-Bird – farting lowers the blood pressure apparently

Jacky – nice skin coloured sports bra, had us going for a moment in the dark

Son of Jacky – totally unpronounceable name so we settled on Damian, or was it Domestos?

Kin – sans camel toe but wearing something akin (clever eh?) to a teapot on her head

One Eyed Jack – miserable as ever, either because he was off to UK the next day or because I found out his middle name is “Dunlop”. Parents with an obvious sense of humour – broken condom perhaps?

Chirpy Chinese chap whose name I didn’t get (Ah Duck – Ed)

As there was no On On arranged and the beer had gotten warm we all sloped off like rubber wolves in the night (it’s “like robber wolves in the night” you dipshit, don’t you know your Virgil – Ed)

Over and Out

Private Pants

Coulda sworn he said…

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