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Run No:- |
1087 |
Date:- 19 January 2004 |
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Location:- |
Klong Toey |
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Hare:- |
Tom Ellefsen |
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Scribe:- |
(should be) SUTEEV 'TASTES GREAT' FURST |
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It would be little exaggeration to note that hashers were looking forward to a semi rural run in the area of 'the lung of Bangkok' that area being Pra Padaeng, where we usually run when at the Port. But when the boat, which waited for no one and left 'Bullit' bemused on the jetty, started to turn to port taking us across the river, we had a feeling we had been dropped in the proverbial shit. And so it turned out; for instead of tripping off into Bangkok's lung, we alighted from a boat taking on board a pitch black putrid water and stepped on to a greasy ledge that took us on to turd strewn concrete walks. Did you ever see such a generally large size of turd? Even the dogs had large arseholes, because, yes - you guessed it, were not in Bangkok's lung, but waaay waaay up it's COLON. It was bloody Klong Pra Pradaeng!
By the time Archie Loper and Tinker had got off from the stern, the perennially shirtless Boob a Loob (for effs sake, someone cover the wanker up) and Beafeater had disappeared by means of a footbridge over a fast rising river of effluent. Tinker mused that if there had been very little headroom under that low-slung bridge getting there, with the fast rising sludge, it may be nigh impossible for the boat to get back. But did we give a bugger about the boatman and his boat? Did we buggery - how the hell were we to get back alive? A couple from Pattana School seemed to be delighted at something in all this stygian gloom. We had just ran through the condo block where they used to live and you can well understand why the thought of moving out of this area would be cause for joy and delight. However, Nonthaburi hashers, fine men made of metal who were familiar with the area and its tough surroundings, ran nonchalantly on with little comment. A porcine slaughterhouse caused Bumbo to loiter for while. Workers off shift slumbered in hammocks while the little porkies went squealing to their death. Passing the Aids hospice did nothing to lighten the spirits and thankfully, within the hour we were back to relative sanity of the sanitary section.
At the Circle the relief was so great that everyone seemed to be enjoying the GM's ministry. It was a smooth and understated warm-up act for the Rabelaisian RA who was bedecked in a large black bandanna. Bob Boulter got a down-down for missing the boat that waited for no-one; rather surprisingly, Rod Turner was called in to join a group of fashionable hashers; a butterfly on Beefeater's upper back was matched with another on a female visitors crotch. "Get them together," we cried. "What, now"? asked Beefeater hopefully - but they didn't have time, because the RA was calling in more sinners. And in the end… the love you give is equal… sorry; and in the end, the RA called in a dozen contenders for POTW. Van der Merve in the meantime had been given a down down for wearing new shoes, and drank the shoeful twice before even a note was sounded. If there was 'Castle Lager' in his shoes he would have been quaffing all night - well what the hell else do you do when you have a non-performing rugby team…. Needless to say it was him and his petite wife - who last ran on the hash six years ago, trawling for a farang husband - who got the joint POTW. He wore the sad appendage while she had difficulty in tilting a ceramic cock to her mouth.
Ending on a more serious note, we must thank Tim Daly and all those who brought back seafood for us to eat at the ON ON. Tim, you do a great job every week. ON ON
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