|
Run No:- |
1115 |
Date:- 2 August 2004 |
|
Location:- |
Rama 5 Bridge |
|
|
Hare:- |
Peter "Maverick" Laverick |
|
|
Scribe:- |
Alastair "Beefeater" Atkinson |
|
As I got off the Vespa, I noted a chill in the air. A shiver ran down my spine; something dark and sinister was close. My senses were telling me that something was wrong; something was disturbing me. ‘Use the force master Beefeater, use the force.’ I looked around and saw the usual swelling mass of baan nok folk, gathering, starring in disbelief. One spoke, “How could these people have such white skin and still be able to breathe…”. Some children were crying into their bag of take away som tam, and not from the taste of food either; one was gnawing on an old KFC chicken bone; something more sinister was unnerving them. During my time spent placating and entertaining great white sharks, I’d noted a similar phenomena. I’ve walked along beaches and noted the reaction of the animals on the shore line as they sense the ominous dorsal fin of the beast beneath the surface. As I looked around, more children began crying. My time with the sharks should have prepared me for the frenzied and sudden salutary attack from behind: The teachers were back. ‘I should have expected it’ I reprimanded myself for my carelessness; I should have listened to the force telling me. The presence of so many teachers became too much for the poor unprepared students to bear they ran away fearing for their lives and all those lost opportunities for gold stars were like tears in an ocean of heartache; gone forever. The Marquis de Lavour arrived and a throng of a thousand adoring young virgin women burst through the crowd control barriers; they were instantly met and crippled by the burning eyes of the returning teachers. “Where is your HOMEWORK” came the message in one united sonic wave; instantly crushing their spirit to live. Gold stars blew out of text books and along the gutter in very Steinbeckian manner.
I still sensed that something was not quite right. Then I closed my eyes and listened to the voices inside; obviously I separated the make believe voices of all those young beautiful virgin students (are there actually any virgins left now?) with the voice of the force. “They will come from the skies”. As I studied the people around me I understood; the airline pilots were here. Suddenly it all made sense, we had been called here to witness the Hash equivalent of American Gladiators: The Maths Teachers Vs. The Pilots.
The run began; it took us along the river and to be honest I can’t be arsed to explain at what juncture who put their left foot in front of their right, and then what happened when we came to a check and blah blah blah. We checked and found the trail. OK. We ran, we breathed heavily at the young girls and blah blah blah. What was interesting though was the fantasy battle between teachers and pilots. Sugar Daddy had a new GPS and was showing it off to the pilots, one salivated so much he drowned. Sugar Daddy ran off evilly laughing to himself. GGBB started doing calculus and algebra out loud and one pilot spontaneously combusted, Sugar Daddy then explained to another how this was mathematically possible….BOOOM, another pilot bit the dust. One pilot tried to combat this with an explanation of laminar flow, but GGBB parried this with an explanation of the Magnus principle, and then finished him of with the precise mathematical formula for dog shit. It really was entertaining to watch. I mean, Pilots….ha…there was a time when this was a glamorous occupation. Everyone wanted to go up the cockpit to have a look at where they were going, so they could fill in their ‘I-Spy’…‘a cockpit’ book, but I’ve got to let you know, pilots, it’s my duty here on earth to tell you the truth, nowadays…wait for it…drum roll….burrrrrr…..cymbal crash….the female cabin crew are much more exciting than your little office. “Look…see how the plane turns when I turn this button”, yeah right…shudup…go back to sleep Mr. Glorified Bus Driver. Where’s the hostess….where are the god damn cocktails!!!!!
Then came the most cunning of strategies. The maths teachers re-laid the entire trail using only prime numbers set in flour and coloured beads. “F_ _ KING brilliant” GGBB said as he gave Sugar Daddy a high five plus five that equalled eight (two fingers on four hands). The plan worked a treat and the pilots were scuppered, grounded due to too much fog being produced in their heads. They eventually finished the trail; almost four hours behind everyone else. Refreshments were not a problem; a wannabe pilot, nee cabin boy, was still distributing orange juices to the poor and needy children that had gathered to look at white flesh, and had put some iced juices on his tray for the pilots. He had his bottom patted for being a good girl and was then told to put on the prick of the week vestibule. He sucked Satan’s seed quicker than anyone yet this year. Turning to the circle he said “practice doesn’t make perfect, it just makes you better…he he he” Yeah yeah yeah fly boy who gives a F- -K.
I can’t tell you about the ON ON ON. I got all mardy and went home when some dick with a whistle and white gloves told me that I would have to move the Vespa five miles down the road rather than leave it next to a pile of rubble and cow dung that they said was the restaurant. I shot them dead using a hand gun made at the new multi-million pound sig-seur factory and laughing insanely I drove home; you’ll be able to read about it in Cow Sod tomorrow.
***
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
