The big 450

Scribe: Nancy Boy           Hares: Nasiturd & Scooter Babe

The day we had all been waiting for arrived at last. Yes, the OTT finally sponsored a T shirt! They got their money back later though through extortion for high-priced food and drink - and we still haven't seen the T shirt.... Anyway, most of the regulars turned out to make it the biggest turnout in the past couple of years without the support of a visiting hash, so things were looking good.

Well, that was the end of the good bit. We got all intimate for the grope photo, then Nasiturd and Scooter Babe rounded the flock up for the pre-run poop-talk, and a flock-up it was. Nasiturd had set the fashion tone for the day, sporting a light dusting of flour, a fag and a bottle of San Mig, which was clearly affecting his judgement as he had forgotten that the average hasher isn't all that bright. The more we tried to understand the variety of squiggles which were meant to guide us along the trail, the more confused we became. The news that part of this week's trail had been laid on top of last week's didn't help either, but then Macau is a small place where things often end up on top of each other, mostly depending on how much they've had to drink.
We're a broad-minded hash: in fact some of us think about broads all the time. We accept all-comers and even some non-comers, and especially large numbers of flower-pickers. Once the walkers had set off the runners added themselves up and found that they were only six. Their mental age apart, once the stragglers had given up loitering in the ladies' toilets they totalled 9 out of almost 30. Colonic was walking, struck down with some unmentionable irritation, and even Cunter had struggled to drag his ass from his deathbed to join the running wounded.
Off they went at a cracking pace. You could hear the crack as Nancy Boy's kneecap ran headlong into a stationary bollard before leaving the first alleyway. Had the collision taken place in a more delicate area just two inches to the left and a little higher up he might not be sitting here writing this crap. Ok, enough wishful thinking you lot, keep reading, it gets worse.
Where did we go next? The air was a bit blue at that point. Oh yes, up the hill past the church the HK ladies came in front of last year, then on down to the lake. Knowing the hares, we suspected what was coming next, and as sure as the pope shits in the woods we were soon climbing the steps up Taipa Grande. After a good deal of huffing and puffing we reached the check at the top and sighed with relief to see the trail heading straight on around the hill. Suddenly a big flour X appeared. We would have known what to do with a Four X but this had us confounded, especially since nobody had understood the poop talk. We all secretly hoped that it meant 'Carry straight on', but just then some bloody idiot went and spotted the correct trail heading straight up the next stepcase towards the summit.
Walkers and runners spread out in a demoralised, grumpy rabble on the Bataan death march up the stairs. Sheik Meme fell by the wayside suffering from a broken back, whilst some of us had the gratifying experience of overtaking Cunter, albeit temporarily, as his second kidney gave out.
At the top the hares had seized on the opportunity to be first to penetrate a new virgin trail. I didn't know that the parks department had decided to boost Hash resources by giving Taipa Grande a haircut, but there they were, new footpaths lovingly bulldozed through the upper forest, and the smell of bullshit wafting through the air from freshly-dug tree pits. Mind you, that may have been Leadbelly passing a silent one when he thought nobody was following behind.
Having done the thigh work on the way up, the calves had a bit of a wobble on the way down to a check less than 1 kilometre on from the X. Only Roger & Out was daft enough to check back that way, and sure enough flour was found just 10 metres on in the other direction, which took us to a runner / walker split by the duck-pond. Fear and loathing crept over the runners as the walkers' trail meandered lazily along the level path ahead whilst their trail dived headlong down towards the graveyard. Oh shit... when, or rather where will I see you again...?
There wasn't a soul in the graveyard, so we tumbled down the even more stairs to Pac On, Macau's Silicone Alley, then moseyed along to witness the construction of a new ramp under the Macau Eye Which is Always Shut. The builders looked bewildered as we ran through their site, but no more than we were. We emerged on the airport flyover and followed the invitation scrawled on the pavement to take the lift up to the ninth floor of the China Hotel. 'Hmm', we thought, 'This sounds promising', and at least the hares hadn't followed Roger & Out's previous example of how to win friends in the hospitality industry by laying flour in the lifts. Disappointment on reaching the ninth floor however: no bevy of waiting beauties, or even a refreshing Tsing Tao, just a check on the road outside and flour leading all the way back up the hill to rejoin the walkers at the picnic site.
Having scaled the heights yet again the trail immediately dived back down into Macau's version of Angkor Wat. The wide, paved, boulevard, adorned with seats and streetlights only 18 months ago, is now but a remnant of civilisation lost beneath the ever-encroaching jungle, which the hares had spent the morning hacking through for an upcoming NGC exclusive. Imagine our surprise to find them filming us running through the bushes at the bottom to demonstrate how quickly wildlife can return once the people have left. Had Nasiturd been wearing an old raincoat whilst loitering in the bushes my true suspicions would have been confirmed.
We plopped out of the bottom onto the L-road and sped onward at a rattling pace - that was Nancy Boy's knee - down to the Venetian roundabout, past the PLA HQ and through the back passage to the OTT. Cunter Ass, who had earlier been a shadow of himself, had somehow become real again and FRB'd his way in first alongside Glenfiddich. The effort had taken its' toll though as we couldn't raise a note out of our most illustrious choirmaster for the rest of the evening.
Gradually they all rolled in - you could hear the rumble in the distance - until finally Cora, Albert and Shithouse burst out of the alleyway, puffing and panting from untold exertion, though oddly enough Shit House's sweatband was still bone dry.
The circle ran its' course with cruelty and abuse dispensed at every opportunity. No, actually it turned into an evening of beauty and romance. Dick Pastry's birthday was celebrated with a bouquet of flowers; Cheesy enlightened the circle with advice regarding Tittiana's taste for men with shaved nether regions, then regretted his return to Macau by having his new shoes christened along with Nancy Boy, and the hash chose this day to christen Albert and Cora, quite appropriately, Captain Cocksucker and Spit or Swallow, forever bonding their union.
Those with heavier wallets moved on to on on on on the first floor of the OTT (Over The Top? On The Tab? Over Twice The Price?), where we rounded off the afternoon with buckets of beer, though most of us stuck to bottles, and finger food, or at least that's what it looked and tasted like. Eight o'clock came and went with no sign of the T-shirts, so at least that part was in true Hash tradition. Around nine a general consensus was reached to on on on on on the Irish Bar's generosity, where by the wee hours, Sheik Meme had sung every rendition of 'Free beer for all the hashers', all to no avail. Glenfiddich was having none of that, so at that point some of us gave up and went home, and from what I understand only he, St. Peter and Glenfiddich were man, or mad enough to represent the Hash at an all-night vigil being held in various establishments of ill-repute around Macau. I am led to believe that the illness continued throughout the next day...
Enough of this. Get on with your work.
On on
Nancy Boy