Hash 476 : 6.7.08 : A wet day and a bunch of drips : Irish Bar

Hares: Shit House, NYPD, Roger & Out        Scribe: Nancy Boy
 
It’s been a long time coming, but better late than never, as the actress said to the bishop.
 
The Hash Trash of Macau’s coverage of the pre-run proceedings at Hash 461 is based as usual on lies, rumour and innuendo as the screw-up happened whilst our mobile newsroom / beer truck was still on its’ way through the flooded streets of Taipa to the event. With reporting from Glenfiddich Square strictly controlled by the state-run media bosses, our reporters knew it would be difficult to find a scoop, and with every scoop in town being used for bailing out first floor flats, they had no chance.
Shit House and NYPD had been watching the weather forecast all week. The weather men had predicted sunshine and some scattered showers, so everyone else knew it was going to piss down all day, but nobody realised that some twit up there was going to open the emergency drain valve over Taipa.
 
Only a few weeks earlier we’d been struggling for hares, but on this day, dogged by fair-weather hasher syndrome and foul-weather weather, we almost had more hares than runners. From what our news team could gather, Shit House and NYPD had pre-laid the trail but were so worried about it being washed away that Roger & Out volunteered to FRB with some fresh flour. The polite version of events has it that the trail had been washed away before he found it. The impolite version is that he got carried away, probably by the flood, but either way he ended up setting a completely different trail.
 
Anyway, off he went, and after a generous 3 minute wait, the pack set off after him. Things went well enough for the first couple of minutes: from the Irish Bar the pack trotted to the back of Tuk Tuk, around Bollock Mansions, up the mud bank to a check on the hill, solved a check there and then headed downhill to Ocean Gardens tunnel. That’s when R&O’s personal mission became clear. We know that he likes nothing better than a five-mile dash along a flat road, and he must have got carried away with the excitement and decided to treat the pack to a non-stop sprint to the Hyatt and beyond. Well, that sorted out the men from the mice, and our reporter duly perked up his whiskers, wiggled his tail and puffed along in pursuit of the men who were now disappearing into the distance.
 
Just then Pistifferous came squeaking up from behind, and with each now able to blame the other they made an executive decision to forget all that running malarkey and broke into a purposeful stroll past Crown to the corner of the public park that never made it off the planners’ drawings. Then they remembered why they had been running, because now they found that there was no more flour to be found. They searched around the park as far as Watson’s, but just as they were about to give up and head for the eskies, Lee appeared, also looking for flour, as apparently was everyone else. They scattered out, with Lee and Nancy Boy aiming for Kingsville in the hope of picking up a trail there, and Pistifferous happily checking in the general direction of the Irish Bar.
 
Sure enough, outside Kingsville a trail stain was discerned, leading to the road up the hill to the water tank, but instead of a leisurely crawl up the road, the trail swung abruptly off into the scrub. With the rain belting down and the whole hillside awash our intrepid duo fought their way upwards through bushes, creepers, brambles, Japanese WW2 soldiers and all the other stuff that makes up a pleasant Sunday afternoon. Finally they reached the running path to see an underwater check dissolve before their very eyes. They guessed left and after some 250 metres they spotted what may have been a trace of flour and carried on. Another half kilometre on no more could be found, so they turned around and went back. Having gone the same distance past where the check had been, they decided that they were going the wrong way after all and duly went all the way back to where they had first turned back. Just then they heard a voice calling down from above, but no, it wasn’t the Great Hasher in the Sky offering help, it was Cunter Ass Thompson, who must have been having a quiet crap with a view on the hillside to be so far behind his usual pace.
 
He had found some flour and led them up the new stairs which the Parks Department had thoughtfully provided after the Macau Demolition Squad had removed most of the plants on the hill. They splashed along the top of the hill and down the stairs to the Museum houses. There was still a trace of flour on the road by the swimming pool, which led up to Taipa Church. By now Cunter Ass had disappeared into the distance, so Lee and Nancy Boy bumbled along on either side of the road through Taipa Village with sheets of water pouring off the roofs onto their heads - well, at least there would be no need to shower later - in the forlorn hope of finding some more flour, but that was that: not another splodge to be found. Giving up all hope they scurried past McDonalds and on home around the stadium.
 
When our reporter got in he found that everyone else had got in much, much earlier and was already halfway through the eskie under the bridge by the Irish Bar. This kept off some of the rain and spoiled the target for the mystery egg-bomber who lives upstairs. Has he no thought at all for human companionship and no appreciation of the beauty of a hash choir in full throat?
 
So 3 people had managed to follow a trail laid by 3 others. You would have thought that 3 hares would produce a trail to remember. It was certainly a day to remember, and not only for the lumps of rain falling out of the sky, but I wouldn’t recommend this strategy for future use as the post-run, pre-circle intercourse session resembled the opening ten minutes of Harrods’ New Year sale: elbows and handbags everywhere, with accusation and counter-accusation being flung among the hares along with nasturtiums and all manner of other nasty things. ‘You bitch’; ‘you don’t listen to a word I say’; ‘you just don’t understand me’ - pity you can’t just turn up the telly volume at the circle sometimes.
 
Which reminds me: I can’t remember anything about the circle, it was all so long ago, but The Hash Trash of Macau is always willing to print any dirt anyone else can remember.
 
On on
 
Nancy Boy
476 - A wet day and a bunch of drips
 
It’s been a long time coming, but better late than never, as the actress said to the bishop.
 
The Hash Trash of Macau’s coverage of the pre-run proceedings at Hash 461 is based as usual on lies, rumour and innuendo as the screw-up happened whilst our mobile newsroom / beer truck was still on its’ way through the flooded streets of Taipa to the event. With reporting from Glenfiddich Square strictly controlled by the state-run media bosses, our reporters knew it would be difficult to find a scoop, and with every scoop in town being used for bailing out first floor flats, they had no chance.
 
Shit House and NYPD had been watching the weather forecast all week. The weather men had predicted sunshine and some scattered showers, so everyone else knew it was going to piss down all day, but nobody realised that some twit up there was going to open the emergency drain valve over Taipa.
 
Only a few weeks earlier we’d been struggling for hares, but on this day, dogged by fair-weather hasher syndrome and foul-weather weather, we almost had more hares than runners. From what our news team could gather, Shit House and NYPD had pre-laid the trail but were so worried about it being washed away that Roger & Out volunteered to FRB with some fresh flour. The polite version of events has it that the trail had been washed away before he found it. The impolite version is that he got carried away, probably by the flood, but either way he ended up setting a completely different trail.
 
Anyway, off he went, and after a generous 3 minute wait, the pack set off after him. Things went well enough for the first couple of minutes: from the Irish Bar the pack trotted to the back of Tuk Tuk, around Bollock Mansions, up the mud bank to a check on the hill, solved a check there and then headed downhill to Ocean Gardens tunnel. That’s when R&O’s personal mission became clear. We know that he likes nothing better than a five-mile dash along a flat road, and he must have got carried away with the excitement and decided to treat the pack to a non-stop sprint to the Hyatt and beyond. Well, that sorted out the men from the mice, and our reporter duly perked up his whiskers, wiggled his tail and puffed along in pursuit of the men who were now disappearing into the distance.
 
Just then Pistifferous came squeaking up from behind, and with each now able to blame the other they made an executive decision to forget all that running malarkey and broke into a purposeful stroll past Crown to the corner of the public park that never made it off the planners’ drawings. Then they remembered why they had been running, because now they found that there was no more flour to be found. They searched around the park as far as Watson’s, but just as they were about to give up and head for the eskies, Lee appeared, also looking for flour, as apparently was everyone else. They scattered out, with Lee and Nancy Boy aiming for Kingsville in the hope of picking up a trail there, and Pistifferous happily checking in the general direction of the Irish Bar.
 
Sure enough, outside Kingsville a trail stain was discerned, leading to the road up the hill to the water tank, but instead of a leisurely crawl up the road, the trail swung abruptly off into the scrub. With the rain belting down and the whole hillside awash our intrepid duo fought their way upwards through bushes, creepers, brambles, Japanese WW2 soldiers and all the other stuff that makes up a pleasant Sunday afternoon. Finally they reached the running path to see an underwater check dissolve before their very eyes. They guessed left and after some 250 metres they spotted what may have been a trace of flour and carried on. Another half kilometre on no more could be found, so they turned around and went back. Having gone the same distance past where the check had been, they decided that they were going the wrong way after all and duly went all the way back to where they had first turned back. Just then they heard a voice calling down from above, but no, it wasn’t the Great Hasher in the Sky offering help, it was Cunter Ass Thompson, who must have been having a quiet crap with a view on the hillside to be so far behind his usual pace.
 
He had found some flour and led them up the new stairs which the Parks Department had thoughtfully provided after the Macau Demolition Squad had removed most of the plants on the hill. They splashed along the top of the hill and down the stairs to the Museum houses. There was still a trace of flour on the road by the swimming pool, which led up to Taipa Church. By now Cunter Ass had disappeared into the distance, so Lee and Nancy Boy bumbled along on either side of the road through Taipa Village with sheets of water pouring off the roofs onto their heads - well, at least there would be no need to shower later - in the forlorn hope of finding some more flour, but that was that: not another splodge to be found. Giving up all hope they scurried past McDonalds and on home around the stadium.
 
When our reporter got in he found that everyone else had got in much, much earlier and was already halfway through the eskie under the bridge by the Irish Bar. This kept off some of the rain and spoiled the target for the mystery egg-bomber who lives upstairs. Has he no thought at all for human companionship and no appreciation of the beauty of a hash choir in full throat?
 
So 3 people had managed to follow a trail laid by 3 others. You would have thought that 3 hares would produce a trail to remember. It was certainly a day to remember, and not only for the lumps of rain falling out of the sky, but I wouldn’t recommend this strategy for future use as the post-run, pre-circle intercourse session resembled the opening ten minutes of Harrods’ New Year sale: elbows and handbags everywhere, with accusation and counter-accusation being flung among the hares along with nasturtiums and all manner of other nasty things. ‘You bitch’; ‘you don’t listen to a word I say’; ‘you just don’t understand me’ - pity you can’t just turn up the telly volume at the circle sometimes.
 
Which reminds me: I can’t remember anything about the circle, it was all so long ago, but The Hash Trash of Macau is always willing to print any dirt anyone else can remember.
 
On on
 
Nancy Boy
476 - A wet day and a bunch of drips
 
It’s been a long time coming, but better late than never, as the actress said to the bishop.
 
The Hash Trash of Macau’s coverage of the pre-run proceedings at Hash 461 is based as usual on lies, rumour and innuendo as the screw-up happened whilst our mobile newsroom / beer truck was still on its’ way through the flooded streets of Taipa to the event. With reporting from Glenfiddich Square strictly controlled by the state-run media bosses, our reporters knew it would be difficult to find a scoop, and with every scoop in town being used for bailing out first floor flats, they had no chance.
 
Shit House and NYPD had been watching the weather forecast all week. The weather men had predicted sunshine and some scattered showers, so everyone else knew it was going to piss down all day, but nobody realised that some twit up there was going to open the emergency drain valve over Taipa.
 
Only a few weeks earlier we’d been struggling for hares, but on this day, dogged by fair-weather hasher syndrome and foul-weather weather, we almost had more hares than runners. From what our news team could gather, Shit House and NYPD had pre-laid the trail but were so worried about it being washed away that Roger & Out volunteered to FRB with some fresh flour. The polite version of events has it that the trail had been washed away before he found it. The impolite version is that he got carried away, probably by the flood, but either way he ended up setting a completely different trail.
 
Anyway, off he went, and after a generous 3 minute wait, the pack set off after him. Things went well enough for the first couple of minutes: from the Irish Bar the pack trotted to the back of Tuk Tuk, around Bollock Mansions, up the mud bank to a check on the hill, solved a check there and then headed downhill to Ocean Gardens tunnel. That’s when R&O’s personal mission became clear. We know that he likes nothing better than a five-mile dash along a flat road, and he must have got carried away with the excitement and decided to treat the pack to a non-stop sprint to the Hyatt and beyond. Well, that sorted out the men from the mice, and our reporter duly perked up his whiskers, wiggled his tail and puffed along in pursuit of the men who were now disappearing into the distance.
 
Just then Pistifferous came squeaking up from behind, and with each now able to blame the other they made an executive decision to forget all that running malarkey and broke into a purposeful stroll past Crown to the corner of the public park that never made it off the planners’ drawings. Then they remembered why they had been running, because now they found that there was no more flour to be found. They searched around the park as far as Watson’s, but just as they were about to give up and head for the eskies, Lee appeared, also looking for flour, as apparently was everyone else. They scattered out, with Lee and Nancy Boy aiming for Kingsville in the hope of picking up a trail there, and Pistifferous happily checking in the general direction of the Irish Bar.
 
Sure enough, outside Kingsville a trail stain was discerned, leading to the road up the hill to the water tank, but instead of a leisurely crawl up the road, the trail swung abruptly off into the scrub. With the rain belting down and the whole hillside awash our intrepid duo fought their way upwards through bushes, creepers, brambles, Japanese WW2 soldiers and all the other stuff that makes up a pleasant Sunday afternoon. Finally they reached the running path to see an underwater check dissolve before their very eyes. They guessed left and after some 250 metres they spotted what may have been a trace of flour and carried on. Another half kilometre on no more could be found, so they turned around and went back. Having gone the same distance past where the check had been, they decided that they were going the wrong way after all and duly went all the way back to where they had first turned back. Just then they heard a voice calling down from above, but no, it wasn’t the Great Hasher in the Sky offering help, it was Cunter Ass Thompson, who must have been having a quiet crap with a view on the hillside to be so far behind his usual pace.
 
He had found some flour and led them up the new stairs which the Parks Department had thoughtfully provided after the Macau Demolition Squad had removed most of the plants on the hill. They splashed along the top of the hill and down the stairs to the Museum houses. There was still a trace of flour on the road by the swimming pool, which led up to Taipa Church. By now Cunter Ass had disappeared into the distance, so Lee and Nancy Boy bumbled along on either side of the road through Taipa Village with sheets of water pouring off the roofs onto their heads - well, at least there would be no need to shower later - in the forlorn hope of finding some more flour, but that was that: not another splodge to be found. Giving up all hope they scurried past McDonalds and on home around the stadium.
 
When our reporter got in he found that everyone else had got in much, much earlier and was already halfway through the eskie under the bridge by the Irish Bar. This kept off some of the rain and spoiled the target for the mystery egg-bomber who lives upstairs. Has he no thought at all for human companionship and no appreciation of the beauty of a hash choir in full throat?
 
So 3 people had managed to follow a trail laid by 3 others. You would have thought that 3 hares would produce a trail to remember. It was certainly a day to remember, and not only for the lumps of rain falling out of the sky, but I wouldn’t recommend this strategy for future use as the post-run, pre-circle intercourse session resembled the opening ten minutes of Harrods’ New Year sale: elbows and handbags everywhere, with accusation and counter-accusation being flung among the hares along with nasturtiums and all manner of other nasty things. ‘You bitch’; ‘you don’t listen to a word I say’; ‘you just don’t understand me’ - pity you can’t just turn up the telly volume at the circle sometimes.
 
Which reminds me: I can’t remember anything about the circle, it was all so long ago, but The Hash Trash of Macau is always willing to print any dirt anyone else can remember.
 
On on
 
Nancy Boy
476 - A wet day and a bunch of drips
 
It’s been a long time coming, but better late than never, as the actress said to the bishop.
 
The Hash Trash of Macau’s coverage of the pre-run proceedings at Hash 461 is based as usual on lies, rumour and innuendo as the screw-up happened whilst our mobile newsroom / beer truck was still on its’ way through the flooded streets of Taipa to the event. With reporting from Glenfiddich Square strictly controlled by the state-run media bosses, our reporters knew it would be difficult to find a scoop, and with every scoop in town being used for bailing out first floor flats, they had no chance.
 
Shit House and NYPD had been watching the weather forecast all week. The weather men had predicted sunshine and some scattered showers, so everyone else knew it was going to piss down all day, but nobody realised that some twit up there was going to open the emergency drain valve over Taipa.
 
Only a few weeks earlier we’d been struggling for hares, but on this day, dogged by fair-weather hasher syndrome and foul-weather weather, we almost had more hares than runners. From what our news team could gather, Shit House and NYPD had pre-laid the trail but were so worried about it being washed away that Roger & Out volunteered to FRB with some fresh flour. The polite version of events has it that the trail had been washed away before he found it. The impolite version is that he got carried away, probably by the flood, but either way he ended up setting a completely different trail.
 
Anyway, off he went, and after a generous 3 minute wait, the pack set off after him. Things went well enough for the first couple of minutes: from the Irish Bar the pack trotted to the back of Tuk Tuk, around Bollock Mansions, up the mud bank to a check on the hill, solved a check there and then headed downhill to Ocean Gardens tunnel. That’s when R&O’s personal mission became clear. We know that he likes nothing better than a five-mile dash along a flat road, and he must have got carried away with the excitement and decided to treat the pack to a non-stop sprint to the Hyatt and beyond. Well, that sorted out the men from the mice, and our reporter duly perked up his whiskers, wiggled his tail and puffed along in pursuit of the men who were now disappearing into the distance.
 
Just then Pistifferous came squeaking up from behind, and with each now able to blame the other they made an executive decision to forget all that running malarkey and broke into a purposeful stroll past Crown to the corner of the public park that never made it off the planners’ drawings. Then they remembered why they had been running, because now they found that there was no more flour to be found. They searched around the park as far as Watson’s, but just as they were about to give up and head for the eskies, Lee appeared, also looking for flour, as apparently was everyone else. They scattered out, with Lee and Nancy Boy aiming for Kingsville in the hope of picking up a trail there, and Pistifferous happily checking in the general direction of the Irish Bar.
 
Sure enough, outside Kingsville a trail stain was discerned, leading to the road up the hill to the water tank, but instead of a leisurely crawl up the road, the trail swung abruptly off into the scrub. With the rain belting down and the whole hillside awash our intrepid duo fought their way upwards through bushes, creepers, brambles, Japanese WW2 soldiers and all the other stuff that makes up a pleasant Sunday afternoon. Finally they reached the running path to see an underwater check dissolve before their very eyes. They guessed left and after some 250 metres they spotted what may have been a trace of flour and carried on. Another half kilometre on no more could be found, so they turned around and went back. Having gone the same distance past where the check had been, they decided that they were going the wrong way after all and duly went all the way back to where they had first turned back. Just then they heard a voice calling down from above, but no, it wasn’t the Great Hasher in the Sky offering help, it was Cunter Ass Thompson, who must have been having a quiet crap with a view on the hillside to be so far behind his usual pace.
 
He had found some flour and led them up the new stairs which the Parks Department had thoughtfully provided after the Macau Demolition Squad had removed most of the plants on the hill. They splashed along the top of the hill and down the stairs to the Museum houses. There was still a trace of flour on the road by the swimming pool, which led up to Taipa Church. By now Cunter Ass had disappeared into the distance, so Lee and Nancy Boy bumbled along on either side of the road through Taipa Village with sheets of water pouring off the roofs onto their heads - well, at least there would be no need to shower later - in the forlorn hope of finding some more flour, but that was that: not another splodge to be found. Giving up all hope they scurried past McDonalds and on home around the stadium.
 
When our reporter got in he found that everyone else had got in much, much earlier and was already halfway through the eskie under the bridge by the Irish Bar. This kept off some of the rain and spoiled the target for the mystery egg-bomber who lives upstairs. Has he no thought at all for human companionship and no appreciation of the beauty of a hash choir in full throat?
 
So 3 people had managed to follow a trail laid by 3 others. You would have thought that 3 hares would produce a trail to remember. It was certainly a day to remember, and not only for the lumps of rain falling out of the sky, but I wouldn’t recommend this strategy for future use as the post-run, pre-circle intercourse session resembled the opening ten minutes of Harrods’ New Year sale: elbows and handbags everywhere, with accusation and counter-accusation being flung among the hares along with nasturtiums and all manner of other nasty things. ‘You bitch’; ‘you don’t listen to a word I say’; ‘you just don’t understand me’ - pity you can’t just turn up the telly volume at the circle sometimes.
 
Which reminds me: I can’t remember anything about the circle, it was all so long ago, but The Hash Trash of Macau is always willing to print any dirt anyone else can remember.
 
On on
 
Nancy Boy
476 - A wet day and a bunch of drips
 
It’s been a long time coming, but better late than never, as the actress said to the bishop.
 
The Hash Trash of Macau’s coverage of the pre-run proceedings at Hash 461 is based as usual on lies, rumour and innuendo as the screw-up happened whilst our mobile newsroom / beer truck was still on its’ way through the flooded streets of Taipa to the event. With reporting from Glenfiddich Square strictly controlled by the state-run media bosses, our reporters knew it would be difficult to find a scoop, and with every scoop in town being used for bailing out first floor flats, they had no chance.
 
Shit House and NYPD had been watching the weather forecast all week. The weather men had predicted sunshine and some scattered showers, so everyone else knew it was going to piss down all day, but nobody realised that some twit up there was going to open the emergency drain valve over Taipa.
 
Only a few weeks earlier we’d been struggling for hares, but on this day, dogged by fair-weather hasher syndrome and foul-weather weather, we almost had more hares than runners. From what our news team could gather, Shit House and NYPD had pre-laid the trail but were so worried about it being washed away that Roger & Out volunteered to FRB with some fresh flour. The polite version of events has it that the trail had been washed away before he found it. The impolite version is that he got carried away, probably by the flood, but either way he ended up setting a completely different trail.
 
Anyway, off he went, and after a generous 3 minute wait, the pack set off after him. Things went well enough for the first couple of minutes: from the Irish Bar the pack trotted to the back of Tuk Tuk, around Bollock Mansions, up the mud bank to a check on the hill, solved a check there and then headed downhill to Ocean Gardens tunnel. That’s when R&O’s personal mission became clear. We know that he likes nothing better than a five-mile dash along a flat road, and he must have got carried away with the excitement and decided to treat the pack to a non-stop sprint to the Hyatt and beyond. Well, that sorted out the men from the mice, and our reporter duly perked up his whiskers, wiggled his tail and puffed along in pursuit of the men who were now disappearing into the distance.
 
Just then Pistifferous came squeaking up from behind, and with each now able to blame the other they made an executive decision to forget all that running malarkey and broke into a purposeful stroll past Crown to the corner of the public park that never made it off the planners’ drawings. Then they remembered why they had been running, because now they found that there was no more flour to be found. They searched around the park as far as Watson’s, but just as they were about to give up and head for the eskies, Lee appeared, also looking for flour, as apparently was everyone else. They scattered out, with Lee and Nancy Boy aiming for Kingsville in the hope of picking up a trail there, and Pistifferous happily checking in the general direction of the Irish Bar.
 
Sure enough, outside Kingsville a trail stain was discerned, leading to the road up the hill to the water tank, but instead of a leisurely crawl up the road, the trail swung abruptly off into the scrub. With the rain belting down and the whole hillside awash our intrepid duo fought their way upwards through bushes, creepers, brambles, Japanese WW2 soldiers and all the other stuff that makes up a pleasant Sunday afternoon. Finally they reached the running path to see an underwater check dissolve before their very eyes. They guessed left and after some 250 metres they spotted what may have been a trace of flour and carried on. Another half kilometre on no more could be found, so they turned around and went back. Having gone the same distance past where the check had been, they decided that they were going the wrong way after all and duly went all the way back to where they had first turned back. Just then they heard a voice calling down from above, but no, it wasn’t the Great Hasher in the Sky offering help, it was Cunter Ass Thompson, who must have been having a quiet crap with a view on the hillside to be so far behind his usual pace.
 
He had found some flour and led them up the new stairs which the Parks Department had thoughtfully provided after the Macau Demolition Squad had removed most of the plants on the hill. They splashed along the top of the hill and down the stairs to the Museum houses. There was still a trace of flour on the road by the swimming pool, which led up to Taipa Church. By now Cunter Ass had disappeared into the distance, so Lee and Nancy Boy bumbled along on either side of the road through Taipa Village with sheets of water pouring off the roofs onto their heads - well, at least there would be no need to shower later - in the forlorn hope of finding some more flour, but that was that: not another splodge to be found. Giving up all hope they scurried past McDonalds and on home around the stadium.
 
When our reporter got in he found that everyone else had got in much, much earlier and was already halfway through the eskie under the bridge by the Irish Bar. This kept off some of the rain and spoiled the target for the mystery egg-bomber who lives upstairs. Has he no thought at all for human companionship and no appreciation of the beauty of a hash choir in full throat?
 
So 3 people had managed to follow a trail laid by 3 others. You would have thought that 3 hares would produce a trail to remember. It was certainly a day to remember, and not only for the lumps of rain falling out of the sky, but I wouldn’t recommend this strategy for future use as the post-run, pre-circle intercourse session resembled the opening ten minutes of Harrods’ New Year sale: elbows and handbags everywhere, with accusation and counter-accusation being flung among the hares along with nasturtiums and all manner of other nasty things. ‘You bitch’; ‘you don’t listen to a word I say’; ‘you just don’t understand me’ - pity you can’t just turn up the telly volume at the circle sometimes.
 
Which reminds me: I can’t remember anything about the circle, it was all so long ago, but The Hash Trash of Macau is always willing to print any dirt anyone else can remember.
 
On on
 
Nancy Boy
476 - A wet day and a bunch of drips
 
It’s been a long time coming, but better late than never, as the actress said to the bishop.
 
The Hash Trash of Macau’s coverage of the pre-run proceedings at Hash 461 is based as usual on lies, rumour and innuendo as the screw-up happened whilst our mobile newsroom / beer truck was still on its’ way through the flooded streets of Taipa to the event. With reporting from Glenfiddich Square strictly controlled by the state-run media bosses, our reporters knew it would be difficult to find a scoop, and with every scoop in town being used for bailing out first floor flats, they had no chance.
 
Shit House and NYPD had been watching the weather forecast all week. The weather men had predicted sunshine and some scattered showers, so everyone else knew it was going to piss down all day, but nobody realised that some twit up there was going to open the emergency drain valve over Taipa.
 
Only a few weeks earlier we’d been struggling for hares, but on this day, dogged by fair-weather hasher syndrome and foul-weather weather, we almost had more hares than runners. From what our news team could gather, Shit House and NYPD had pre-laid the trail but were so worried about it being washed away that Roger & Out volunteered to FRB with some fresh flour. The polite version of events has it that the trail had been washed away before he found it. The impolite version is that he got carried away, probably by the flood, but either way he ended up setting a completely different trail.
 
Anyway, off he went, and after a generous 3 minute wait, the pack set off after him. Things went well enough for the first couple of minutes: from the Irish Bar the pack trotted to the back of Tuk Tuk, around Bollock Mansions, up the mud bank to a check on the hill, solved a check there and then headed downhill to Ocean Gardens tunnel. That’s when R&O’s personal mission became clear. We know that he likes nothing better than a five-mile dash along a flat road, and he must have got carried away with the excitement and decided to treat the pack to a non-stop sprint to the Hyatt and beyond. Well, that sorted out the men from the mice, and our reporter duly perked up his whiskers, wiggled his tail and puffed along in pursuit of the men who were now disappearing into the distance.
 
Just then Pistifferous came squeaking up from behind, and with each now able to blame the other they made an executive decision to forget all that running malarkey and broke into a purposeful stroll past Crown to the corner of the public park that never made it off the planners’ drawings. Then they remembered why they had been running, because now they found that there was no more flour to be found. They searched around the park as far as Watson’s, but just as they were about to give up and head for the eskies, Lee appeared, also looking for flour, as apparently was everyone else. They scattered out, with Lee and Nancy Boy aiming for Kingsville in the hope of picking up a trail there, and Pistifferous happily checking in the general direction of the Irish Bar.
 
Sure enough, outside Kingsville a trail stain was discerned, leading to the road up the hill to the water tank, but instead of a leisurely crawl up the road, the trail swung abruptly off into the scrub. With the rain belting down and the whole hillside awash our intrepid duo fought their way upwards through bushes, creepers, brambles, Japanese WW2 soldiers and all the other stuff that makes up a pleasant Sunday afternoon. Finally they reached the running path to see an underwater check dissolve before their very eyes. They guessed left and after some 250 metres they spotted what may have been a trace of flour and carried on. Another half kilometre on no more could be found, so they turned around and went back. Having gone the same distance past where the check had been, they decided that they were going the wrong way after all and duly went all the way back to where they had first turned back. Just then they heard a voice calling down from above, but no, it wasn’t the Great Hasher in the Sky offering help, it was Cunter Ass Thompson, who must have been having a quiet crap with a view on the hillside to be so far behind his usual pace.
 
He had found some flour and led them up the new stairs which the Parks Department had thoughtfully provided after the Macau Demolition Squad had removed most of the plants on the hill. They splashed along the top of the hill and down the stairs to the Museum houses. There was still a trace of flour on the road by the swimming pool, which led up to Taipa Church. By now Cunter Ass had disappeared into the distance, so Lee and Nancy Boy bumbled along on either side of the road through Taipa Village with sheets of water pouring off the roofs onto their heads - well, at least there would be no need to shower later - in the forlorn hope of finding some more flour, but that was that: not another splodge to be found. Giving up all hope they scurried past McDonalds and on home around the stadium.
 
When our reporter got in he found that everyone else had got in much, much earlier and was already halfway through the eskie under the bridge by the Irish Bar. This kept off some of the rain and spoiled the target for the mystery egg-bomber who lives upstairs. Has he no thought at all for human companionship and no appreciation of the beauty of a hash choir in full throat?
 
So 3 people had managed to follow a trail laid by 3 others. You would have thought that 3 hares would produce a trail to remember. It was certainly a day to remember, and not only for the lumps of rain falling out of the sky, but I wouldn’t recommend this strategy for future use as the post-run, pre-circle intercourse session resembled the opening ten minutes of Harrods’ New Year sale: elbows and handbags everywhere, with accusation and counter-accusation being flung among the hares along with nasturtiums and all manner of other nasty things. ‘You bitch’; ‘you don’t listen to a word I say’; ‘you just don’t understand me’ - pity you can’t just turn up the telly volume at the circle sometimes.
 
Which reminds me: I can’t remember anything about the circle, it was all so long ago, but The Hash Trash of Macau is always willing to print any dirt anyone else can remember.
 
On on
 
Nancy Boy