Dodo 

Mauritius Hash House Harriers

Hash Trash 601 - Sunday 31 July 2011

 
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Walking Dodo

VENUE: Albion

HARES: Harald & Didier

THE EVENTS OF THE DAY

Having gleefully unshackled myself from the responsibilities of Presidential office, I now find myself somewhat surprisingly clutching a pen & masquerading in the silhouetted guise of the Hash Trash or as I shall now term as The Scribe.
I have yet to understand how it was that the mole-like presence of the CyberSpasticWebmaster managed to persuade a majestic illiterate like myself to assume edit-harial duties.
I suspect that, in reality, the aforementioned Webmaster is in fact the devil that finds work for idle hands to do.
Nevertheless, sometimes it is best just to shuffle down the path that you are directed to without as much as a backward glance to reflect on the steps that brought you there in the first place.
In any event, a fairly substantial babble of undesirable reprobates found their way to the sugarcane kingdom of Albion, managing skillfully to park their vehicles in sardine formation along the emaciated corridor of allotted space.

It was a relatively warm morning but apparently not warm enough to melt the saccharin-infested bottle of diluted frozen Ribena belonging to our new trailmaster, the venerable Ryan (I did try to suggest to him that fruit corn syrup was the nutritional scourge of the masses but this comment was met with a quizzical stare of unintelligibility by the imposing figure in black).
Our new GM, the criminally insane Jean Ramiah, showed no signs of nerves as he delivered his opening address with comforting authority to the assembled multitude, in the process welcoming the hares, Harold & Didier, to explain the topography of the sugar trail.
Incidentally, Harold was last spotted at Beau Vallon systematically & singlehandedly massacaring the songbook of Jacques Brel in his tremulous discordant baritone (or should that be bore-i-tone?) before a hideous but salivating band of (surely) tone deaf groupies.
It is a lesser known fact his musical talents also migrate to proficiency in a curiously-shaped Chinese Harp which (having studied its structure) actually resembles an anorexic cello with impossibly flimsy strings. But I digress……

The trail turned out to be more interesting than it ought to have been with unexpected diversions through rocky swamps & tricky undergrowth terminating in a cross country section beside a lake which was relished by The Scribe given that he revels in the thrilling monotony of aerobic running.
At one point, The Scribe lost his footing along the volcanic terrain & stumbled into the aforementioned swamp being saved from the humiliation of a head-to-toe mudbath by the valiant hand of a revisiting Hasher, Tim Catchpole whose surname ironically seemed to be apt under the circumstances (except that he caught a Scot & not a Pole although still European in nature nevertheless).
As it was, it was only my left sided Mizuno footwear that was bathed in the luxurious sludge.
The Scribe's saviour seemed intent on narrating his Samaritan act ad infinitum back at Ground Zero to the point where The Scribe rather assumed that the latter was slipping innuendos for his valour to be rewarded with financial compensation. The Scribe, being the personification of parsimony that any self-respecting Scot should be, kept his wallet well hidden from public scrutiny & instead gave Tim a free chilled beer (from the wooden crates of course) for his selfless efforts .

As there were no wimpy walkers trail on the menu, it took some time before the entire contingent arrived safely back at base camp with the stragglers limping home after half past the middle of the day; like all other Hashers before they did not complete the course (missing a section at the end that included an almost impassable ditch)….well that should be all other Hashers except The Scribe & the gazelle-like Dodocop who sprinted the last 20 metres like a legacy version of the legendary Stephane Buckland.

The circle was soon called to order & the hares given their liquid reward for a fine trail although Harold was mischievously blowing the froth from his tankard during the introductory chant (presumably because he was not alpha male enough to swill his quota of beer). Didier, on the other hand, dispatched his share with silent & stoic graciousness.
The incumbent GM mentioned that he had appointed a team of advisors consisting of a dodo obsessive, a digital artist & an alcoholism expert which, on paper at least does not appear to bode well for his tenure; and we hope that this cabinet of intellectuals does not go the same way as the ill fated MSM-MMM alliance.
The Hash virgins might have been Rosaline, Nicole & Michelle although my scribbled notes were difficult to decipher - I can only offer a token apology if this information is incorrect. Anyway, we hope that they do the right thing & make it back for some more gentle masochism along the unchartered topography of the island.
The second timer whose identity shall remain anonymous for legal reasons (OK I admit I could not recall her name) received her anointing ceremony, welcoming her into the brother/sister hood (I must remain impartial & also politically correct).
Although we appointed Steve as this term's RA, we found ourselves confronted with further amusing overtures from last year's model , our esteemed grandee, Leslie. If you cast your minds back 12 months, he became RA by default because the chosen one never made an appearance after being elected to this prestigious role (uneasy lies the head that wears the crown as the cynics would retort). Anyway, Leslie stormed towards his mythical pulpit & stalked the circle like a praying mantis, delivering a mirthful anecdote about an un-named Hash couple who had a chance meeting with the cleric (apparently a certain Father O' Malley) who married them several years back -

O'Malley…….Top o' the morning to ye, aren't ye Mrs Boulle & didn't I marry ye & yer husband 2 years ago?
Mrs Boulle….Aye that ye did, Father
O'Malley…….And be there any wee little ones on the go, yet?
Mrs B...........Oh no, not yet Father but it's not that we haven't been practicing aggressively 3 or 4 times a day.
Father………..Well I'm going to Rome next week & I'll light a candle for ye & yer husband.
Mrs B………….Oh thank ye very much, Father.
They parted ways but met again some years later
O'Malley…..Well, Mrs Boulle, how are ye these days?
Mrs. B………..Oh, very well, Father
O'Malley……And tell me, have ye any wee little ones yet?
Mrs. B………..Oh yes, Father! Three sets of twins to be sure!
O'Malley……That's wonderful! And how is yer lovin' husband doin'?
Mrs B…………Oh! Pierre Andre has gone to Rome to blow out that bloody candle!

The R.A. then dragged out the sinners for deserved punishment -
1)The colourfully clad gentlemen who bore a distinct resemblance to legendary Tour De France victor Marco Pantani & who looked like a walking advert for the United Nations with his wardrobe featuring the Maple Leaf of Canada, the white cross of Switzerland & the Rising Sun of Japan. And who knows there may have been references to other nations not visible to the naked eye.
2)Marie Andre who really ought to have known better than to throw herself headlong into the volcanic mud in the faint hope that this may provide her with a revitalizing & rejuvenating spa treatment. The lengths that people go for the sake of vanity.
3)The Scribe for also losing his balance in that same mud (as alluded above).
The R.A also felt it pertinent to give a reward to Brian & Jean for being the victims of geography that prevents them from attending the Hash on a more regular basis. Brian inhabits the darker (& perhaps squalid) corners of Nottingham where every year he gets suitably attired in Lincoln Green to participate in the annual Robin Hood festival (there is something disturbingly feminine about men who enjoy the subtleties of cross-dressing in tights although in his defence he does sport a rather fine pair of athletic legs). I would not doubt for a flashing nanosecond that Jean participates in this carnival of sorts by playing the role of Robin's faithful partner & paramour, the elegant Maid Marion.
Marinette was going to present the clattering cowbell to The Scribe but mercifully she saw the good sense to alter her decision and give this most treasured ornamental item to the luckless Hari….allegedly for attempting to tempt her into his private world of lurid sexual fantasy by offering her an Aphrodisiac root plant that may just have been a member of the ginseng family (naughty boy, Hari).

……..AND FINALLY THOUGHT FOR THE FORTNIGHT
If, while quenching your thirst for aerodynamic adventure, your main & reserve parachutes fail to open, you can take comfort from the fact that it will take you the rest of your life to hit the ground.

THE SCRIBE

 

The Hash Mish-Management Team
Office
The 2011/ 2012 team
Supreme Being: Jean Ramiah
Hare Line + Trailmasters: Ryan Leeds
Cellarmaster: Gilbert
Hash Horn: Giresh
Religious and Sex Advisor: Steve
Ice Maiden: Gaetan (For the moment)
Ha$h Ca$h: Thierry (when in Mauritius)
(Deputy: Henriette)
Drinks for Wimps 'n Kids: Harold
Hash Market: Juliette
Edit Hare: John the Goat