Run Report for Run Number 108 -- February 22, 2015;
Disclaimer: May contain elements of truth, but I highly doubt it.
43 Hashers enjoyed this Tet holiday Hash which was lovingly Hared by Dosage and Plastic Paddy
From the outside it looked like any other house in the hem. A small courtyard fronting a two story rendered building with a small balcony at the front. A couple of well-tended pot plants for a touch of greenery and it was a comfortable little home. But behind this ordinary facade was a high-tech control room and the headquarters of a shadowy organisation known simply as The Tossers. The leader of The Tossers had wanted a catchy acronym like C.A.T.C.H. but had failed to match words with the letters, Cricketing Revolutionaries’ Amazing Plot being the closest he could come.
Their HQ was a cricketing shrine. Willow bats adorned the walls, shiny red leather balls were sculpted into a cornucopia of icons and the smell of linseed permeated every corner. Portraits of cricketing greats looked down on the green strip of grass that The Tossers lovingly tended.
The Tossers were a global organisation dedicated to the eradication of all sports and hobbies except cricket. They were doing well in undermining soccer having managed to ease their agent Sepp Blatter into the most senior role in FIFA. Blatter was doing a great job in single-handedly destroying the honesty, integrity and respect that had once underpinned the game.
They now had ballroom dancing and synchronized swimming in their sights.
The leader of The Tossers was Dave ‘Dingo’ Blofeld and tonight Blofeld was not in the best of moods. His plans for cricketing world domination had just received a significant setback.
Two years ago, Blofeld had set up a bogus organisation behind which he could conduct his nefarious activities. He had named this organisation the Nha Trang Hash House Harriers and had cunningly recruited a bunch of half-wits, oafs and drunken soaks into the organisation. Any government that might take an interest in his activities would immediately dismiss the Hash as a harmless bunch of misfits who could barely organised a Sunday afternoon piss-up, never mind plan a global coup d’etat.
Blofeld’s right-hand man was Dick Fromage, a master of disguise and a financial wizard. Under his stewardship, the Hash accounts had laundered millions of dollars of dirty money from Blofeld’s porn empire which was used to finance his master plan. WankMag, another Hash member, was the operations manager for this business. The fourth and final member of Blofeld’s gang was the glamorous Dosage. She was an organisational genius with a photographic memory and a sharp and incisive intellect although she cleverly hid her organisational skills and intelligence from the rest of the Hash members.
Blofeld had set up a mis-management committee for the Hash and had recruited some of the dumbest members of the Hash onto the committee. This had allowed him and Dick Fromage to channel funds into The Tossers’ coffers unquestioned. “3 billion dong for T-shirts” said Dick. “Er, OK” said the mis-management committee. “Anyone for another San Miguel?”
But Blofeld’s scheme had hit a sudden and unexpected obstacle. Dosage had made a slip. The Hash constitution which she had drawn up required a renewal of the mis-management committee after two years. This was intended to allow the gang to get rid of any of the idiots who might have turned out to be a bit less stupid than they had thought. However, in an ironic twist of fate, Blofeld suddenly found himself ousted as the Grand Master and Dick Fromage sidelined as the Hash Cash. In the Hash equivalent of the Night of the Long Knives, Blofeld had lost control of the Hash and its money. Dick Fromage had covered his tracks carefully but the new Hash Cash, Bondage, was something of a smart cookie and The Tossers knew it was only a matter of time before their financial skulduggery was found out.
Hence Blofeld’s angst. He needed a plan and he needed one quick. He was in the Control Room with Dosage and his brow was creased with worry.
“Dosage, possum,” he muttered,. “What are we going to do?”
Dosage looked at Blofeld with a mixture of admiration, affection and pity. Admiration for his vision and drive, affection for that little tuft of hair on his forehead and pity for his inability to see the glaringly obvious way to remedy the situation.
“Dingo, my sweet,” she replied. “What we have to do is obvious. We just have to convince the Hash that their new GM is incompetent. Frankly, on his performance so far, that shouldn't be difficult. And I will make sure that I set a Hash in a couple of weeks’ time when Bondage will have an ‘accident’ on a steep cliff. The new GM will be drummed out, you and Dick will be re-instated and we can carry on as we were.”
Dingo blinked. He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a shiny red cricket ball. He rubbed it gently across his groin and smiled. “Dosage, my little koala; you are a genius. Let’s get on the phone...”
It was 3pm, Sunday. The usual bunch of dummies, dribblers and dipsticks had gathered outside Patrick’s Wine Bar for the Hash. One of the buses had turned up but, mysteriously, there was no sign of the second. Cuntstubble Pantless, the GM, was in a dither. What should he do? Wait and hope? Or come up with a clever plan? CP waited and hoped. Meanwhile various Hash members made phone calls to the bus company and it became apparent that the second bus driver was at home, drunk, having only that morning received an unexpected and anonymous Tet gift of a bottle of fine whisky.
“I know what we can do,” said Dosage to CP.” Let’s get as many as we can on the bus and then grab a couple of taxis for the rest.”
“Great idea,” said CP. “Can I leave it with you?”
“Of course you can,” said Dosage, in her sugariest voice. “Why don’t you just sit down and relax and I’ll sort it all out.”
And so CP took a seat at Patrick’s and watched as the bus filled, one taxi filled and then a second taxi filled. CP smiled. It was going like clockwork. Or it was until the bus and the two taxis suddenly screeched off into the distance leaving CP and the long-suffering Inky Poo standing alone and stranded outside Patrick’s with no idea where the convoy was heading. In the lead taxi Dosage smiled conspiratorially at Blofeld.
As usual, CP had forgotten his phone but Inky Poo and the ever-resourceful Arse Doctor managed to make contact through Good To Go and, much to Dosage and Blofeld’s dismay, the new GM turned up at the starting point on his motor bike just in time for the hares’ briefing.
The hares for today’s Hash were Plastic Paddy and none other than Dosage. Dosage was not in a great mood, her plan to sideline CP having failed. In her eagerness to leave CP stranded, she had also forgotten to bring some chalk and paper for the briefing. Nonetheless she made a good fist of scratching circles and arrows in the dust. Plastic Paddy tried to get involved in the briefing but Dosage was having none of it. “Anything to add, Plastic Paddy?” she concluded. Before Plastic Paddy could open his mouth, Dosage uttered a rousing On On and the pack was off.
The trail started just off the beach road on the northern outskirts of Nha Trang. The trail led inland along a quiet, half-constructed road with a few twists and turns to keep the leaders guessing. Then up onto the embankment above a water course to a small dam with ponds and lush greenery. The runners were taken up above the dam while the walkers crossed the dam. A right switchback saw the runners and walkers trail merge before following another embankment, then down into the village. Most of the signage was clear apart from a few arrows with no heads which caused some of the Hashers to conclude that perhaps Plastic Paddy wasn't so plastic after all. After a quick drink stop, the trail continued to meander through the village eventually emerging behind The Nipple, a small hill on the sea’s edge. There, the happy and hungry Hashers were treated to a fine vegetable soup prepared by the Russtonians and the inevitable beer and softies.
At this point, it became apparent that the ice for the post-Hash icings had been left at Patrick’s. Blofeld pointed out that this was the fault of the GM and that nothing like this had happened in his day. However, within five minutes, Booty Call and Andy Capp had come to the rescue and a fine bag of ice now lay in the middle of the circle. Dosage and Blofeld looked and each other, perplexed. They’d never known any of the Hashers to show initiative before but now their resourcefulness was blowing a big hole in the pair’s plans.
Carefully hiding her annoyance, Dosage, as Grand Mattress, bade the visitors to the Hash a warm welcome before taking to the ice to be thanked, along with Plastic Paddy, for a most enjoyable, if occasionally confusing, trail.
Just Paul was given a rousing fuck off in preparation for his trip back to rural England and then charges were laid.
CP and Inky Poo were charged with sex on the Hash. CP was then joined by Booty call as punishment for some apparently unacceptable gay gyrations at Patrick’s the previous evening. Tillfingerer then joined Booty Call as punishment for some entirely heterosexual sex on the Hash.
Pickle Dick charged Next Week with having a clock in his toilet, presumably as a means of then charging his guests for each minute’s use. An interesting insight into life in Estonia. Somehow, Pickle Dick cocked up his charge and ended up on the ice with Next Week.
The Hash Religious Adviser proselytized over Hash members failing to wear Hash T-shirts and made an example of Honey Trap who, quite frankly, manages to look gorgeous in whatever she wears.
It was brought to the attention of the RA that one of the Hash members, Bubble Head, didn't like his name. Hairy Bush scratched her head at this, thinking he had got off pretty lightly. It became apparent, though, that Bubble Head REALLY didn't like his name when he was offered, and accepted, the alternative name of Dribbly Dick.
A couple of tit-for-tat icings between Blofeld and CP, who was now wising up to his predecessor’s plan, brought the icings to a conclusion with Blofeld realizing that, quite frankly, the Hashers didn’t give a toss as to the competence or otherwise of the GM. Most of them didn’t realize there was a GM. They’d had a walk, they’d had some beer, they’d had the company of some fellow degenerates. What more could you ask of a Sunday afternoon?
On which happy note, the Hashers packed themselves onto various forms of transport back to the Watering Hole for a final ON ON.
Blofeld put down the phone. His face was ashen. He couldn’t believe what he had just been told. He’d just finished a conversation with Dick Fromage, his financial guru. In a voice trembling with regret and remorse, Dick had just informed Dingo that the 50 million dollars that they thought they had in their offshore account was in fact 50 million dong and that Dick had just inadvertently signed a cheque handing over the entire amount to a local orphanage. They were broke.
Blofeld slumped in his chair. They were bankrupt. No-one gave a toss about the GM. And cricket had just received a fast ball to the b#llocks. His plan was in tatters.
Dosage removed her headphones. She’d heard the whole conversation. She looked over at Blofeld’s crumpled features.
“Now, now, my sweet,” she cooed. “Think of the kids. Our loss is their gain.”
Blofeld sighed. “ I guess you’re right my little wombat. If I’m honest, I may have got a little carried away with this cricket thing.”
Dosage smiled. “So can we say goodbye to The Tossers and get on with a normal life?”
Dingo hesitated and then smiled back.”Yes, we can. Of course we can”
Dosage squeezed Blofeld’s hand and gave him a coy look. “Fancy a bit of bedroom cricket, honeybunch?”
Dingo didn’t need asking twice and in the time it takes to say ‘Over’ Blofeld and Dosage were batting away, crease and stump, and the night air was filled with Dingo’s ecstatic cries of “HOWZAAAAAAAT?”
Now you can access Run Reports, Pictures and Hasher listings all from the main menu (past runs);
If you like a regular social (or anti-social) gathering with a couple of drinks (or more) and a bit of sweat, the Hash might be something for you. The Hash is a very social and international, recreational cross-country running for fun activity. Put simply: we run, socialize and drink a little beer.
Nowadays an estimated 2000 chapters, spanning all 7 continents uphold this tradition on a regular base.
Before the Nha Trang Hash had even held its first event it was already featured in Harrier magazine!