Welcome to suburbia

HASH SH*T: Rich.

Date: Saturday, January 28th, 2012.

Hares: Allo Allo and Headlights.

Location: Mulungushi Village.

Hash Number: 1652.

Hash Trash likes to see how the other half live. Call him a nosey parker, but he’d heard rumours of “Mulungushi Village” and talk of “swimming pools” and “squash courts”.  So after a spot of red dress shopping at Mandevu with Matatu and co (seriously, you should try it – all the red dresses that a transvestite hasher could ever need) we headed over to suburbia for a street hash.

TARGET: An oxygen thief,
mybe even the one that
Rich 'attacked'.

Following the chalk marks in, we passed through the gates and on into the village. “ Very impressive”, Hash Trash whispered to Goodison as we pulled up to see a good crowd had gathered for the off.  There certainly were a few hung-over faces, due in part to a Burn’s Night bash at the Intercon the night before. Indeed, Hash Trash was still having flashbacks of Condom Man, complete with Jimmy wig and kilt, flashing his arse to “Dexy’s Midnight Runners” on the dance-floor.

A good 70 or so were ready for the off, many new, with the walkers lead on a scenic stroll around the village and the runners herded around the wider area by Allo Allo. Hash Trash chose the running option (although secretly he wanted to have a good old peek at people’s property).

SCANDIES: Loads of 'em.

Given the urban setting, there was less horn-blowing as many of the newbies led the way, only to stop at the first check to ask: “What does that mean then?” The concept of hashing was hastily explained and off we went through suburbia, out through the gates and on to the streets. And generally we made good pace. Thankfully, there were none of those bloody hills from the previous weeks and the going was fairly flat. As we turned off the tarmac, the pack kept together and the older (and wiser) sent the newbies to check it out.  After a few false calls (yes, you Bo Pip), the pace quickened as rumours of a beer check for the first 30 runners was spread. Hash Trash – sweating Famous Grouse, J&B, Bells and god knows what else from the night before – stumbled in to find that there were 32 runners. B*llocks.

 CIRCLE TIME: Hashers gather up.

So far we had been following a fairly anti-clockwise route. Imagine our surprise when over the brow of the hill, from a definite clockwise direction, came Titillator and Moby - no doubt fresh from afternoon tea with yet another high-powered dignitary. The ladies were turned around and off we went, much to the amusement of the locals (one of which delighted Hash Trash with shouts of “on-on!”). The pack stretched out slightly, Hash Trash bringing up the rear, so to speak, as we entered the pearly gates of Mulungushi and munched the final few hundred metres or so.

HAUTE COUTURE: Red dressers.

In the blistering sunshine, hashers formed circle while Nipples did his best to light the braai for later. Boy Blue stepped as HM and announced that half of Scandinavia had again turned up, along with a smattering of Australians. In no particular order we had Sarah, Ashline, Earl, Jo, Andreas, Chongo, Mia, Fredericka, Shane, Carolyn, Hobbit and Chelsea, plus  some more (disclaimer – names may or may not be accurate due to the fact Hash Trash was too busy sipping Mosi  to actually listen to the roll call). Welcome down-downs were dished out and it was on with business.

HANDS OFF: Orca.

First up were Batman and Condom Man, for forgetting birthdays, quickly followed by Cream Dream for the crime of new shoes and socks! Oh, the shame. Then came the turn of the Ozzies. Paraded into the circle, our antipodean chums were jeered at and cruel songs were sung about their criminal heritage, before we toasted Australian Day and celebrated their cultural contributions to the planet (mainly vegemite, the rotary washing line and Mel Gibson) with a down-down.

BRING AND BRAA:
Nipples with meat.

Princess Fiona was called in for the heinous crime of weeing in a bamboo thicket and Allo Allo and headlights were penalised for not knowing how to organise a beer check. A triple was awarded to the shirtless ones and we all toasted the long-cutters (Moby and Titillator) for their clockwise motions.

Which left just one issue – Hash Sh*t. Now, we all know the three commandments of the hash. ‘Thou shalt not stretch’, ‘thou shalt not run’ and ‘thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s ox’ – no, sorry, that’s wrong. I meant ‘thou shalt not knock an oxygen thief over whilst sprinting for the finish like a madman’. But Rich did all these things (apart from the coveting of an ox – well he might have, but that’s just fine with the Lusaka Hash). Off came his shirt and on went the dry, but still disgusting, sh*t shirt as we settled down for the braai. On-on, folks.