Run #1647

7 July 2019 16:00h

Run #1647 – Kindergarten Cop’s 70th Birthday Run

Date & time:- Sunday 7th July 2019 16.00h

Location:- Entrerrios

Hares:- Kindergarten Cop and Just Say When

Pre-Hash Information

I believe the information supplied on the website and fb page was adequate, as it typically is, these days. (It’s already evaporated, since we are treated to regular timely updates by our highly disciplined webmaster and sometime helpful critic, Cabin Boy.) Except perhaps for the rather terse description of the location: “Entrerrios”. That short description belies the fascination to be experienced on beholding the runsite. Read on...

Prelude

Knowing in advance that Just Say When was setting trail again, I called Mummy’s Boy for a lift. Isn’t it great for the remainder of the pack to have two sets of hares, Just Say When and Speedbumps/From Behind, vying for the all-time record for bloody-mindedness – I mean, trail-setting! Your humble scribe used to indulge in this sort of caper, having managed 24 in 2009 in Singapore and Malaysia. No more! Common sense and bad joints prevail!

Imagine my surprise when I got to Mummy’s Boy’s car to find ensconced in the back seat none other than our very own Just Say When! “I though you were co-Hare today?!” I protested. “Ohh, I’ve already set trail!” she exclaimed. Of course she had! Straight after breakfast, before going back home to clean the house, dead-head the roses, and whip up a nutritious and colourful lunch for herself, Martin and their house-guest Davie from Glasgow.

I remained silent – for a few moments, anyway – until we got down the road a bit towards the runsite, which turned out to be next to a new urbanisation under development – the tower crane and fencing stage. I fancy there was some surprise amongst us to find it there, nestling furtively amongst the hills near Entrerrios, with goodness only knows what optimistic purpose. However, the spot picked for our Circle was tailor-made for a Hash of the size of ours, being a turning-circle at the end of a short spur of road; big enough to park round the edges, with a substantial but cosy space in the middle for the Hash antics. Well found, hares!

Gathering Of The Pack

I was doing my usual rounds of glad-handing anyone who would pay attention, when GM Sir Flakey quietly intimated to me that I was to be Hash Scribe again for this week. Luckily, like a good Boy Scout, I was at the ready, tent-pole in hand – smartphone, anyway. This put my wanderings and flashings once again on an officially-sanctioned footing, not that that forestalled a small bout of hip-bumping with Golden Shower as she ministered to her Hash Flash duties. There was plenty to go at in any case, turnout today comprising practically the full complement of regular, as well as some irregular Mijas Hashers.

Sir Flakey called the burgeoning pack to order, and we set about the affairs of the day. Visitors were called in first, to give account of themselves, and of course – there’s always one! – one of them was rebuked that he was a ‘Virgin’ and duly dispatched back to the Circle to wait his turn. And so the GM went round and introduced to us, recorded in no particular order, three Oslo Hashers: Sperm Bank, Erect Her and Buzz Lightyear; and two Isle of Wight Hashers: Hash Brownie and Doggin’ On The Beach. This latter had taken his place in the Circle next to Quicksand: I wonder if he knew the peril he was in?!

Three Virgins were next to be subject to the GM’s scrutiny, starting with imposing couple Kieran and Marta. Then we got to Mummy’s Boy’s house-guest, Davie – A Weegie, no less. In a flash of inspiration, Sir Flakey declaimed: “Something tells me you’re from Scotland!” “Hoo d’ye work that oot?” riposted our Glaswegian friend, true to type and thus never stuck for an answer.

There followed our GM’s weekly brave attempt to trump up a charge for New Shoes, but would-be victims Just In and Lip Service would-not-be, and the pack was left gipped out of some fun. Never mind, one drinking excuse down, a hundred more to go...

Trivia disposed of, we were entertained by the spectacle of retired schoolmaster (and perchance new GM-in-waiting?) Kindergarten Cop making a whippet’s breakfast of educating us on the vagaries of his run, his strategy and intentions, and, of course, his trail-markings. Notable amongst these last-mentioned, there were to be no False Trails, which are normally marked with a capital letter ‘F’. Then some wag piped up with: “So there ain’t no ‘F’ in ‘Trails’?” It was Yours Truly, of course, and in its obscurity the gag drew only a single laugh – from Yours Truly, of course.

Finally, the tally was taken for all those wishing to attend the on-on, done in French, by our very own French Erection. “Soixante-neuf, alors? Allez-oop!” Scribe duties were announced, and the motley band assembled for the Hash Photo by Golden Shower.

At last, we were off!

On On!

We set off to the west of the runsite along a dirt track, Golden Shower complaining about being “the last in the shit”: what’s up? – the rest of us were all first in the shit! Maybe it was the dust churned up by the tramping feet of a larger than usual pack that was bothering her. I caught up with Mummy’s Boy and we exchanged complaints about the state of our legs and feet. My left shoe pinches my bone spur badly: it’s actually easier on the move than when stopped; and so we hobbled along together a way. Shortly we encountered Karma Chameleon stumping gracelessly in the reverse direction. “Gotta go back,” he explained. “Tracy said it’s too ‘ot for me!” He’d conveniently forgotten his hat, and – with the afternoon sunshine blazing more fiercely by the minute – he had no option but to obey the imperious command of his good lady Golden Shower and scuttle back to the runsite for solitary beers until the pack returned.

Mummy’s Boy and I soon caught up with another of our number grappling with the challenge of aging legs, Cabin Boy. Thus the trio was complete: two “Boys” and a “Kan”. (There’s a joke in there somewhere.) Cabin Boy and I fell to conversation, intense and wide-ranging. We covered topics such as the energy markets, investment, corporate accounting, VAT, the social safety net, and so on, finally somehow arriving at the topic of the Hash website, and how best to incorporate pictures into the run report narrative. Somewhere along the way we had lost Mummy’s Boy; perhaps he’d had enough of the diatribes.

Then again, perhaps he just wasn’t fooled by the check that threw the two of us off course. As we walked along a paved road, we came across a split trail marking on the right hand side. The check had apparently been broken, indicating that trail was up an adjoining road to the right. We climbed the hill and arrived at another junction, but saw no sign of trail marks. We wandered about aimlessly for a few minutes, until I suddenly spied a straggling line of runners off in the distance; so we decided to go back to the check, and as we came down the hill, we could make out a second split trail marking, this time indicating continuation along the main direction of the road. Now we were completely out of sight and earshot of the pack, and thus reliant on the integrity of trail marking to make headway, though at least we were pointed in the direction of where we had seen the runners last.

Trail marking was sparse indeed. We picked up the pace slightly, concerned that we might miss out on our refreshment, since all we could see around us was the empty road winding away across an empty plain. Then, as if out of nowhere, Just Say When appeared at the top of a steep bank in the middle distance, calling in her inimitable Geordie lilt and beckoning us onward to where the trail lay across a field of scrub and grass. As we approached, we could see a stone wall of about chest height, with Weegie Davie perched atop, enjoying the shade of a tree, and beyond it were the roofs of cars. A gentle hubbub was audible from behind the wall. The Beer Stop! We were saved!

Beer Stop

As we rounded the cut-through from the track to the road, we were greeted by the sight of the pack ranged all along a low brick pediment holding up the flower bed that lined the road in front of a modest house that was walled, fenced and gated like a mansion. Karma Chameleon had managed to make his way there somehow, ‘taking the cool route’, clearly.

Before I could grab a cold beer, my glance fell upon a wiry and bronzed figure sitting obviously uncomfortably on the concrete of the sloping driveway outside the house gate. Indeed, it was Bloody Pinocchio, bleeding as always! The impressive gash on his left knee had opened up spontaneously, so he told us. He sat there stoically deliberating the matter – “Just got to get the grit out of it” - whilst various Harriettes clucked and fussed about him. Somebody had looked in the Hare’s car for a First Aid kit, but in keeping with the philosophy of the Hash, it had reportedly been turfed out to make room for beer. I paused to get a photo for the record, and turned my attention to the refreshments.

After my first refreshment, I had to ‘water the field’, and as I zipped back up, Bloody Pinocchio was boarding Stiff Fanny’s car, preparatory to being ferried to the nearest repository of medical expertise or supplies – whichever they thought they might need or make do with.

As I drew another cold can from the stock, I spotted King Knut, standing by a sort of trough built in to the wall by the field side of the road, and working at a running tap. Coming closer, I heard the sound of Germanic muttering and cursing under the breath, as he washed a slimy film of algae out of a coolbox. “Zis is not even my bloody chob!” he intoned, “But I can’t trink beer coming out of zuch a filthy object! Bah!” King Knut has the appearance you would imagine of a fearless U-boat commander, but, believe me, he has his delicate side. The rest of us stood around smiling sheepishly, silently grateful for his washing-up efforts.

Weegie Davie sat on the wall marvelling and shaking his head slowly from side to side. “To think, there’s professionals that get paid god knows how much for doing stuff far less entertaining than this!” he observed, with unfaltering Glaswegian pithiness. With that, off we went for the second leg.

On On Again!

We made our way on up the road with your humble scribe picking up the rear, swapping corny jokes with Colonic Irrigation, and teasing his seven-year-old offspring Elvis, who seems to have the patience of a saint, and will probably avoid telling jokes for life. As I progressed up the hill, up ahead were the two ‘Boys’, Mummy’s and Cabin, reunited as a couple, walking sticks swinging and dipping in unison, as though they were rehearsing for an Olympic synchronised hobbling event.

Just over a low rise, the trail clearly turned right, into a field. The turning, though obvious, was summarily ignored by a substantial group of our companions who call themselves Hashers. With some proper hash terrain in prospect, they had decided en masse to ignore the shouted directions, and become Sunday afternoon strollers for the time being. How callous were they to take the paved road in spite of the plaintive entreaties of co-Hare Just Say When, who had sacrificed herself and put so much love into this particular section of the trail. As ever she does.

Yours truly stayed loyal to the Hares’ efforts, and pursued the trail across fields and down steep tracks, fairly gliding along, and coming back to paved road with neither a scratch nor a bruise, nor even a drop of beer spilt, through some unimaginable excess of good luck and judiciously lubricated confidence. The only stumble was in stumbling very soon across the second refreshment stop.

Cava Stop

At the cava stop, we could expect to have cava: we could expect to have it served chilled, in cups, on a picnic table, with tidbits accompanying. What we could not have expected was the re-appearance of Bloody Pinocchio! Not so bloody now, there he was, sat in a deck chair grinning from ear to ear, a bandage round his knee and what looked suspiciously like lipstick streaked around it. He had clearly stolen a march on the short-cutters of the last leg, whistling by a pharmacy for supplies and depositing himself cool as a cucumber at the cava stop. How he got the lipstick marks is anybody’s guess – I’m sure Stiff Fanny wouldn’t stoop to bestowing such exaggerated sympathies – not while driving, at any rate.

On On Yet Again!

Suitably replenished, we took to the road again, urged by the Co-Hare to take the track that meandered parallel to the road about ten metres away, “on account of it’s more scenic”. Some of our number still shirked their Hash honour – shocking! Still, we hadn’t gone very far when we breasted a shallow rise to see the construction site neighbouring our runsite off in the distance. A little further along, we were brought up sharp by a split trail, marked with a choice for Machos and Wimps.

Of course, I took the Macho trail, being under the influence of ‘cava courage’, for which read foolhardiness. Nevertheless, by some miracle I once again managed to negotiate the hazards of the rougher parts of the trail without incident, whilst enjoying some splendid views along the way. I got back to the runsite to find preparations for the Circle already well-advanced, with an assemblage of Hash paraphernalia reposing in the middle of the area: Hash sign, dobber, key-box, sleeve and toilet seat, all in likely order of deployment.

The Circle

Now comes the challenging part of any run report: remembering what on earth happened in the Circle. Sure, photos were taken, notes were jotted, and snippets of audio recorded, for later jogging the memory. It still fails to make much sense, and certainly no more than it did at the time. Fortunately, there is a Hash Protocol, and clutching onto this like a shipwrecked seafarer to a passing chunk of flotsam, I have endeavoured to piece together some kind of narrative.

As GM Sir Flakey called the rarely precedented Circle of forty three Hashers to order, in came long-missing Religious Adviser Colonic Irrigation, fresh back from his dacha in the melting permafrost of Novosibirsk and shrugging off the (temporary) loss of son Elvis through the carelessness of wife Gang Bang, to set up props for his schtick – the show must go on!

“Holding a beer in your right hand gets a down-down,” bawled Sir Flakey, “Or your left!” Sitters would be penalised for crossing their legs. The stage thus set for a seriously merry old time, our GM, having executed his habitual stumble over the run number, called in the Visitors. Their polite tributes duly received and acknowledged with a down-down, next it was the turn of the Virgins, smiling and diffident as never before, and never likely to be again. I did not record the awarding of Points for the run – perhaps it didn’t happen this time. (Webmaster may correct this, if he wishes.) The animation in the Circle was in any case evidence enough that all had enjoyed the outing.

Next up was the announcement of Anniversarios. Not only do we award Points on the Mijas Hash, we award Badges for every five runs completed – a sort of frenetic loyalty scheme. For occasional Visitors, of course, it is meaningful, whilst for regulars, it is but a quasi-monthly ritual. Nevertheless, some of those latter mentioned have notched up an impressive tally. Here are the numbers for this week:

Red Hot Chilli – 30
Happy Days – 35
Lip Service – 70
Just In – 255
Sticky Tart – 275
Sperm Aid – 290
Golden Cascade – 435
Stiff Fanny – 440
Swiss Roll – 560
Up Yer Bum – 700

There are some notes on the Scribe Help Sheet (out of which document entire run reports are to be conjured), presumably referring to upcoming Anniversarios: Suxit and Inside Her 10 apiece, Brave Fart 40, and Quicksand 69. You may well wonder why Quicksand is being proffered an award on a number not divisible by 5, but such are the mysteries of the Hash, and who would be so cavalier as to spoil her fun?

It was now the hour of the Religious Adviser to regain his rightful place amongst the stars, and he strutted out to accompanying hoots and jeers (rhymes with ‘cheers’) from the assembled company. As always, the low hanging fruit had to be plucked first, and who better to pick upon to pluck than a dour old Yorkshire tyke busy maundering over his 70th birthday. Enter our Assistant GM Kindergarten Cop (most of the Mijas Hash officials partially Anglicise his hashname to ‘Kindergarden’, either because the original sounds too foreign, or to reduce the temptation of the RA to break out in his trademark ‘Hitler’ schtick. Lucky for him he’s from somewhere like Heckmondwike or Grimethorpe, and not Katowice or Szczeczin – the fun could have lasted for another decade). Readied for him centre-Circle was a pink camp seat loaded with ice, and the tyke-baiting would be curtailed at least by the thawing of the contents.

First out to pay their respects to the Birthday Boy were the Visitors; coming variously from Oslo and the Isle of Wight, they were invited to entertain him with any special ditty they might have brought along with them. Alas! They were not so prepared, and instead we all had to participate in a rendering of Jack The Necrophiliac, which some did with unseemly gusto.

Fortunately for KC, there were other cases deserving of an icing, notably our Dutch friend Cees (pronounced ‘case’ as in English) Sier, also known as Just In, who along with Lip Service had been invited to dinner at the RA’s house the evening before to announce their joint intention to... wait for it!... give up smoking on Monday! The lady of the house, Gang Bang, had presented them with a special congratulatory card brought all the way from Novosibirsk (that’s in Russia, for any Americans amongst the readership), and what had they done, but left it behind – along with their promises of self-discipline, as pre-destined. Thus Just In displaced KC on the ice seat, receiving a down-down beer that - exquisite torture! - was as warm as his backside was cold.

Next was a cautionary tale of those who take their own hashname too much to heart, and feel that they have to live down to the literal implications. Various candidates were mentioned, including Mega Sore Arse, who had injured himself falling backwards the previous week, and Sticky Tart – allegedly for baking constantly, never too far from a warm oven: but I think the main protagonist was Bloody Pinocchio, for reasons described earlier.

Then suddenly Kindergarten Cop was back on ice for dousing with his classic Yorkshire skinflint objections the wine-buying efforts of long-suffering wife and bon viveur French Erection. I believe she ‘outbluffed’ him with her superior Gallic cunning.

An unexpected highlight was the Hash Naming of Elvis’s best mate Liam, who had attended the Hash Campout last year, and sundry other events of our distinguished club. The mop-headed genuine juvenile Liam, distinguished by his self-evident youth from the ‘acting juveniles’ of superior age though not wisdom or decorum populating the rest of the Circle, was still out and about doing his ‘hash training’ in the spoil heaps adjacent to the construction site. Anyway, he was coaxed to leave his play for a few minutes and subject himself to the serious rite of passage which is a Hash Naming ceremony. Sitting centre Circle (he’s young enough to kneel, for goodness’ sake!) he was solemnly dubbed Petro-Liam, and took a down-down of soft drink from a cup clenched in his teeth.

Buzz Lightyear, our American correspondent in Oslo, was then charged for getting so inebriated on a previous evening that during his lift home he enthusiastically and volubly mistook a streelight for the full moon – at least three times successively - and his foolery was compounded with a rendering of You Got A Cock In Me, allegedly a song from the ‘adult movie’ Toy Story.

At last, the Circle was handed back to GM Sir Flakey, who summarily iced the RA for his efforts. He then displayed items of lost property, down-downing the claimants, as is only appropriate. Kindergarten Cop was then called back in for closing announcements, but first our GM regaled us with an apocryphal story of KC’s father’s visit to Bangkok when he was teaching there, whichsaid story turned into the old Penguin Joke. (Those who don’t know it will have to wait until the next telling.) Finally, it was announced that KC would be standing dinner at the on-on for the regulars, to the delight of all – not to mention the probable astonishment of anyone familiar with the character of a stereotypical Yorkshireman, which is reportedly similar to the character of a stereotypical Scotsman or Dutchman.

On On

It’s funny how a Hash group swells round about dinner time. Some say this is the effect of additional Hashers joining surreptitiously after failing to participate in the main business of the day – shocker! However, I hold the view that the same number of people just seem to occupy more space, especially when that space is a bijou restaurant perched on the edge of a slope with a view of the southern flank of the Sierra de Mijas off in the distance, illuminated by a setting sun and probably the glowing features of forty-odd merry Hashers.

This was the setting for Kindergarten Cop’s 70th birthday dinner and Hash On-On. Our group had the whole establishment practically to ourselves. A few other customers were there drinking and dining, but their presence was overwhelmed by the Hash, our lot occupying most of the space both inside and outside the building.

After a sumptuous meal, and free-flowing wine, the crowd was called to order. The carousing was then interrupted for a few short minutes to make the presentation to the Birthday Boy of a Birthday Wristwatch: there wasn’t a dry eye in the house – nor a dry throat, for that matter. I have rarely seen such a radiance of joy emanating from a Yorkshire face, as song and merriment resumed for the rest of the evening. The last I remember of the festivities was a taste of birthday cake as it fell out of my right eye. Clearly an unforgettable occasion!

Postscript

Your humble scribe tenders his apologies for the late appearance of this run report. This was not due to “Sheer fochin’ laziness!”, “Too many beer stops!”, or “Alzheimer’s”, as helpfully suggested by members of the Ready-Made Excuse Department, but a bout of incapacitating illness and the subsequent convalescence that temporarily put flight to the Muse. Yours Truly is soon bound for Blighty’s shores, amongst other things to obtain further medical (in contrast to the more usual medicinal) support. Brexit tergiversations permitting, I look forward to writing my next run report for the incomparable Mijas Hash sometime in 2020. Missing you already!!

On On On... and On, and On, and So On...

Kannot Kan

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Kindergarden's 60th?? Birthday Hash

Presence, not presents!

Sunday 07 July 2019 - Time: 16:00

Hares: Kindergarden and Just Say When

Kindergarden Cop

Just Say When

VISITING AND NEED DIRECTIONS OR A LIFT - E-MAIL US

Circle:
Entrerrios

Directions:
From Fuengirola:
Take the Camino de Coin (A-7035) in direction Coin/Alhuarin. Pass St Anthony's College on the right and then go LEFT at the next roundabout signed “La Cala de Mijas”. Then take the first LEFT signed “Entrerrios” and continue to run site ... signs will be posted from the Entrerrios road.

From Inland:
Go down the Camino de Coin in direction Fuengirola and turn RIGHT at the roundabout following signs “La Cala de Mijas”. Then take first LEFT.

There is limited shade at the circle area. so you may wish to bring parasols/umbrellas.

OnOn: La Porra (way out in campo with spectacular views) -usual deal - Click to view map

Once again, the restaurant urgently need to know numbers, so please if you haven't already contacted Kindergarden to let him know that you are coming, do so

CLICK TO SEND AN E-MAIL TELLING KINDERGARDEN YOU ARE COMING TO THE ON-ON

Or Message Him at +34 686 752 499
(do not use Facebook)

Lost Soles:
Kinder - +34 686 752 499
Just Say When +34 642 562 52

LInk for Google Maps
Latitude N 36.552919, Longitude W -4.717938