Not your normal night at Hash.
It was definitely NOT your normal Hash night. And that wasn’t because Normal wasn’t there. Or because the GM and the most important member of his committee – the Grog Master- weren’t there.
It was because Heavy wasn’t there.
And yet plenty of Hashers were there, including lots of old Hash friends. Everyone had their own reasons for coming, but I suspect it was in large part to acknowledge their lost friend, to be around others who were sharing that numbness we’ve all felt since Heavy’s death and to do what little they could to help Shafted and Little Evil bear their heavy load.
A thoughtful toast was proposed by stand-in GM Rowdy and then we proceeded out into the night.
For some reason the magnificent East figured largely in Spartacus’s trail. The runners seemed to head towards the West, but the sharper ones (the walkers) made a beeline to Heavy’s house looking for the drink stop.
Shafted had guessed the same possibility and had abandoned the runners to join the walkers. His absence caused Mountie some considerable consternation when she realised that he was not present at the railway station Hash Halt.
The Mass Debater was brooking no argument as he boldly took over the role of Walk Nazi from his missing mate Normal. Along the Yarrowee we went, following snippets of the trail, across the bridge at Queen Street, down an On Back and onto Humffray Street. Despite the fact we’d only gone a couple of kms Pauline felt the need to risk life and limb just to cut off a few metres by crossing over the road then crossing back again.
The healthy, energetic walkers soon found the drink stop, under the verandah at the former Black Rhino, although Crock didn’t guess that some Eskis full of grog and ice might actually constitute a drink stop. The morbidly lazy Hashers had walked all the way from the Crazy Asian to the drinks, which 45 metres they must have found quite taxing.
Proving that simultaneous climaxes are quite difficult to arrange, the runners arrived at the scene about ten minutes later. Shafted had managed to be reabsorbed by the pack, a strangely disturbing concept.
A group hug in a circle beneath the Southern Cross gave us a few moments to reflect on what Heavy meant to us. That was followed by an inevitable “Beneath the Sothern Cross” chant and a spontaneous down down in Heavy’s memory.
Back at the crazy place down downs flowed like, well, light beer. The Precious one set two Hash records that should stand the test of time: youngest Hasher to reach 100 runs and only Hasher to have a water down down in his 100th. run mug.
All the welcome backs were welcomed back, which nearly used up the slab. The sergeant was his usual scintillating self, but I somehow forget the subject of his scintillating charges.
The food was a revelation in its own way. It brought to mind the only joke that Bad Hair Day has NEVER heard!
If the answer is “infatuation prick” what is the question? “How would you like those dim sims cooked?”
Those crazy Asians have apparently perfected the art /science of low temperature frying. Who knew you could do that?
Still there was plenty of food, there was plenty of noise and it turned out to be a good night.
But it still wasn’t your normal hash night and it’ll be some time before we get used to the new normal.