Hare: Caustic, Kitchen Bitch & helpers
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Making a Hash of Scotland
Chatting to most Gourmet hashers last Monday evening, I got the distinct impression that ‘relief’ was the order of the day as the sky had not fallen in despite the Scots voting to remain firmly attached to the welfare teat of Mother England. The thousand year old umbilical chord is said to be in pristine condition too….Scotland the Brave indeed!!!!!!
Rock Hard, an astute Planet Earth observer and a current affairs ‘freak’ was by far the most animated:
-“It fuc*!<n shits me to tears this bullshit about how teeny weeny Scotland punches way above its weight. What the f#*k have the Scots ever done for the fuc*!<g planet? Fuck all that’s what…… apart from Scotch whisky that is.
-“You mean” I said sheepishly, “apart from:
Postage stamp glue;
P-trap toilets; and
-“My point exactly” he continued, these bastards couldn’t organise a root in a bloody brothel. Fuc#!<n useless they are.”
-“But didn’t they also invent:
Chicken Tikka Masala;
Cloning (Dolly the sheep);
(Root) Canal therapy; and also
-“Maybe they did” he replied, “but that’s nothing to write home about. Fuc# me!!”
-“I think you’ll find that they also had a hand in:
It’s a moot point but Rock Hard makes it well: no one remembers how great Scotland was and how the world has benefitted from its genius. No one remembers because if contemporary Scotland isn’t quite the arsehole of the world, it is most certainly its armpit. The spirit of William Wallace (remember Aussie Mel on his big black horse inspiring his troops to a famous victory over the Pommies with the words: “the enemy may take your life……..but they will NEVER TAKE OUR FREEDOM!!!!”), that spirit is long dead. And in its place there is a nation so pathetic………….. so feeble……….. so bloody useless that it can only but wallow in a swamp of welfare dependency. All paid for by the Poms.
Our very own CAUSTIC CRUSADER was born and bred in that swamp. At 15 years of age he weighed in at a very healthy 120kg, made up of deep fried cheddar sandwiches and his penchant for deep fried Mars bars. He would scoff a couple for brekky (without toast), two more for lunch and another one for dinner, after his deep fried cheese sandwiches. He’d left school by then and turned to a life of petty crime. His old man had a word:
-“Wat d’fook d’ewe tink yor doon Jimmeh?” Straighen yor fook’n self ooot or yor orf too fook’n Australia”.
-” d’the ‘ave Mars bars n’ Australia?” was all CC could respond.
It’s fair to conclude that the intervening years have been kind to Caustic. Not only has he evolved to become one of Australia’s most eminent and (in)famous scientist, but he is also a pillar of the GCH3.
The run on Monday was a tribute to his progress as a human being but, more generally, to the greatness of the human spirit. It reflected his trip in life from the struggle of the Glaswegian beginning (climbing the bushland of the West Burleigh headland) to the enlightment period of the new world -Australia- (the placid, peaceful banks of Tallebudgerra Creek and its sandy beaches). Proving his Hash credentials once more, CC treated the pack to sought after ‘virgin territory’ i.e. a patch of bushland not yet decimated by wide-eyed developers or previously hashed. It was 9kms of pure Hashing bliss.
During the ensuing crit’, resident run assessor Two Dogs, could barely contain hisself:
-“Fuc#! that was good” he said excitedly, “just like having a good Chinese”.
Miscarriage thought the run was “a bloody brilliant Hash experience” but for the fact that he found the terrain “too flat”.
-“I like me runs like I like me custard” he explained, “with bloody big lumps in it”.
Shat was asked to comment on the walk and he too was very complimentory (Q: does this bloke ever have a bad word to say about anybody or anything?)
-“A lot of the walkers thought the walk was a bit too hard and a bit too lenghty GM, but I thought it was just perfect”.
But as good as the run was, it was his effort in the culinary stakes which truly set CC’s run apart from the usual debacle. Buggered runners were greeted with delightful finger-foody, tit-bitty, Quichy thinggies oozing with taste and flavour. Entree comprised of bbq seared fresh tuna wrapped in crisp lettuce leaves and seasoned with a lovely San Choi Ban type dressing. For Mains, the troops were treated to a Steak sanger, unlikely to make the Michelin star rating system, but a steak sanger to die for. Aged beef fillet par excellence.
It is indeed a measure of the Gourmet quality of the feed that by the time dessert was served, resident guts Lurch could not indulge hisself. “Sorry mate but I’m just too bloody full”. He missed out on a crispy waffle topped with marinated strawberries and a dollop of double cream ice cream and sauce.
Sounding out a crit’ on the nosh, GM Kitchen Bitch was overwhelmed by a massive: “Nosh of the year” refrain. Circumference presented the only dissenting voice when he said: “Bloody great tucker CC but the caramel sauce on the ice cream was, in my humble opinion, slight overkill.”
Circle time and the Grand Master got to work immediately. Weekly was iced for not paying attention to Lord GM and, despite his valid reason that he’d left his hearing aid in the car, his pleading fell on deaf ears. While he was cooling his bollocks, GM introduced Weekly’s nephew, a Hash virgin, and asked to rate his uncle. He appeared a decent enough lad but he is a dead set fucking liar.
In another example of the quality of the night’s fare, Rug was given a Down for an uncharacteristic display of poor manners. Upon being called to the feeding trough, and instead of lining up in a prim and proper Pommie way like the rest of the troops, he burst his way into the queue eager for his plate to be filled. He showed absolutely no remorse.
RA Caustic got in on the act, and much to everybody’s astonishment he said: “Today’s Hash was a stand-up Hash, so all you lazy bastards who sat to eat come in here for a Down.” As the Circle distintegrated, 30 blokes stepped into its imaginary centre and copped their penance.
Shat was called in to replace Weekly on the ice for the petty crime of calling the RA a ‘c###’. And quick as a flash the GM interrupted: “Remember fellas that this is a new-age Hash and we do not condone personal abuse. Those of you who feel slighted please understand that the Hierarchy feels your pain and wish to apologise most profusely. Having said that, it is entirely OK for the Grand Master to call you c#nts a bunch of fu#kin# c#nts.
Weekly, revelling in his ‘Useless’ sweater, was asked to handed on. “I feel most comfortable in this” he said “and I’m most reluctant to pass it on. “However I reckon Hard On deserves it…..”
Sir Prince Valiant entered the Circle to handover the POW. He looked particularly handsome with the condom on his noggin.
-“I have 3 candidates for this much sought after award, but really it can only go to one bloke: Cumsmoke, for ripping off my neighbour and pulverising her rose garden, you’re the POW.”
There was a last call for Bent Banana to be iced for RA abuse. Caustic revealed that he had wanted to ice BB earlier but with the shortage of ice and the fact that BB has a habit of leaving behind all sorts of bits and pieces from his arse, he decided that decorum should prevail and iced him last.
Before closing the Circle, a sheepish Rock Hard asked to say a few final words:
-“It is clear that not all Scots are useless; it is also clear that in Caustic Crusader the spirit of William Wallace lives on and on and on and on….
And on those heartfelt words, Josephine closed the Circle.