Location: Pacific Pines
JE SUIS BOTCHO!!!
In a week when Paris -the city not Hilton- the planet’s epicentre of all that is ‘lurv’ and ‘haute couture’ – became the latest metaphor for Islam, i.e. religion of peace and the Hijab, we can take comfort in Churchill’s chilling wisdom that: “no two terrorist are alike”. And, as more and more hardcore terrorist organisation spring forth, so too did the news this week that there exists an active terrorist cell here on the Gold Coast…. in fact, right within the GCH3. While this may not come as surprising to those with a yearning for the next conspiracy theory, the revelation of its figurehead was indeed a bombshell. Indeed, those within the inner sanctum of the Gourmet Hash had naturally assumed that Flasher – the GCH3’s most passionate and most vocal anti Islam crusader – was its leader (or ‘Grand Muff’ as he is normally referred to).
But they were all wrong.
Indeed, when Botcho emerged – sandwich board over the shoulders – with the words:
the GCH3 membership was stunned; Botcho, a fucking terrorist, how could that be? The bloke’s everyone favourite uncle, a most lovable, decent, honourable man. The world’s gone bloody bananas!!!
As chance would have it, Botcho was also the Hare for Run 1941 at Pac Pines last Monday. He laid down the law from the get go:
-“Now listen up you bunch of bastards and listen good ‘cause I’m only saying this once. This trail’s cherry-ripe for you to absolutely lay waste to it…so get in there, hard, and demolish the fucking thing… and take no fucking prisoners…
Now fuck off!”
At first glance it looked like this would be just another bog standard GCH3 run but, on this occasion, first appearance was deceiving; for as soon as we’d climbed a little bitumen hill, Botcho sent us in Jihadist training terrain. The trail followed what would usually be referred to as a peaceful, meandering brook but since the Gold Coast has been deluged by 3 metres of stormwater recently, the brook had turned into a wild, treacherous torrent. As a result the trail was overgrown to buggery and running was made all the harder for the long wet grass and fallen trees. The washed away trail became so slippery it was like a slippery slide; many of the more inexperienced hashers became concerned:
-“Don’t get me wrong, I love hashing” panted Fanny Charmer, “but I’d rather hash when it’s dry that way I don’t get a wet arse from sliding on it”…
The pack eventually made it to the 3rd check with 3 alternatives on offer: 1. down the hill, 2. up and along the wild river or 3. through the river and up a bloody big mountain.
-“I reckon it’s down here” said a circumspect Circumference opting (as is his nature) for the easy out.
Hard-as-nails-hasher Sir Prince Valiant scoffed:
-“No fucking way… it’s across the river and up that fucking mountain, no risk”. He stepped into the water and was immediately fighting the unrelenting current. Soon the pack followed him for they knew… here was a true leader. Lurch stepped in with Sir Rabbit on his shoulders for fear that he may drown. “What about me?” screeched the midget Miscarriage “I don’t wanna die” but no one gave a toss…
As the pack crossed to the other bank they looked liked bewildered Wildebeests emerging out of the crocodile infested Serengeti River. “Fuck me” said Sir Slab “that was bloody close”. But if he thought this ordeal was over he was badly mistaken. The mountain ahead was a muddy slippery dip and it took great courage and guts for the pack to finally conquer it. At the top Brewtus said: “I’m fucked fellas, I can’t go on…”
Someone said: “What’s happened to that Pommy bastard from Singapore?” to which came the reply: “Who fucking cares…hopefully he’s been washed away and that’s the last we’ll see of ‘im. That’ll teach him being a Pom”.
As the light got dimmer and rain began to fall once more, the spent pack ambled their way back home and some well earned hooch.
Sir Black Stump was first ‘crit’ in the Circle and he blathered on and on about the good ole days when hashing on the coast was; -“Back then it was bush, bush and more bush…Hashing was a bloke’s domain, when hard runnin’ and hard drinkin’ was all we cared about. You copped a hiding for lack of shiggy on the run but these days you cop one for not providing dessert with your gourmet nosh…the world’s gone fuckin’ mad.”
Fanny Charmer (or Molasses to those who know him well) thought the run was: “Excellent really…… My arse is still wet from sliding down muddy hills but I’m sure that it’ll dry in good time so, an excellent run really!”
Cumsmoke was asked to crit the Walk and he thought it was “excellent”. No, really.
Shat spoke about the Nosh and he thought it was “bloody great”. The chicken shnitzel was cooked to perfection and the Bruchetta was “fucking amazing”. However, on a slightly sour note, he was a ‘smidge’ critical of the Hare for “lack of providing enough dessert”. Little did he know that by the time he was ready for it, Show Pony and Fanny Charmer had both scoffed half a Pav’ each and left fuck all for others.
SPV handed the ‘Useless’ shirt to Miscarriage for the questionable crime of “too many down downs the previous week”.
Ferret, looking oh so dignified in full Prick-of-the-Week attire, thought Weekly should be the PoW, or maybe Flasher, or then again perhaps it could be…. before he finally settled on Not Tonight (Josephine) for an assortment of heinous crime.
As the night unfolded and drinks flowed freely, Botcho, finally relieved of the clandestine cloak he’d been wearing all these years, was in full cry:
-“The problem with modern, new-age terrorism is that it’s lost its sense of fun. I’ve been terrorising people all my life but my version of it is terrorism with both passion and good humour. When I was a kiddy I used to terrorise old Mrs Knight next door because she wouldn’t give me my cricket ball back when I thumped it over the fence. To teach her a lesson, I’d collect a bucket full of cane toads and when she’d be putting the washing out I’d drown them in kero, light ‘em up and throw them over the fence. So fucking hysterical seeing these fireball toads hopping around her backyard while she shuffled around trying to avoid them…
We formed the (Gold Coast) ‘Cell’ soon after the Ayatollah Hoemeini had issued a fatwah to kill Rushdie; we supported the Ayatollah one hundred percent. The ‘Cell’ decided to issue its own ‘Fatty Wah Wah’ simply because his book The Satanic Verses was so fucking boring. I struggled through the first chapter and couldn’t find one word with a hint of humour in it. On that basis alone Rushdie deserved his ‘Fatty’. We even passed the hat around raising money to have his humour by-pass reversed but he’d disappeared by then and it remains on the ‘to do’ list.
We, in the Cell, are devotees of His Arseholeness Saint Hooch or HASH for short. We believe and strongly advocate drinking heavily and comedy. That’s what we want to impose on the world. Our motto is “Suck more Piss and don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”. If you can’t live by these fundamental principles then be prepared for bombs or murder. It’s that fucking simple!!! And I don’t mind telling you, I’ve dropped my fair share of bombs over the years, particularly after a fiery Vindaloo or a rich Beef Rendang. Mexican triple fried beans can also do the job but those bombs aren’t quite as pungent…
As for murder, I’m bloody proud to have committed more in my life time than I’ve had hot dinners. I murder a couple of Boags and a red every Monday for starters…..”
Bent Banana continued: -“The great thing about Botcho is that he doesn’t discriminate; he’ll just as easily murder a Jacob’s Creek rough red as he would a top of the range Grange. My cellar’s been on the receiving end of many of his murderous rampages…”
Botcho had the final word: “Terrorism is the way of the future; our God HASH is the only way and look out those who defy us: we will drink to your health and kill you with laughter.”
Next weeks hare Fuller Shit