#320 : Noah Approved

Well, after much agonizing deliberation – spearheaded by the know-it-all Eno – we actually managed to drag ourselves to Tom Rose HQ.

A moment of silence, please, for Arsenic. He stepped up to cover for Cum Soc and laid what we can only assume was a masterpiece of a trail. Sadly, it was completely washed away by the flash floods. We all know it would have been glorious. It would have featured perfectly regimented 50-meter markings, incredibly strategic false trails on-backs and everything else you’d expect from a masterclass in trail laying. Alas, nature had other plans.

After re-deliberating our life choices given the genuinely treacherous way we entered the park through the back door, a few brave hashmen scouted the water level at the initial river crossing. They returned with reports of literally seeing Noah and his ark floating casually downstream. Naturally, we made the only logical decision: abandon ship and head to our second HQ at the Nerang RSL.

Little did we know that escaping Tom Rose Park would be harder than prying the lid off one of WTFAI’s home brews. Those with all-wheel drive finally got to justify their vehicle purchases. Unfortunately, our GM Pepe Lespew – who should probably be renamed “Pepe I sew mud everywhere” and Eno weren’t quite so lucky.

Enter Fresh meat. Pausing only to put down his bacon sandwich, our hero produced a monkey wrench (are we still allowed to call it that in this day and age? Just checking). He then proceeded to go to town on the nuts of some unlucky Pole. Get your minds out of the gutter, you filthy pigs. I’m talking about removing the bolts and nuts from a wooden shaft to unlock the gate so the rest of the peasants could drive out.

All was not lost. While the forest spiders had clearly all drowned, we did manage to stumble upon Spider-Man waiting for us at the Nerang RSL. We held a quick circle on the first floor fuelled by budget-priced Tun Light. Times are undeniably tough at the Covid Hash, but not as tough as having to endure Arsenic’s second attempt at a hash song. Sung to the tune of La Cucaracha, he swapped the lyrics to La Pepe and expected us to drink it down, down, down. Frankly, I think most of us would have preferred to down actual arsenic at that point just to end the auditory suffering.

Thankfully, Eno saved the day with a really well-crafted joke about the Lone Ranger, his faithful companion Tonto and a posse. Ballbags, in true form, completely missed the innuendo. Being a good sport, he whipped out the journal he carries everywhere and made a physical note to remember to bring his sense of humour next time. In his defence, the entire night was already a joke.

We wrapped things up with two-for-one pizzas, an incredible Balter black at a bargain $8.50 a schooner and genuinely good company. A good feed three weeks in a row at our new HQ is a solid effort. The only thing missing was a big cunt GANT.

See you all next week when we try to find something else to do.

On on,