Mauritius Hash Trash 620

29-04-2012 Benares Alan, Leslie and Marie Claude BYO #620

VENUE: Benares

HARES: Alan, Leslie & Marie Claude

HASH 620 – A WALK ON THE WILD SIDE

At around 9.45 a.m. on this effulgent Hash morning, The Scribe was becoming twisted up in a knot of flux as he frantically patrolled a road that was signposted to L’Escalier & Plaine Magnien although much to his blissful ignorance nothing remotely like the road as mentioned in the webpage as it was not a one way road & not a one way road in the town of Riviere Des Anguilles. Mercifully, a speed dial to the R.A. quickly revealed that the geographically & vertically challenged dung beetle had forked off much too early en route & was put right by the blessed hand of our revered authoritarian figure. It was with some degree of unexpected irony that a car carrying the disoriented disconsolate figure of Mrs Grihault was also buzzing about aimlessly along the same road looking for the key to the highway (seems like there is a lack of communication in the Grihault household).

The On On was situated at the Chimney stack of Benares sugar estate on the fringes of the South Coast. The guest hares came in the form of the glitterati of the trailsetting fraternity, the eternal holy trintiy of Alan, Leslie & Marie Claude who always seems to take on the guise of the unsung heroine on these occasions but whose contribution is never allowed to go unnoticed. It must surely be an unnerving traumatic experience to be cast adrift in the wilderness in the companionship of her two elderly (and….ahem….statesmanlike) accomplices without some sort of firearm to relieve herself of the unwithering witless ennui that such an escapade must undoubtedly provoke.
And although we were right in the heart of sugar cane country, the trail was masterfully set to avoid the typically monochromatic terrain and to take us through quaint coastal paths. The climax was a Hash Halt right on the rugged coastline where magnificent gigantic waves lashed majestically & menacingly on the rocks. The Scribe got his shoes wet from venturing a step too far on these rocks which must have been the first time that his runners have had a wash. The venerable Ryan Leeds aka the trailmaster paradoxically showed his lack of trailmastery as he found it too much of a challenge to tell the difference between fertiliser salt & plain old flour. His mishap happened near the end & the Scribe can only imagine his mind was distracted by the thought of the crates of ice cold beer although quite possibly he just suffers from the Magoo syndrome.
The circle unanimously agreed that the trail was “Mari Top” & the trio were rewarded for their superb effort.
The following merry band of first timers took time out from Sunday prayer to sample the delights of Hashing as alternative devout pastime –
1)Joelle – who was invited by Lord & Lady Russell & who seemed to enjoy her day out with the misfits.
2)Susie Cotillon – who was a guest of David, the spritely athlete who carries the camel back (perhaps containing the best malt whisky judging by his effortless fleetfootedness)
3)Helen – all the way from the UK & a guest of Ravi & Sharma..
4)Ben & Teresa – hailing from the UK & friends of the Grihaults, he being Sarah’s cousin.
5)Elvira – All the way from the U.S.S.R. & the wife of Case.
6)Xavier – from France & a friend of Lily’s

Case & Stephania were endured their blessed rite of passage for having the guts to make an appearance for a second time maybe because they could not find alternative amusement to pass their time on the Sabbath.

Our devoted devilish exponent of theological diversion, in an uncharacteristic sacrificial act of suicidal selflessness, audaciously elected to narrate an autobiographical story about the wearisome affliction of the male menopause & how this under-rated misunderstood medical condition threatened to alter the course of his destiny.
The downward spiral into midlife melancholy began inocuously & innocently around the time that Steve was helping his just daughter to acclimatize to University life, a process that necessarily involved carrying bootloads of personal effects to her campus hideaway. In inadvertent momentary lapses of chivalry, he would find himself resting his gaze on her fellow students in awestruck admiration at the sensuous nubility – it would be fair to suggest that these impulses were not synonymous with the passivity of parental benevolence. Indeed, these impure urges swelled into an intricate tapestry of lustful escapist images that would involuntarily make him break out in frenetic hot flushes. He also became enraptured by the dot com executives cruising around in their flame red open topped sports cars & he looked enviously at them as they flashed past around town with their posse of alluring nymphettes tantalized by their suitors’ stylishness. “I could be one of them, easy” Steve muttered, reminding himself that his silver Nisaan Qashqi could never claim to be the ultimate babe magnet But he was also acutely aware that his anemic milk bottle body was past its “smell by” date & was in serious need of a Y2K upgrade. The skin on his face had the colourless fibrous texture of an albino alligator & his bloated stomach looked like a flaccid bag of inedible blancmange. And the thin threads of silver that remained on his polished dome made him look like an absurd 60’s cartoon figure. All he wanted was to feel attractive to the opposite sex as he felt that he had much to give & all he needed was a catalyst to cross that unattainable rubicon into a state of euphoric bliss. So, in a symbolic gesture of adventurism, he decided to book into a cosmetic surgery clinic to undergo Botox treatment to remove his reptile wrinkles and a side dish in the form of Follical Unit Strip Surgery to add vigour to disappearing hair. And with a spandex midriff girdle support to eliminate his bulging waistline he emerged a new man walking the tightrope of a new dawn. He was fast becoming a Freudian psychologist’s dream patient. As his epiphanic carousel of vanity revolved in ever greater intensity, Steve thought that an image makeover was the next thing to elevate him to vertiginous levels of Cool Iconic Retro Rock God status & with this vision uppermost in his active mind, he feverishly started trawling the web for fashion inspiration & his eyes soon feasted upon a Hells Angels’ Vintage Blackbird Leather Hitman 80’s retro jacket with composite toe Thorogood boots as accompanying footwear. The cherry on the cake of this choice designer wardrobe was a Black Sabbath Heaven & Hell Angel Smoking T-Shirt. With his confidence swirling skywards like volcanic magma (which he considered to be an appropriate metaphor for his preternatural sexual magnetism), he swaggered down to Rick’s tattoo parlour in Beau Bassin to continue this metamorphosis. He had no reservations about the Hell’s Angels Death Head insignia design to be displayed across his chest while he rather liked the skull & crossbones motif for his back. He also had the words LOVE & HATE etched on the bottom of his fingers of both hands, a symbolic crucifix drawn on his forehead & the warning “BUTT OUT” on the cheeks of his arse in a clear graphic statement of his rampant homophobia. He perspired like a Bavarian pot-bellied pig during the relentless scraping, puncturing & drilling session, eventually passing out when his inverted nipple was inadvertently shaved – however, an ample surge of smelling salts quickly revived him back to life. He reached home that evening with his mutilated body burning in insufferable agony as if he had been brutalized by a frenzied industrial staple gun. But he still had that indomitable spirit to dress himself & admire the look in front of the mirror. Everything looked dandy right down to his beveled, pointed ZZ Top beard & his customized Sid Vicious sneer. The Rebranding of Farrow was complete & he felt that it was an unqualified success.
He felt toxic, he felt omnipotent; he felt invincible; he felt immortal so much so that he felt that he was Born To Be Wild & soon began humming the Steppenwolf classic quietly under his breath. In the end, he could not resist the temptation of playing the sweeping heavy metal riffs on his air guitar & it came as no surprise to him when he started to bellow the lyrics in maniacal triumph.

“Get your motor runnin’, Head out on the highway
Lookin for adventure, In whatever comes our way
Yeah darling gonna make it happen, Take the world in a love embrace
Fire all of your guns at once And explode into outer space
I like smoke and lightning, Heavy metal thunder
Racing in the wind, And the felling that I’m under

Like a true nature child, We were born, born to be wild
We can climb so high I never wanna die
Born to be wild, Born to be wild”

Nothing was going to stop him now. As the crack of dawn emerged lazily into silent view, Steve was ready to face the first day of the rest of his life with vim & with valour. As the badasses say in the ‘hood, “that Whitey dude, he got game”. Fully kitted in his shiny leathers that must have been the equivalent of half a dozen bludgeoned cows, he slowly put on his full faced metallic black skull helmet & took his Harley Davidson Sportster Seventy Two XL1200V for a cruise on the highway. As he left Port Louis behind him, he gradually opened up the throttle & it seemed to him that he was flying on magic carpet, a sensation that caused him to do a mischief in his diamond encrusted “His Satanic Majesty” incontinence pants. Undaunted by this setback, he took his machine to further highs past the 160 kph mark & snaked effortlessly through the chicane at Montebello as if he was MOTO GP legend, Valentino Rossi. He zoomed past Bagatelle faster than a speeding bullet but suddenly he spotted flashing red & blue lights in his side mirrors. “Catch me if you can, filthy fascist pigs” he roared with a vengeful smile on his face….and then suddenly, the reality of the situation dawned on him “What the hell am I doing, a fossilized benzedrine puff adder thinking that he can somehow claim the throne of Evil Kneivel?” and he sheepishly stopped & pulled over. The police officer approached Steve with a vindictive look in his eye & demanded to see his driving licence. Without a word he examined the document & slowly walked around the Harley in total admiration of the machine. He stopped, looked Steve in the eye trying not to laugh at his ridiculous appearance and said to him.. “Listen, Grandfather, it is clear to me that you are struggling with some real significant personal issues” he smirked. “and dressing yourself like that is more than punishment enough for the offence you have committed. Tell you what, I am a reasonable man & I don’t particularly want to do more paperwork after a long day; if you can give me an excuse for your speeding that I have not heard of before, I will let you off with only a warning”. Steve, with furrowed brow, contemplated the matter for a second “Well, officer, about a month ago, my wife ran off with a policeman and I was afraid that you were trying to return her”. “Have a nice day, sir” laughed the policeman with tears streaming down his eyes.

Having bared his distasteful vulnerability to the masses, the R.A. quickly turned to seeking vengeance on villians & villainesses for purported unacceptable behaviour-
1)Hari – the doyen of the fashion world was seen exhibiting himself on Page 3 of L’Express earlier in the week (hopefully not as a male clothes model).
2) Rey – for the cardinal sin of wearing new footwear but showed his unreserved mettle by drinking his beer out of one of his shoes.
3)Didier – for shortcutting & slow drinking (or so it was written in the notes). Fran joined him in the circle although I have no idea the reason behind this move.

The venerable Ryan Leeds bounded gleefully into the circle warning the collective of a difficult trail from the next Hare, Man Utd fan Didier as the trailmaster predicted that the Red Devils would surrender their Premiership title to the noisy neighbours from the other side of the city. His premonition has since proved chillingly accurate although The Scribe will not stoop so low as to pass any comment on Liverpool’s F.A. Cup defeat at the hands of Chelsea….only to mention that they played so badly even that the gay (& overpriced) giraffe, pansy Andy Carroll was their only hope of salvation.

The G.M. advertised the new Hash T-Shirt which will be available for purchase real soon apparently when the old stock is done. We should thank the generosity of the R.A. for arranging his company Lloyd Jones Construction as sponsors.

Natalie gave the cowbell to Claudine who erupted in paroxysms of laughter at the award & the pair tussled with each other in the middle of the circle like depraved alley cats (meeoooww!!) – the only missing ingredient was the mud (nod nod wink wink),

THE LAST WORD
Bugger Off

THE SCRIBE