ATHENS HASH HOUSE HARRIERS - GREEK ISLAND SPECTACULAR
27TH TO 29TH MAY 2005 Scribe: Strawberry Foreskin
A Zen weekend on Naxos
‘Do not walk behind me, for I may not lead.
Do not walk ahead of me, for I may not follow.
Do not walk beside me either, just fuck off and leave me alone.’
‘Top of the Food Chain’ [a US visitor from Germany] met much the same Zen reaction as the above when bawling for help at 4am after being locked out of his room early Sunday morning. "Many heard but none heeded". This happened soon after he had been refused entry to a bar/disco for wearing a skirt [this was not Mykonos after all]. A full, tough day of serious hashing preceded these heavy drinking sessions. Although hashing had started later than planned, partly because of cloudy weather and partly because of throbbing hang-overs from Friday.
The bus chugged up the mountain track clinging to the outer edge of the road. The driver took it close enough for us to decide not to offer him a drink before the return journey. The excellent hash was a sort of A to B run with a D-stop in the middle, near a restored temple. Triffic views and an interesting trail was laid by hares: yet-to-be-named-Kevin and Hamish, taking in a spiritual succession of Zen temples.
"We are born naked, wet, and hungry,
We get smacked on our arse.
From there on, life gets worse". - (inscription above the door of one of the temples)
The RA had arranged the weather to stay cool through most of the run and then warm up later so that whilst circling for religion the hashers of Athens remained sort of ok.
The Saturday circle was notable for two things:
1, The zen-like transformation of Kevin into "Bad News" [the RA disclaims responsibility for this moniker as his personal choices of "Mr Nice Guy", "Gentle Giant", "Push-over" and "Careful Driver" were ignored as the hash spoke with one voice]. Bad News fits rather well with his venture into local publishing and he now has the pleasure of greeting people with the phrase: "Hi, I’m Bad News".
2, The virtuoso performance of Bushman with that well known song, "Me no likee blitish sailor, yankee pay five dollar more".
3, ‘Gregor The Coke Dealer’ actually said she enjoyed it. And she is never wrong.
Ok, three things.
A GtCD inspired zen moment:
"There are two theories about how to win an argument with Gregor the Coke Dealer: Neither one works."
Julie, a hash virgin, came to the us with great trepidation after hearing stories at the ‘Saturday Afternoon Wankers’ club about drinking, sex and perversions. Don't worry, Julie; just like bondage it only seems kinky the first time.
After a brief interlude for a swim, shit, shower and shag [you know who you are!] we met at a Taverna for a meal summed up by the Zen proverb:
"Some days we are the flies; some days we are the windscreen."
Note must be made of our pick-up skills here: During a walk on the beach in his hash Tee shirt Bushman was accosted by unsuspecting holidaying hashers from Norfolk, Muffmaid and Shunt, who then joined us for the whole weekend and later said it had made their holiday [sad bastards]. Meanwhile in the lavatory of the late night Friday bar Freeloader (he was out of bed by then) picked up George Michael incognito as ‘Matt’ [yeah, right….], who had also joined us.
Friday? I haven’t mentioned Friday. But then it was the kind of weekend where events didn’t happen in sequence. Yes, well then: Friday. Efficient pick-ups were made from all the ferries, and on-in fairly quickly into a good taverna on the sea front. Rim Job and Lilly [who is very angry at not being named yet – sooo angry. We’ll change that soon] were amongst the last to arrive. We ended up in Escobar where the place cleared soon after we started dancing. Something we said?
Nocturnal events included Preston Pete [for it was he] failing to find the right room in the hotel [in fact almost failing to find the hotel]. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway as there was a sock on the door handle of his shared room. He spent the night sleeping in a corridor with the stray dogs.
Sunday, is it Sunday yet? The day started with another, now traditional, Athens Hash Champagne breakfast followed by the hang-over hash. Some confusion as we had two live hares chomping at the bit but the hasher-formerly-known-as-Kevin, Bad News, had not appeared. As it was he had set the first part of the hash [suspiciously there were motor scooter tracks along the route] which included lots of beach past topless-totty and so we were, belatedly off, or rather on on. A longish trail for a hang-over hash brought us mercifully to a beer stop where the magical restorative powers of Faxe beer (or in this case, Amstel) were demonstrated yet again. After this the frustrated live hares, Preston Pete and Bushman, were able to open their legs and show their class. Their trail took us through salt flats, shiggy, and then back on the beach where, thinking they were at the end they stopped to wash off the crap from their shoes.
They had completely mis-judged the finish point and so breached rule 42.1 sub-section 9.11(a) and were summarily judged to ‘have been caught’. This required the statutory punishment of being de-bagged in the circle. The circle, ah, the circle:
Taking advantage of the warm weather we held the circle in the sea.
ZEN Proverb: Never test the depth of the water with both feet.
The knee deep water was just too deep for Eve’s dog having legs only 5cm long (the dog, not Eve) and was given a bowl to float around in but didn’t stay in it long as it needed to see-off a bulldog ten times its size trying to pee on our clothes left on the beach. After such a brave performance it had to be named and so our smallest but possibly bravest (and most stupid?) hasher is now called "Kokoretsi" (suggestions about where to stick the skewer were disgraceful, cruel and will not be repeated here).
A canine zen thought: Why does Goofy stand erect while Pluto remains on all fours? They're both dogs.
The dog incident inspired Pink Jenny to, ‘tell us all a "funny story" ’. She managed this without falling asleep, unlike the rest of us.
And so, after punishing the hares and hounds we got down to the serious business of humiliating all present for offences both real and imaginary. Memories that have not been wiped clean by the subsequent alcohol wash (37.5 degrees) include:
Thunder thighs – Beer bitch, and for not breaking her ankle*
Weekend mis-management: Spanish Fly
Hippy Longstocking – gobbing off without permission
Top of the Food Chain – being a fat bastard
Spanish Fly + Two bit slit – taking a ‘walk’ at 4am
Phone offences: Pink Jenny - client
Julie - daughter
Oxymoron - mother (he never had a mother)
Likk’mm – being a visitor
New Hasherdabers: Scrubber
Kumkwik – who’s demonstration of what the new thong would look like was really unnecessary – especially before lunch. Quite put me off.
The yankee boys closed the circle with a full version of Swing Low Sweet Chariots and we were hungry by then.
In the taverna it was discovered that Shiva had been unaccustomedly well behaved and so was given a special Down Down. Freeloader appeared as if from the grave with a ghostly hue.
Most of us caught the slow boat home at 6pm upon which ‘Top of the Food Chain’ gave his accurate and sustained impression of a ‘typical loud American abroad’.
And so, tired and weary…
Another cracking and memorable AH3 weekend to, err…, remember.
A zen proverb to take home with you:
‘Remember, no-one is listening until you fart’.
*Post hash note,
Some time later Thunder Thighs was travelling with some (non-hash) friends when hit from behind by a car. Their car was shunted into a tree and Thunder Thighs damage a vertebra – requiring a couple of months immobility. The Athens Hash naturally sends her our best wishes and hopes she recovers well to be able to attend the many summer hashes she has registered for.
We drink to better luck for you in future, TT.