Hash # 1,042 – The “St. Patrick’s Day” Hash — Sunday March 14, 2004

Hares:  The CardinalO’Connor  & Basil

Start::  St. Paddy’s Cathedral, 51^st & Fifth Avenue

On-In:  Dive 75, 75^th Street & Columbus Avenue

Scribe: Sarah Down Under

Aye, Begorrah!  ‘Twas just past 1,500 years ago that the Venerable Saint Patrick brought Christianity to the Emerald Isle, seeking to bring light and peace to ignorant heathens, using the 3-leafed shamrock as an show-and-tell emblem of the Holy Trinity (well the latter may be a wee bit o’ the Guinness talkin’, but makes for a feckin’ good tale).  Aye, and what joys did religion bring unto God’s Own Country.  Me dear departed granny (god rest her soul) also put the word around that St. Paddy also rid Eire of snakes.  She was a wee bit touched though, for we all know ‘twas the little people did that.

 

And so in commemoration of this divine feat perpetrated by Ireland’s patron saint, the NYC hash decided to pay homage early and assemble upon the stairs of St. Patrick’s cathedral for a trail annually set by Basil and The Cardinal, the Irish twins.  ‘Twas a reasonably large pack, it was, eyed warily by the local constabulary.  However, when they decided we t’weren’t smart enough to be plotting a pagan raid, they left us alone.  Basil “Flannagan” appeared with his arm in a sling (spreading the rumour that he hurt it falling off his bike, but we all know t’was done it in a drunken bar brawl set off when someone had taunted his Ma and served him flat Guinness.  That Molly Mc Guillicudy has a mean right cross, be god!) The trail had been set by The Cardinal who told us to ignore anything in pink chalk, that the checks were shamrocks, and some falses were marked.  Then he stole my hotline instructions and sent us south.

 

Now, bein’ a lass with a wee bit of intelligence, a large amount o’ laziness and a likin’ for me grog, I decided to cheat.  I wasn’t going to feck about when I’d seen a check at 55^th & Third when walking to the start with Polish Manslave.  Besides, as me da used to preach, “An té nach mbíonn láidir ní folláir dó bheith glic” – “he who is not strong, must be cunning.”  And as me dear ol’ ma used to add, “and always take someone with you when you cheat…so that they may share the blame”   Joyce didn’t need much persuading.  We even solved the check for the sake of our fellow hashers and headed north.  Head up Ass and Peter breezed past us as we turned west, yelling “Cheaters!”  Feckin’ wankers – they’d followed Manslave when he ditched the pack and taken the short road, too!  Over to the park we went, and around the Pond, and pretty scenic bridges.  Aye, the road did indeed rise up to meet us, and the wind was always at our back, for such are the rewards of shortcutting.  Hardy sped by us like an over-grown leprechaun on steroids, and continued up on a bridle path north. He obviously knew something we didn’t, so we paralleled his path.  From there it was a simple jaunt across to 75^th and Columbus to a check.  Joyce and Manslave headed into Dive 75, the hash shebeen.  Being the god-fearing, neighbourly type, I went back to mark the check where a confused Seth and a newbie were standing.  Life was sweet.  The trail was short, be god, and the beer was there.  Ahhh, the luck of the short-cutters.

 

‘Twas true the shebeen was a wee bit over-populated with locals, but we soon saw them on their way, begorrah.  The Body & Doner Kebab changed shirts, I took off my shoes, and Ed Lunch arrived sweatier ‘n a hurling team.  The barkeep was a young lad with a face as pure as mornin’ mists in County Kerry.  He seemed of barely legal age, and in a bold move as would have been envied by the likes of Brian Boru, asked Got Wood for her ID.  (Have to give the boy credit for his transparent attempt to get her home address and full name, now, don’t you?)

 

There followed much merriment and drinking of the beer and then the circle was called.  Sunday, hashing Sunday.  Fortunately, on this Sunday, only beer was spilled:

 

Basil “Flannagan for a Day” and The Cardinal were first to drink, mostly for too many shamrocks checks.  Jaysus, Mary & Joseph!  Did no-one tell the lads that shamrocks are not BLUE?   “Flannagan” was recalled for further drinking.  (Only the “little people” who banjaxed me notes know why)  Then ‘twas a fertile day for virgins – An Andrew (‘tis true we need papal dispensation to prevent further multiplication of Andrews – just call him “Scottish Andrew” fer now) who insisted Hardy made him come; then Dave, Daniel and Michael.  Jaysus. More names duplicating faster than randy pagans on a midsummer’s eve!  (And, Begorrah, if  i’twasn’t Michael who insisted “The boy behind me made me come”  Saint Paddy, ya bastid!  We need ye!  Rescue these lads!)  Fortunately, with the luck of the hash, a buxom visitor, Banana Rammer, like a fine pint of good Irish whiskey, helped us to forget these sinners.

 

Hardy was the next offender.  He’d given many a stern lecture today on the virtues of pure hashing – if you cheat, do not mark checks – “it defeats the purpose of the hash.”  Feckin’ hell, Hardy!  No wonder the Irish believe the English to be “away with the faeries”.  Another Englishman, also slightly touched, was Joe “The Body” Croft.  He’d headed to Queens, following the pink chalk marks that The Cardinal had cautioned us to avoid.  Magoo was next.  Neither Irish nor English, he was just a poor confused American lad who was seen on trail confusing right with left, and any other compass points left begging.   Sweet Marie Wickers however, lacked no direction.  Her wee form had left HuA lagging in the bogs of Central Park earlier in this fine morn, as she breezed past him on a training r*n, singing jauntily of her next hour’s appointment with her Achilles track partner, followed by the hash.  ‘Tis true of these wondrous Sprites – though they have a love of throwing their fine pints o’er their heads during down-downs.

 

Neither a sprite, nor a banshee, but a force o’ nature, Slow to Blow was finally called. He’d hashed late, with designer coffee, and…Jaysus, Mary & Joseph!  Were those “World Wrestling Federation” brand pants?  Shite!  They were!  “They’re me lucky charms!” STB yelled, but was ignored.  He’d also tried to negotiate a non-hash designer beer from the bartender, and so this gave him…AOTW.  (Poor lad.  He didn’t know he’d received AOTW til ‘twas pointed out to him afterwards.  He was confused as he didn’t have to drink from the ol’ plunger)

 

Other notable events of this fine fleadh included Lil’ Kim dispensing green food colouring into pints, begorrah, and a large amount of civilians who sprouted from nowhere like leprechauns in search of a wee pot o’ gold…or a pint.  They included Mean Jean, C*ckstar, Nina and Sung-Hee.  Three-time hasher, Lisa, proved herself a game lass, dressing in a NYCH3 hash t-shirt and becoming a human board for hashers to write their greetings and sympathies for the Madrid H3.  (Most male hashers characteristically headed directly for the region of her ample bosom, armed with their sharpies).  Curiously, the bar was laden with many lollipops, so Hardy attempted to stage a “Harriette’s Sucking Lollipops” Competition, but never succeeded.  Jaysus, he shoulda known that harriettes are more interested in sucking down their grog.  Then, after hash cash ran out, I headed home, be god.  I’d had enough of those nights seeing little people after a hash. On-out.

 

Oh, and one more thing: A belated Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh!*

 

*Happy St. Paddy’s Day.