NYCH3 # 1048

Hash #1,048, Sunday 25th April, 2004

Start: 103rd & Broadway Stop on the 1 & 9

Hares:  Dave Hardy and John “Yank It” Burke

On-In: Dive 101, 101st & Broadway

Scribe:  Sarah Downunder


ANZAC Day, 2004, exactly eighty-nine years after the Australian & New Zealand Army Corp stormed the beaches of Gallipoli into the waiting fire of the Turkish army in World War I.  This day (now the Antipodean version of Memorial Day) was one of the biggest balls-ups in twentieth-century military history.  Naturally, English commanders were at the ultimate helm of this massive clusterf*ck… So how fitting, how apt, that two of our resident Brits should be the hares for the Last Sunday Hash on the assault of the Upper West Side under miserable, rainy conditions, and entrenched, well-organised locals.  The hashers were a rag-tag bunch of foolish idealistic youths, ready for adventure, but ill-prepared for the horrible conditions awaiting them.  (Well, “rag-tag” and “foolish” anyhow)


DISCLAIMER: Never trust a scribe of British parentage who: a) is writing her last dispatch as official Purveyor of Bullsh*t, b) who, in a desperate effort to bring cohesiveness to said dispatch, has the audacity to insult the truly heroic nature of the ANZAC efforts, and c) wasn’t there to endure the rigors of the trail.  Yes, in true Wanker style, I dodged the rain, pestered an injured-in-hash-covert-activities Mean Jean for the on-in location, cavalierly ditched my Polish counterpart, Manslave (recovering from sleep deprivation sustained in action at his birthday party the previous night) and cabbed it over to Dive 101.  


Upon arrival, it was clear that Mean Jean (also a hasher with murky Brit origins) and Hardy (just dastardly, and a Brit) had commandeered a rather large hash arsenal of backpacks and stashed it admirably in the breeches of the pub. Bill Janeway (secret mercenary Yank) was skulking in the shadows as C*ckstar (also injured in action) hobbled in with John Boy.  To his credit, Hardy had secured our position, and there were only 3 civilian locals to contend with.  (Two, however, were subversively armed with darts and aggressively engaged in target practice on the board nearest the bathrooms)  Fortunately, the 2 barkeeps were remarkably attentive and polite, distracting us from the small arms fire in the corner.  Joyce was the next hasher to make it to the security of the On-In, closely followed by Paul dressed in matching camouflage.  Joyce seemed preternaturally calm, maintaining she had walked most of the way, somehow dodging the fusillade of the sausage and pepper stand smells and the rapid fire of oxy-clean demonstrations from the street fair outside.  “Yank-It” Burke was still MIA, demonstrating courage under the fire of exhausted hashers demanding more beer at a beer check on trail. 


It was over an hour before the main regiments of hashers poured over the threshold of the bar — legions of them, all damp and exhausted.  Wet Connection, Got Wood and Legs arrived simultaneously, citing safety in numbers.  (Upon interrogation, Legs Lesley muttered  Morningside Park”, then silenced her recollections with a beer.)  All had put up a fine fight on trail and even hash Reservists, Marit and Patrick had joined the onslaught.  Sung-Hee also fought the good fight and joined the fray.  Polish Manslave telegraphed frantically from the Home Front, sending best wishes and godspeed on behalf of all civilians.  Fortunately, all had made it in alive, battling the odds. Sweet Marie and Rich affably compared trail notes as Kyle (claiming it as the spoils of a raid on a biker shop) gave away a badass Harley Davidson t-shirt to anyone who was willing to take it. (Yes, that would be me.)  Got Wood insisted on “engaging with the enemy” in a test of darts abilities, unfortunately inflicting more “collateral damage” upon the woodwork and protective baffles surrounding the target than the bulls eye.  Bottom found the trials of a Brit-led hash to be so stressful that he was desperate enough to collapse on me, crush my kneecaps and pleaded “extra beer rations, for the love of god -I’m so weak!” in exchange for a “lap dance.”


Was it a victory for the hashers?  A Pyrrhic victory perhaps.  But it was time to celebrate and be thankful.


And celebrate we did.  In a pale imitation, we paid homage to fine tradition of ANZAC day, on which veterans are honoured and revered, then everyone heads to the pub or the local Retired Serviceman’s League for a massive piss-up. Okay, so perhaps it was a much paler, horrendously, rightfully-sue-able, bastardized version of ANZAC day: We drank much beer, and then punished those who were idiotic or naïve enough to do something memorable on trail.  (Damn! Apart from the piss-up and laughter, it was nothing like ANZAC day.  But give an old scribe just one last conceit?)


And the Punishment Down-Downs went thus:


  1. Our Fearless Brit “Leader” Hares, Hardy and Yank It.  They drank.  Then the “Old Bastard” punishment went to Janeway immediately after for “building on setting trail.”  (Trans: “The Old Outgoing Scribe has limited cognitive abilities in taking notes and has no bloody clue what she wrote”)
  2. Laird Steiv-I-can’t-spell-it-for-the-life-of-me-Ater:  He received a Yellow Heart for Gross Dereliction of Duty, yet again failing to fulfill his role as “Sweeper” and “leaving all manner of lost and befuddled hashers behind” on trail.
  3. Of virgins and visitors, there were 2-3 of each: There was Young hottie Lynn (semi-Virgin, due to hash inauguration at the G2FMH3) and Young Andy Slim, who she’d enlisted for this hash. (They’d survived.  Hopefully both will be back.) And of course, the visitors, Lost Little Prick, (Micronesia?) Long-Winded Hash-Hole (from Long Island) and Patrick (drafted from the Bahamas)
  4. Then there was Bottom who willfully converted his Weak Bladder Error (trans. “pissing on the side of building at the start”) into his “Ewa Does MY Down-Downs For Three Months”.  So Ewa “Baboon Ass” drank again.
  5. AND AGAIN, for failing to notice Stella Artois was NOT in the hash cash lexicon and ordering one anyhow.  She was awarded a…STELLA down-down.  (Those Polish chicks ain’t unsmart)
  6. Ewa. Yes, AGAIN.  She did the Brooklyn ½ Marathon.  In bright pink hot pants.  GO EWA!  ROCK ON!
  7. American Dave #6: As an unreliable embedded scribe, I can only rely on my notes, but #6 (curiously referred to as “Ralph” in dispatch scribblings), completed the Brooklyn Half-Marathon in 1hr 22minutes.  The prior Master’s record was 1:24.  “Ralph” allegedly turned 42 on the day of the Brooklyn Half.  Thus, a new hash legend was born just as an Masters’ record was completely, utterly and honourably conquered. 
  8. The Hash Entity Often Known As Stewa & Occasionally Known as Doner Kebaboon Ass:  The male component of this entity was called forth for repetitively “engaging” his female component in Public Hash Events, yet failing to notice a couple having Intercourse in Morningside Park.
  9. Head up Ass:  He was punished by fellow JM with not the spanking he so wished for, but a chug of crap beer, for answering his cell phone during the Punishment Proceedings. 
  10. Devo:  This man is a “Deadbeat Reserve Hasher”.  He signed up, but hashes less than one weekend a month due to “real life commitments and extreme physical challenges that require sobriety, but not necessarily sanity.”  As if this were not sufficient for a dishonourable down-down, it was reported he won 3rd place in his age group for some extra-curricular (read: non-hash) activity and received a box of donuts for his efforts.
  11. AOTW:  Jesse had conducted himself in a Manner Befitting a Hash Trail Master and brought the plunger.  (Why now?  Why here?  Is something…afoot?) A silence descended.  The plunger was brought forth, and the cry rang out: “For a disservice to humanity, for emulating WWI gasses in their odour, but fortunately not their lethal and horrendous nature, we give AOTW to…Stewa, for covert bathroom actions following the trail!”  Doner Kebab accepted his Purple Gass with grace.

And then the party continued, as it should.   Beer was plentiful, and we all failed to remember to stop drinking more than sensible amounts should anything scandalous occur to be reported here.  Lest we forget, indeed.  On-out!






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