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Hashshit Holder: Next Week, Elephant Man

GRATUITOUS ADVICE TO HAIRS http://www.oocities.org.Tokyo.Garden/6835

If you haven't got a permission form, and you can't find that reclusive On-Sex, who hasn't got one either, you can always DOWNLOAD one from the JH3 web site. This also has the latest run directions, in case you've forgotten where your run should be, or the Joint hasn't put it in Jakarta Post, and like Lavend... sorry Herbie, you've deleted your e-mail. This saves a panic on Monday morning when you realise you don't have permission for today's run. It's also advisable to personally tell Sukardi where your run will be a week in advance. This saves him from phoning around on Monday morning, and prevents evil minded Joints from diverting your run to the zoo. And if you miss your run altogether, you can also see the write-up on the web page, usually in retrospect.

So it was with great excitement that I arrived up the Puncak knowing the hotel where it started rented rooms by the hour, and could provide room service too. It was a great location, with magnificent views across the valley. But it was an Irish run, so it didn't even start there, never mind where it might finish. The hares refused to tell where it might go, but had conveniently provided Vatican with a map of the area under strict instructions not to divulge anything. His car was soon covered with hashers suggesting alternative ways of how not to get there. The hares nicely pointed out the start, about half a km away, on the opposite bank of the river, at more or less the same great height above the river as the hotel. The lemmings leapt. Rabeye, Vatican and Boltone had already fled prematurely. Only Skinhead used his brains and commandeered Rubherturd's car to drive him down, across the bridge and up the other side, on an asphalt road covered in Batavia arrows. And yes, there, there was paper, for 200 metres at least until the first (and for most of us) only check.

The front SCB's appeared to have all gone left, when I got there. I continued ahead, hoping the higher ground would provide a viewpoint. There were plaintive calls of "Are you," from all directions below me, including Tom Jones who seemed to have chosen to swim the river, and was heading off towards Ancol. Onwards, still no paper, still diminishing calls of "Are you" from below. "Well, they're not here boyo," said Bloodbath - as we turned left along a road, to meet Bullshit running along it the other way. At which point we made all the right decision, continuing along the road until it returned to the Puncak pass, and hence back to the start, where, are you surprised, the cars had all gorn, and no-one knew where to. But we'd had our 50 minute run, were relaxed and happy, and flagged down a surprised taxi driver who thought he'd return empty to Jakarta. Sherlock Bloodclot had determined that the convoy had gone up the Gunung Gulis road, possibly even to the whispered Vatican location. YOU mean it wasn't a hoax? As the blue taxi, ex yellow variety, coughed it's 3 cylinders up the hill, there appeared another strange apparition. "When did you last see paper, Tarzan," quoth Bloodbank. "What sdffbnm dfktyu," said Tarzan. So we politely suggested that he was running in the wrong direction, and propped him into the front seat, knowing his diplomatic skills would come in handy, when we finally arrived nowhere, and had to admit we had no money neither.

Heading towards the golf course, hope arose when more bodies were spotted upon the road. "Oh. no," said Angie, who always runs on paper, "we haven't seen any since that check near the start." Was this the mega diversion of all time? So we uploaded an injured Rabeye into the taxi, and continued up the next hill, being overtaken 3 times by Angie on the way, and passing a plethora of hashers, none of whom had seen any paper at all. And then, as the light faded, at the very top of the hill, beyond the unfinished hulk of the Sheraton was that welcome sight of an Anker brolly, and the unwelcome gloating face of Hashman who'd driven there. The moral of the story is, if you must get lost, you can't always choose who you do it with, but it helps if they carry a reserve of taxi money with them.

The survivors huddled together against the teeth of the gale and the driving rain which the RA insisted was merely spray off the lake. Jackets were donned, Fanny wore 3 shirts, prolapsed umbrellas littered the site. Eventually Superbrat made a belated attempt to get a circle going, not that we could hear what he said above the howling wind. Not that we cared. Does anyone listen to him anyway. Carter promised to fuck off home if we didn't have a run discussion soon. It was agreed unanimously to delay it until the missing persons arrived. Rubherturd arrived by limo from the deserted Raffles. And then Fanny and Simply Fred crawled in. They claimed to been following paper. This met with hoots of derision from wiser souls who knew better, and besides it had been a dark and unmoonlit night for last 40 minutes. But they'd obviously enjoyed each other, and indeed, it was now impossible to hear Superbrat above the noise of Fred's interminable private parties.

The rest of the circle had been yelling for ice, since the beginning, but to no avail. Until Elephant Man was awoken from his slumbers with an accusation of erroneous, or erogenous run numbers on last week's sheet. What a load of nonsense, 1627, 1732 etc. It was the time he wrote them down. And besides if anyone really wanted to find out the hairline, they can always find it on the WEBSITE. But EM was delighted that someone had actually read his sheet, though somewhat less pleased to find himself on the ice. Superbrat had given up trying to assert himself, and Captain Blood gave up "walking through the grass" and as Herpes had quit sakit, Angie imposed himself on the circle, the dirty little poser. Consequently Boltwho (Herbie aka Lav...) found himself on the ice too. Serves him right for listening to Fred.

At last we came to the tragic bit and the hares did sit on ice. And Vatican had not gone home. Everybody loved the run. It was a do-it-yourself special, just go where you like. After the first check the hares forgot to lay any more paper, and found it later on in the back of the car. But why spread paper when all you need to spread is a rumour where it might go. Superbrat said "it was the best Irish run ever." Bloodcurdle, " if only the Whelsh run had been leek this." Rabeye, "Its not true that Irish immigrated from Scotland, and increased the IQ of both countries." Tom Jones, "Thank God we don't have an English run." Rubherturd, "I don't give a fuck, I'm off to Bangkock tomorrow." Herbie came up with a ludicrous statement about losing paper after the first 10 minutes, when we hadn't even found the start of the paper by then. And Fanny said he looked forward to his next blind date with Fred, and yes, they, and only they, followed paper the whole way. And thus it became a shit of a run. But thanks for the hot dogs (except for Fanny and Fred who arrived too late).

You'd think some Irish navvies would have finished the hotel entrance, so we could have had our circle in the foyer, but no, MM sang of snow and ice, until we called for the hares who gave us the traditional Irish folk song, "Cats on the Rooftops." So here's the verse they missed

Special Jest Scribe Witless Wanker

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