Run No. 956
Date: Friday 19 January 2001
Where: Vigilante Drive
Hares: Quicksand, Lacey Lady and Front Arse
Members: You try counting in the rain - again
Well I’m trying to read the huge smear that used to be my notes – the old precipitation really has it in for me these days – and I am indebted to our heroic Astronut for leaving me a long and involved story on my phone to fill me in (fnar! fnar! – Ed.) about the beginning of the circle. I missed this as I was busy squeezing myself into all sort of fetish gear by the side of Ripper’s car ( don’t tell his wife!) – and those fishnet stockings don’t half shrink if you leave ‘em hanging around too long..
Stop drivelling, BW..
Let’s go back to the run itself. Okay, us Wednesday types had loped around quite a bit of it a couple of days before but – hey! – I like my home territory and we got some really nice running in around Kent Ridge. Very Mash style – including Hawkeye Quicksand and Trapper Lacey Lady to show us where to go at strategic points. I thing Hot Lips Front Arse looked pretty fetching too as he popped out of the woodwork every now and then, throwing his chest out and striking an heroic pose. A very well laid run (What do you know about being well laid?– Ed.) - ignore him, he’s just trying to get attention - which got us back to the run site as the heavens opened and the wimpy circle pulled out their umbrellas yet again.
Anyway, I was manoeuvring my front bits into a Sheepdog Bra (a round-‘em-up–and-point-‘em-in-the-right-direction device) – when the GMs – who obviously think they are really important – started the circle without me. According to Astronut, it was something to do with 33 – no – 39 - no - 956 – oh, someone’s birthday anyway. So Front Arse is 356 years old, it says on the tee-shirt.. Oh, write it yourself. I’m off to the pub. Another glorious Diet Coke…
Okay, back again, and back to the unreadable notes. We apparently had one virgin – Stuart - and a couple of visitors – Speedy Bill and Posh Pussy. Returnees were Peeking Ong – looking very suave, I must say – Pink and Tight and Bouncer. Pick Up and Desperation made it to the list somehow – God knows why ‘cos as far as I know they’d never been away - so how come I didn’t get a welcome back after my three weeks in Blighty???
The 356 year old Front Arse fronted up as the Hare Whip, and fell back on his co-hares (Bet that was fun! – Ed.) for some reason . I was distracted by the sight of a discombobulated Free Willy who seemed to have mislaid the amber fluid and most of his cerebral cortex at this stage. He was looking decidedly behind the plot down-down wise.. Never mind – Front Acres continued with the flavour of the evening – let’s see how many down down’s Fakery can get and still survive. Degenital kept him company for the first of many.
There was a whole raft of milestones coming up and Alpha Bitch was doing a good job of keeping her cool as she loined - (Spell Check - honest!) - lined them all up. Unfortunately our dear wounded Barbarism’s tankard had gone walkabout causing a collapse of stout Ring Pull (Better tell her that’s a British expression or she’ll have your guts for garters come Friday night – Ed.) and Tiny Winker lurched into the circle to say nothing much about anything – but at least he distracted you guys from the total committee disarray. And finally, it was time for the milestones.
First of all, Boo, aka Mama Anus, bared all to accept his 550 – count ‘em – yes, his 550 tee-shirt. And I remember when he had black hair…. After he was hustled off, Alpha called in “one for the boys” – the ever-decorative After Shock. Now, chaps, I warned her three times that she was going to get the award – but she didn’t even don a peek-a-boo sari for the event. Stiff – awarded his 100 runs as well – did much better, flexing what he jokingly refers to as his muscles (Be nice, Widow – he’s – um – wiry – Ed.) until asked to leave. And all the while, my suspender belt was working its way into the places that other underwear cannot reach. But my moment was waiting, as the rain drizzled down like forgotten tears…Yes, well, stuff all that. In came the heroic Wickless to accept his 200 …. Now, I can watch him take his shirt off any day of the week … (Calm down, you’ll melt the computer.. – Ed.)
G-String – the little tease – did all sorts of things with her tee-shirt apart from taking it off – for about twenty minutes. My time was approaching. I girded my loins – (Where the hell are your loins? – Ed.) Search me – please.. Anyway, before my moment of S & M glory, poor hapless Astronut had all his foibles revealed to the circle. (Not a pretty sight – Ed.) Apparently, he took his wife shopping last Sunday and managed to prang the fat cat mobile to the tune of $216500 dollars worth. Laugh! We all looked suitably sympathetic, I can assure you. Really. No, really. - Astronut and Poser were suitably punished.
Anyway, back to moi. Astronut gamely put all thoughts of his wounded car behind him and put me out of my lingerie-in-waiting misery by calling your scribe into the circle to be awarded a very nice tankard - (Chose it yourself, didn’t you? – Ed.) - hey, there have to be some perks with this job! – for my 400 ruins. And someone had to make up for the delicate oh-no-I-can't-take-my-top-off-giggle-giggle wimpiness of G-Sting and After Shiok. And, yes, the fishnets and suspender belt are part of my wardrobe and - no- I did not buy them specially. Photos will appear on this page next week….
Moving right along, we came to the Mystery Whip, who happened to be Shoeless. Now, he’s a mild mannered sort of bloke, but I have no idea what he was going on about and neither did any of my busy cohort of translators. Jack Off got got, and so did the irrepressible Indy. Make it up yourselves. Large and ever-slower-moving-target Flakey was pulled in as a drain inspector (Will this story never go away? – Ed.) with a head like a coconut – or something.
Erotic of the Week. So says Spell Check. Molester. Nuff said.
Well, I just had to get Captain Flunkey back into the circle as he looked desperately in need of another beer. Those who were there on Wednesday will remember that the bastard drove off with my rucksack containing all of my worldly gods – sorry – goods. Okay though – I got it back the next day to find that Flakey had left me a long, rambling apologetic message on my hand phone making arrangements about getting it back to me. Where was my hand phone, Flakey? Got it in one. In the frigging bag. By your feet. In your house. You must have heard the bloody thing ringing as you called me! – Duh!
Diskless was very unkind to me after this. I’d run out of 0s for the milestone tee-shirts and thought I was being very creative by just ironing on the centenary number. So my shirt said 4 and Dickens’s said 2. Being a chap of very little brain (Body’s okay though, isn’t it? – Ed.) yeah, but I’m easily pleased – he couldn’t wrap his medulla oblongata (no, it’s not rude, ladies – a perfectly respectable physiological term) around this concept and was a bit worried about what the divine Angie would think he’s been doing every Friday night for the past many years, with only 2 runs to show for it. (You’ve got four, so you obviously came twice as often – Ed.) Oh, very funny. Go away.
Barbarian got noticed for being another returnee from the dead – he spent a week in hospital while he watched his legs blow up to the size of an elephant’s dong. Diskless actually got him for phoning him up for his ride to the run – at 4.30p.m. Obviously staphylococcus aurous (God, I hope the Spell Check gives me some help with that one!) affects the time clock as well as the short one’s twinkling little lower limbs...
Guess who hauled herself in next? Yes, it was Beta Bitch, with some doctor related farrago involving the hares, their brilliant tee-shirt giveaway and – yes, it’s that man again – Captain Flakey.
Astronut was feeling out of things so he grabbed Gypsy for wearing a silly umbrella hat. And because it was his birthday. All together now – aaaahhhh! Bless him.
I can hardly type this - (It’s a good thing no-one sees the original version – Ed.) - well, let’s just keep that between you me and Spell Check – but the next on in was – groan! - Flakey. Keeping up with the hat thing, he presented the hares with thoroughly daft headgear complete with floppy bits. Story of your life, eh, Flakey?
The circle then got into serried ranks for a mass photo of the Mash style tee-shirts for Quicksand’s portfolio. Shirts looked great, serried ranks looked like they didn’t know if it was Wednesday or Christmas.
On off to the on-on at South Buona Vista, Great food, lots of silliness, including a wonderful Stanley Holloway monologue from Jenever – and believe me, you had to be English to appreciate it – and your scribe taking it all in from the horrid vantage point of total sobriety. So when Desperation kindly asked Flakey in rounded Home–Counties tones if he wanted a fooork, I’m afraid I heard it slightly askew. So did the gallant Captain, who was halfway across the table trying to oblige before he realised she was talking about an item of cutlery and not offering him a quick one. Great food and entertainment to round off an excellent hash in every way, with one of the best tee-shirts ever. And thanks to the charming Gypsy and Zipp combo, who took me away from all the mayhem and deposited me at the Colbar where I had to go through the whole underwear routine yet again at two in the morning. Well, it was one way of getting Mr. Lim to discount my bill...
One last little Flakey story. There I was at about 2.30 a.m., just me and the dog and Days of Our Lives – sad, right? The phone goes. Oh, my luck’s in, thinks I. But all I can hear is loud hilarity of the drunken sort, and an ever-so-identifiable ack-ack-ack-no-don’t-take-my-clothes-off-oh-all-right-then-there-goes-my-g-string-again hooting and hollering in the background. (As if Beta could ever be in the background – Ed.) The redoubtable Flakey had apparently got the hots for me in his alcohol-fuelled reverie and unknowingly pressed a button with his dick - (You’re making this up! – Ed.) - to give me an insight into how much fun everybody else has when they carry on-on-on at Mata Hari’s. I listened resentfully for about ten minutes. Bah, humbug! Hope you drove the right way down all those streets home, Captain….
I’ve got a night off the Ramadan tonight. It’s New Year. Indulge me. See you Friday, with, hopefully, some stories to tell.
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