OK! I know you're out there! You can say something now! You're just tryin' to freak me out, keepin' quiet. But you can't fool me! I KNOW you're there! So just you come right out here NOW and say something.....
Showing posts with label rants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rants. Show all posts
Friday, January 7, 2011
Nightmare on the old Hatyai road
OK! I know you're out there! You can say something now! You're just tryin' to freak me out, keepin' quiet. But you can't fool me! I KNOW you're there! So just you come right out here NOW and say something.....
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Achtung! Achtung!
Cast your mind back to February this year. Just another Saturday afternoon; just another SH3 run. Well let's be more precise: it was a Yardstick/Tutti Fruity run from another "brand new run site", this one way down the 4.7k turn off the old Hatyai road almost as far as Wat Nerm Pichit, then about 4k left into the bush. For those whose memories are tripped by such trivia, the run number was 1498 and, oh yes, just before the run we had an erection which resulted in R2D2 being elevated to the GM-ship. Were you there? Not sure? Well maybe this will help: a list of the attendees, who were:
So we've narrowed down the suspects and logically since the 'crime' involves a book, we can probably eliminate the Thai runners (as it didn't have many pictures), the dogs and also the victim, which leaves us with this list of possibles:
STICK INSECT, R2D2, YARDSTICK, BRAVE FART, GAN YAO, EGGHEAD, TUTEE FRUITY, LAST LOVER, SOFTCOCK, FLOWERPOT MAN, SCHMUCKME WITHERSPOON, Hans and Sam (from the Parlang).
So for those 13: Achtung! Achtung!
Some time during the afternoon, Gan Yao returned two books to Knackerwurst. One was "The Boat" which was immediately lent to Schmuckme Witherspoon, who despite managing to leave it in the beer truck on the way home, retrieved it, read it and returned it to Knackerwurst a couple of weeks later. The other book was:
Inferno: The Devastation of Hamburg, 1943.Lowe, Keith (2007: Viking Press. ISBN 0-670-91557-2)
This was also lent by Knackerwurst to one of the 13 possibles above, who, as far as is know still retains it, as they have never returned it to Knackerwurst.
If you borrowed Knackerwurst's book could you please return it to him as soon as possible or at least let him know that you have it and will get it back to him as soon as possible. Otherwise.... remember the Reichstag? Poland? Czekoslovakia? The Sudetanland? Anne Franck? You could be next!
Monday, August 24, 2009
Did I say that?
I must be getting old... Let me rephrase that: I am getting old, and it must be affecting my hearing. Actually the weekend just past seems to have provided abundant evidence of this growing infirmity. To begin with there was my complete failure to hear Beavershot ask: "Which is the southernmost capital city of a country holding a seat at the United Nations and practising a form of self government recognised as self determining as opposed to a self governing overseas territory retaining its links with its former colonial power in order that it will not be overrun again by the dagos next door?" on Friday night, which added to Stick Insect's erronious belief that his liver is smaller than his brain, (well actually there might be good grounds for that belief bearing in mind the amount of deterioration in his liver due to alcohol abuse over the course of the last 40 odd years)saw the hitherto invincible Hash-quiz team defeated at the hands of... I'm not sure who; I never did work that one out but I am lead to believe that Haggishagger and Pubic Beard may have been involved.
Anyway, I diverge. Growing evidence of my incipient selective deafness is also to be found in my complete failure to have heard Knob Gobbling in his Off T livery announcing that yesterday's HH3 run was a monsterous 14k long and would involve at about the 8k mark, a descent down the side of a hill which owed more to sado-masochism than hashing and that thereafter the remaining 5k or so would be run in a straight line dictated by the GPS irrespective of what kind of terrain that straight line passed through. Had I heard his warning I might have done what he did, which was to short cut round the hill, or more likely I would have wandered off into the wilderness as did Gan Yao in the company of Only a Yolk who has seemed strangely elated since the misadventure.
But I am horrifed to realise that not only is my selective hearing loss affecting my ability to hear what other people say, but it is also apparently interfering with my ability to monitor my own verbal output. I refer of course to his Unassailable Rectitudeness the G.M.'s piece below, which were it not for the fact that I am without doubt suffering from a long term mental defect, I would have to regard as a scurrulous and wilful misrepresentation of the truth.
The basic outline of events is not in dispute. A sham election was conducted at which I, together with the equally unwilling Gan Yao were presented as candidates to the already depleted attendees, on the grounds that only Brits were eligible for the position, albeit that both of us had clearly indicated that we did not wish to stand for election. There was a slightly louder groan at my name that at that of Gan Yao which Beavershot sought to portray as a mandate for foisting me on the Hash in the position of Butler. As I recall, I protested that "I was already doing enough at the Hash" which I suppose at a shove might be construed as indicating that I considered myself too busy to serve, rather than as was intended indicating that I thought that the tiny circle of, dare I say it "cronies", who are involved in running the Hash could probably do with being extended slightly rather than just handing out another job to one of the existing committee members. But hey ho, I probably didn't make myself clear. I do also admit to the slight aimed at Canada which I unreservedly withdraw, since like New Zealand and dare I say it, the Falkland Islands, Canada has happily slipped off the colonial yoke and is making a creditable go of things itself which is more than can be said for the former motherland to which I find myself chained which is making a complete er.. hash of things (no pun intended).
But it is not to these minor misunderstandings that I aver in my fear that my aural faculties have deteriorated to the point where medical attention may be of no avail and it might perhaps be better to be allowed to expire peacefully in the confines of a carefully soundproofed padded cell. I am referring to the upstart G.M.'s inexcusable suggestion that I said "fookin'".
There are some things a man cannot ignore and being portrayed as speaking like a common oik are I have to say beyond the pale. The crime is even more serious when one bears in mind that in his saner moments the Beaver actually graduated as a linguist and should therefore be aware of the importance of understanding and respecting the niceties of regional dialectical variations and also the socal stigma that attaches to the mispronounciation of expletives.
Do I really talk like a Geordie? or worse, a Scouser? I think not! I think that if the G.M. cares to cast his mind back to the charged emotional atmosphere of the post-election analysis he will find that what I actually said is "'ere's your FAARKIN' beer" as befits my status as a son born of the city at the center of the universe (which sadly no longer holds the sway it did in far-flung places like Stanley, and Ottawa).
But I may be wrong - I usually am, or so Only a Yolk tells me, and she should know. Perhaps I should should seek the assistance of those around me, and the next time I begin gabbling in tongues maybe they could just hit me over the head with a large blunt object; like a blog, whatever that may be!
Egg
Anyway, I diverge. Growing evidence of my incipient selective deafness is also to be found in my complete failure to have heard Knob Gobbling in his Off T livery announcing that yesterday's HH3 run was a monsterous 14k long and would involve at about the 8k mark, a descent down the side of a hill which owed more to sado-masochism than hashing and that thereafter the remaining 5k or so would be run in a straight line dictated by the GPS irrespective of what kind of terrain that straight line passed through. Had I heard his warning I might have done what he did, which was to short cut round the hill, or more likely I would have wandered off into the wilderness as did Gan Yao in the company of Only a Yolk who has seemed strangely elated since the misadventure.
But I am horrifed to realise that not only is my selective hearing loss affecting my ability to hear what other people say, but it is also apparently interfering with my ability to monitor my own verbal output. I refer of course to his Unassailable Rectitudeness the G.M.'s piece below, which were it not for the fact that I am without doubt suffering from a long term mental defect, I would have to regard as a scurrulous and wilful misrepresentation of the truth.
The basic outline of events is not in dispute. A sham election was conducted at which I, together with the equally unwilling Gan Yao were presented as candidates to the already depleted attendees, on the grounds that only Brits were eligible for the position, albeit that both of us had clearly indicated that we did not wish to stand for election. There was a slightly louder groan at my name that at that of Gan Yao which Beavershot sought to portray as a mandate for foisting me on the Hash in the position of Butler. As I recall, I protested that "I was already doing enough at the Hash" which I suppose at a shove might be construed as indicating that I considered myself too busy to serve, rather than as was intended indicating that I thought that the tiny circle of, dare I say it "cronies", who are involved in running the Hash could probably do with being extended slightly rather than just handing out another job to one of the existing committee members. But hey ho, I probably didn't make myself clear. I do also admit to the slight aimed at Canada which I unreservedly withdraw, since like New Zealand and dare I say it, the Falkland Islands, Canada has happily slipped off the colonial yoke and is making a creditable go of things itself which is more than can be said for the former motherland to which I find myself chained which is making a complete er.. hash of things (no pun intended).
But it is not to these minor misunderstandings that I aver in my fear that my aural faculties have deteriorated to the point where medical attention may be of no avail and it might perhaps be better to be allowed to expire peacefully in the confines of a carefully soundproofed padded cell. I am referring to the upstart G.M.'s inexcusable suggestion that I said "fookin'".
There are some things a man cannot ignore and being portrayed as speaking like a common oik are I have to say beyond the pale. The crime is even more serious when one bears in mind that in his saner moments the Beaver actually graduated as a linguist and should therefore be aware of the importance of understanding and respecting the niceties of regional dialectical variations and also the socal stigma that attaches to the mispronounciation of expletives.
Do I really talk like a Geordie? or worse, a Scouser? I think not! I think that if the G.M. cares to cast his mind back to the charged emotional atmosphere of the post-election analysis he will find that what I actually said is "'ere's your FAARKIN' beer" as befits my status as a son born of the city at the center of the universe (which sadly no longer holds the sway it did in far-flung places like Stanley, and Ottawa).
But I may be wrong - I usually am, or so Only a Yolk tells me, and she should know. Perhaps I should should seek the assistance of those around me, and the next time I begin gabbling in tongues maybe they could just hit me over the head with a large blunt object; like a blog, whatever that may be!
Egg
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