[Note: this post is full of Irish slurs and may offend anyone especially sensitive about their Irish heritage. I have been assured that this warning is probably unnecessary since most Irish start slurring each day just after noon. Where practical, the original Irish spelling's have been employed for the hashers' names.]
- So, these two, erm, Irish men walk into a bar…
There are some odd traditions surrounding St. Patrick’s Day. In Savannah, Georgia, a coastal town near where I was born and raised, the population swells from 130,000 to nearly half a million for the festivities which include a river of puke-infused green beer running down River Street and through most of the historic town’s picturesque squares. In Tucson, Arizona, the local Hash House Harriers stage a Green Dress Run to honour all potato-eating transvetites, and to drink copious quantities of non-green beer. Here in Oxford, however, the tradition seems to involve chasing an asian statistician around in the mad hope that Irish themed beverages can be purloined (and, of course, beer of any colour you like).
Gosh and begorrah! There was perfect Irish weather for the St Pat’s Day Hash, which is to say it was warm and dry and not at all like typical Irish weather. A large group of eejits wearin’ the green arrived at the start for the traditional pre-run lubrications via libation, which is to say pints o’ Guinness (aka, Irish Nyquil) supplied by the hash and I was even caught with a classic case of the Irish handcuffs, which is to say I found myself with a beer in each hand. Our Bangla-Paddy for the evening was one Web McFárt and his arranged spouse, Warm and Fluffy; he’s a wee eastern bog-trotter with a disconcerting touch of an American accent and has connections to Boston–and everyone from Boston claims some sort of close (that is, ‘mob’) connection with either Ireland or Italy. He took us on a tour of the neighbourhoods near Port Mahon Pub that left more than one of us wondering if we had not stumbled into the depths of Dublin (the trail was longer than a run to Belfast, in fact) as we meandered about from port to port of call, desparately seeking something to imbibe.
- Marching season is always tense
As we were leaving, Dippy and I started comparing our green credentials. My outer shirt was nay green enough, he pointed out, but I thought he would be sated seeing my green vest. No, this was never enough and I pointed out my right sock was indeed green as well and to seal the deal added in that I had a recalcitrant fungal infection that glows green under the mercury light at the local surgery. Thinking this was satisfactory we started to leave when he pointed out that the hares were diddling with electronic devices on their arms: “those are bombs those are” but I worried not as the Irish have figured out that the suicide bomb really holds no reward for the Irish Catholic.
But, strange happenings indeed came to pass, and we were on oddly familiar turf as we pulled into Victoria’s house (the beer stop a mere week ago) for cups of cider. No sooner had we all settled into a wee spot of the crack than one of the hares announced, “60 second warning.” Ever alert, FBJ (or Efh Bí Dídhe, to give him his full Gaelic due), pointed out that we never were given the 61st warning.
The trail continued on and we eventually came upon the peat walled home that the McFárt and Fluffy clan call a home. Ah, these Irish do amuse and they always make you feel completely at home, offering you such delicacies as hot chocolate with a choice of Jameson’s or Bailey’s. A fan of the whiskey, I asked for Jameson’s and was disturbed when my shot was dumped in some hot chocolate…I think I have saturated the web with (and I have restraining orders from several US Congressmen regarding) my demands that people who put fine spirits in sweetened beverages have their US Passports revoked or denied, or if foreign that they be denied entry…but this was not the venue for my political proselytising. I asked about said ‘fine beverage’ and Mr. McFárt said that it was the cheapest Irish whiskey he could find, adding “they took that off the market in America after a bunch of hillbillies went blind.” My third one was still sublime, and my eyesight has always been rubbish.
The St. Patty’s theme was embraced by all. There was an awful lot of Irish gaelic spoken–or at least something other than proper English–by the leprechaun and former GM, WhaDeSay. And, speaking of strange, Irish related noises, whoever fed Shit Styx corned beef and cabbage before the run should be dragged through the Giant’s Causeway behind a flatulant mule. The odours permeated bar and trail and indicated more than one culprit in this chemical attack, and Dipstick even mentioned “I can smell a shortcut,” whilst lost in the Protestant sector of Marston. “Fer feck’s sake, lad, issue your mates some gas masks next time, ye octopus thievin’ arse biscuit,” Soílent was heard yelling across a table although no one was really sure what he was on about.
For proper news and analysis, the Troubles may be at an ebb in Eire, but our favourite email sectarians Amnísia and Gadhít aptly demonstrated the concept of Irish Alzheimer’s (forgetting everything except their grudges); Amnísia even forgot that there was a trail tonight and many asked Gadhít “where is Amnísia, anyway,” to which he replied, “on the far side of the Shankill wall,” or “I’ve not seen him for nigh on a week,” or something (truth be told, none of us tries to translate his ramblings anymore).
Food and drink are a necessary part of the Irish lifestyle and there is, conincidentally, always food and drink at the end of each OH3 run. I fully expected the “Irish seven course meal” of a potato and a six pack, but we were treated to another of Gadhít’s delicacies: potato famine soup, which has a lot of everything but potoatos. During the meal, Efh Bí Dídhe and former GM Loch Rís were heard out in the alley engaging in Irish foreplay (essentially Efh Bí Dídhe loudly saying, “brace yah self, Loch Rís”). Ah, and they say kids today don’t understand the old style of romance….
At the circle, our co-hare Warm and Fluffy and Mummy’s Boy were awarded their tenth run decorations and Mum & Dad, Wrist Action, and Efh Bí Dídhe were given the “n times 69″ memorial odd socks. Several other awards were delivered and O’Neil Condom was heard to say, “Feck! Arse! Girls! Drink! That would be an ecumenical matter,” or at least that’s what we think he said, no one was really quite sure (and the telly, inside, may have been tuned to More4, to be honest).
One of the stranger items of the night came to pass when the Other Bloke from Torquay was renamed; I had originally thought, he’s not dark enough to be from Wales, but since we American’s are rubbish at geography I was surprised to find that Torquay was actually in Devon. Either way, he has to find it a promotion to get a true Irish name on the day the Irish have a national excuse to overcharge for Guinness. I only wish I could remember what he was dubbed but I am certain it was a mouthful, though.
Having finished this write-up you will excuse me while I take a well deserved Irish nap (ie, I’m going to pass out), and consider calling into work with a case of the Irish flu. And so until next week, in the Craggy Island spirit I bid you
On-go on, go on, go on, go on, go-on,
dr. S.L. O’Ride
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For want of a hare the trail was lost:
