Run #3191 by Gobbles at Ronnie Corner

At 1730 hours, the brave and largely unqualified forces of Penang Hash House Harriers assembled for what intelligence reports described as a “run.” Commanding officer Gobbles had other ideas. The opening assault into enemy jungle territory was deceptively civilised: a gentle climb, reasonable gradient, and enough mines, checks and bars scattered across the battlefield to repeatedly halt the FRBs and allow the rear divisions to catch up. Suspiciously competent hare-laying, in fact. Unfortunately, not all explosives had been planted by the hare. Barely a minute from the beer stop, Fuck You decided the advancing troops required one final obstacle and deployed a highly personal shit mine directly in front of the pack. With absolutely no attempt at camouflage, concealment or human dignity, he dropped his trousers in full view and commenced battlefield operations while half the battalion stood there wishing enemy artillery would take them out first. Geneva Convention observers reportedly turned away. Several hashers suffered immediate psychological casualties, and one or two may never again be able to look at Fuck You — or a patch of jungle floor — without flashbacks. The mine was successfully avoided, but the mental damage was permanent. The tactic nevertheless worked, and a remarkably large chunk of the battalion arrived together at the forward supply depot — otherwise known as the beer stop. Here the operation split in two. Those with functioning survival instincts selected the Walk of Shame, retreating safely back across the road to friendly territory. The rest volunteered for what would shortly become known as the Death March. Back into the hills they went, apparently under the mistaken belief that another few kilometres through the jungle sounded like a reasonable way to spend Monday evening. What followed was less a Hash trail and more the Normandy landings with worse planning: long river crossings, slippery terrain, hidden obstacles, booby traps, and confused troops wondering whether Gobbles had quietly joined the Imperial Japanese Army. Darkness fell. Morale collapsed. Head torches appeared. Even the first runner out returned under cover of night, which should tell you everything you need to know about the hare's interpretation of “Monday run.” The survivors then faced the final tactical masterpiece: a cuntfusing exit in the dark, with exhausted hashers stumbling around looking for civilisation like Japanese soldiers emerging from the jungle thirty years after the war ended. The final remnants crawled back into camp at 8:35 PM. Skidmark took the term Death March rather too literally, collapsing in the field and entering a thirty-minute tactical hibernation before eventually showing signs of life again. Those who survived were rewarded with good food, cold beer and a circle that rapidly descended into the sort of mayhem PH3 considers a successful evening. Gobbles, apparently not satisfied with abusing the pack physically, also arranged certain forms of entertainment for the troops. Military censorship prevents this correspondent from recording further details. Suffice to say that what happened at the hash should remain at the hash, and several participants may wish to destroy all photographic evidence before returning home. Verdict: Magnificent military incompetence. Mines everywhere — including one deeply unnecessary biological mine laid by Fuck You — Normandy river crossings, one Death March, one temporarily fallen soldier, and a retreat conducted entirely in darkness. Gobbles tried to destroy the Hash but accidentally gave us a bloody good night instead. On On — and next time, somebody remind the hare that World War II ended in 1945.