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Cheung Sha Wan Hopeless' 900th run LiT FB pics here On a very balmy (read sweaty) summer evening we found ourselves in the salubrious suburb of Cheung Sha Wan with the hare nowhere in sight. Suddenly a white ghost appeared from behind a bush, CUTR wearing the thickest sun cream I've ever seen. CUTR then drew an elaborate sketch of the lollipop-shaped run he had set. Myself and Crackpot said our goodbyes, there was no way she would make it around without getting hopelessly lost. Speaking of Hopeless, the Buzz Aldrin of Little Sai Wan was in fine form, not letting his 900th run get in the way of his usual running commentary of the setting of the run, a copy of a lesser hash's trail etc. Some wondered if Bobbledick would beat Hopeless to 1000 runs. "Not a chance" came the reply, as Mr. 900 furiously stuck pins in a mysterious old doll. Off we set through the urban jungle of Cheung Sha Wan much to the bemusement of the locals, a long runnable section had me in my usual position of tail-end-charlie. Myself and Brother A got to the In/Out point of the lollipop without any trouble and headed off across the road left past Wong Tai Sin temple and into the shiggy. Left through the cemetery and then to the Wimps/Rambos split. I took the Rambos left down the road and then up to the reservoir for a nice 2.5km flattish run around the water, ending with some idiots feeding over 50 monkeys out of the back of their car. A yomp down the road had me at the rejoin of the wimps and then down past Wong Tai Sin temples past some dogs and then rejoining the lollipop. Back down into the concrete jungle where I found Brother A and Crackpot milling around a check with some mysterious, unclaimed markings. Wisely we took the air-conditioned route via the MTR exits to find our way back to A. Very enjoyable Canada day run by CUTR, very clear markings and an interesting Rambos section. Down Dows by Indyanus The Hare...Comes Up the Rear - very enjoyable run!! Thanks for setting the Canadian Day Run..... CUTR - Trails for all!! Excellent marking.... CUTR - 'Oops! had not quite reccied all run by Wednesday ....but found the trails on the day'!! CUTR - Thanks for setting the Wimps / Rambos / and esp the Shorter version........ Short Run hashers - Indy / SP Salsa Crackpot - were u a Canadian Day Co-hare? Canucks - CUTR / Crackpot CUTR - with so much sun screen on ...looking to the locals like the true 'white ghost'! Who marked the trail at the trail end (MTR Exit C2) the wrong way into the wrong park?? Rumour says it was Burning Lust.....(Lookalike....???) Crackpot / Brother An*s - Lost in the park after that false marking..... O'Bollocks - reappeared to show them the way through MTR Exit C2 to C1...... Creme Brulee - And who lost the last World's Cup Match?... Creme Brulee / Comes In My Tunnel - after last week's DD's rushed away to watch Deutschland in the World Cup Final....... Returnee - HP Salsa ........welcome back!! HP Salsa - last run you set was 7 years ago at Stanley! ......and did not sleep for 2 week's before hand..... Virgin LSW - George.......welcome! O'Bollocks - Thanks for 'volunteering' to do the run report last week..... Lost In Translation - Fab run report last week.......esp your mention of Mr 899 runs...... Hopeless - so here it is!!!!! .......DRUM ROLL...!!! Finally!!! 900 runs!!!! Yeh.... Hopeless - how long has that taken? - First LSW Hash ...28 Feb 1990.... Hopeless - 28.5 years of devotion to LSW hash.......Well Done!!! Hopeless - Happy skittles birthday cake to u!!!!!!! Hopeless - Piss Perfect now in Sydneytown wrote this fab commemoration to you to celebrate your 900 runs!! (see link) Piss Perfect lookalike.....??? Brother An*s Hopeless - thanks for the fab 900 run shirts!! Brilliant!!!...and green!! Macau Drunk - next in line for the 900 run award...... Brother An*s - thanks for amah duties....and guiding your 'sis'! CUTR - Thanks for setting a fab hash and bash!! Much appreciated by all!! Hash Song Sung by CUTR...and Mr 900 runs ....Hopeless The Piss Perfect story on Hopeless' 900th run I was sitting at home minding my own business. Big mistake. My mobile rang and looking down, I saw the word "Indy" filling the screen. My heart was filled with foreboding as I answered and was quickly assailed by the familiar drone of her drink addled voice. "Pish Porfett, Fish Porfeck, it's Oinky. It'sh Hole Arse's non hunreff thish week. Can ew white sumfink?" And on it tortuously went. I eventually managed to ascertain through her haze, that she was referring to a conversation we'd once had about a little-known aspect of the early LSWH3. I first learnt of the story after becoming isolated from fellow hashers and stumbling into a dimly lit ante-room at the rear of the Old China Hand. Inside an old crone sat hunched over a drink and she beckoned me closer with a gnarled hand. I sat down and she fixed me with a steady gaze and said, "They tell me you are a chronicler. A story teller." "Well, I've done a couple of run reports….." "Don't interrupt", she barked. "I am the Black Widow. Pay attention, chronicler, for I have a story to tell." With that, she drained her glass, ordered another, and began to tell her tale. It all started in the swinging 60's. The Vietnam War was in full swing, and a global political movement had risen up on a tide of flower power, hippies, mind altering drugs and protest songs. Hong Kong was no exception. And one young couple, Bob and Maggie, embodied the hippie movement. Bob was the paragon of youthful virility, long, lean and lantern-jawed, his partner Maggie, a buxom, mini-skirt wearing go-go dancer. Both loved the outdoors and one day Bob was out loping along a trail through the Hong Kong jungle when he heard a strange cry. He stopped but heard nothing. Setting off, he heard the cry again. So he turned back and patiently followed the sound when, to his amazement, he discovered hidden under the ground cover and among the leaf litter, a baby. A boy. He lifted the wee bairn up and carried him home where he and Maggie cleaned him up as best they could and wrapped him up snug and warm. Over the coming weeks they contacted authorities and did their best to identify the boy and locate his family. To no avail. Faced with the option of sending him to an orphanage, they finally decided to keep the baby and raise him as their own. In keeping with their hippie culture, they thought it appropriate, given the desperate circumstances in which he was found, to name the boy Hopeless. In fact, Maggie's favourite song at the time was Something In The Air by Thunderclap Newman so he was formally christened Hopeless Thunderclap Whitehead. People naturally wondered how such a defenceless child had survived in the wild and it wasn't long before speculation evolved into the folklore that swirls about Hopeless to this very day. Some said he was suckled by chimpanzees. Others by the rarely seen barking deer. Some even ventured to suggest that he'd found comfort in the folds of a boa constrictor during Hong Kong's colder months. But no one knew for sure. All Maggie knew was that she had a hungry little boy on her hands and that she was well equipped for the task. And Hopeless thrived on her nutrition-filled breast milk, quickly developing into a bright, sturdy child. In fact, he did so well that Maggie made sure that his diet was supplemented by her milk until he was well into his teens. She even filled sealed cups with expressed milk which he would hungrily gulp down at school. Not long after Hopeless was taken in, Bob and Maggie heard about a trail running group and Bob was keen to give it a go, so Maggie tagged along. The group had a curious name, the Little Sai Wan Hash House Harriers. But it was love at first check for Bob, who took to hashing like Lost at Sea to a new plan. Little Hopeless went everywhere with Bob and Maggie, who were soon renamed Bobbledick and Motormouth on the hash. Bob would carry him in a specially made back pack on the runs and when he got old enough, he'd even help Bob solve some of the checks and shout "On On" at the hashers behind them when they found trail. In the meantime, like all young couples, Bob and Maggie were living in rather humble and confined circumstances, with a single bedroom that Little Hopeless necessarily needed to share. This was fine until he got a little older and the flat grew proportionately smaller. Bob's reputation for feats of physical endurance on Hong Kong's trails is well known however, many aren't aware that these feats paled considerably compared to his Olympic class performances in the bedroom. In such a small flat, Hopeless soon learnt to seek refuge wherever he could to escape the ongoing cries of sexual ecstasy. Sometimes he could hear Maggie too. In fact, his first words as a baby were, "Oh, Bob. Oh, oh, oh." Like many of the hippy generation, Bob and Maggie experimented with recreational drugs, including cocaine, fentanyl, LSD, heroin, marijuana, hashish, MDMA, methamphetamines, poppers, amyl nitrate and ecstasy. Thus, between bouts of torrid lovemaking and drug experimentation, there was often little time for Little Hopeless. And so Bob and Maggie had a lot of explaining to do when representatives from the children's affairs department dropped by to check on Hopeless' progress only to find him playing with his only friend, a marijuana plant. However, it wasn't long before Little Hopeless was mobile enough to join in the hash himself, jogging for stretches before crawling back into Bob's pack like a little joey. Eventually, he became a fully-fledged hasher and was soon joined by another lad who hailed from Rhodesia and sported a distinctive mop of long hair. He too, was a talented runner and a sense of rivalry developed between the two that would last for decades. Much later this lad would become known as Macau Drunk, a hash stalwart throughout the HK SAR despite being afflicted with the rare condition Hash Laryngitis Syndrome (HLS), which prevents sufferers from communicating with others on a run other than with a voice that only dogs can hear. In time Hopeless came to appreciate his unique beginnings and integral connection with the world of hashing. He instinctively understood that he was a child of the shiggy, born of the hash, by the hash, for the hash. And he began to feel that destiny played a key role in his serendipitous discovery by Bobbledick, and that he had a duty of care to the hash to ensure that its rituals and culture were maintained for future generations to also enjoy. Fortified by a steady diet of Motormouth's breast milk, he soon grew into a strapping young hasher and the older he got, the more seriously he undertook his role as hash caretaker. Eventually, Hopeless had to confront the stark reality faced by all young hashers. He had to get a job. First order of business was his unconventional name. It just wouldn't do in the workplace. Mark was the easy part after marking so many trails. And he knew he had to approach this new phase in his life with energy, optimism and Hope! But there were no career advisors or work experience programs for young Mark Hope. Nosiree. He took it upon himself to research relentlessly and find the job perfectly suited to his needs. And his hard work was amply rewarded when he discovered an arcane branch of the IT industry that would allow him to work full-time while devoting a minimum 60 hours a week to hash-related activities. Perfect. However, to the concern of fellow hashers, it was around this time that he began turning up to runs with T-shirts sporting epaulettes and metal stars on the sleeves. Eyebrows were certainly raised when he then appeared with braiding and faux military honours across his chest that would not have looked out of place on a Banana Republic dictator. His new running shoes looked very much like black leather, knee-high riding boots. His hair was oddly swept to one side of his forehead and the beginnings of a moustache appeared, though it appeared he was subjecting it to some sort of curious facial topiary. Even his spoken language changed, taking on a harsh Germanic edge. This of course further fuelled speculation about his origins and it was noted that renowned Nazi, Adolph Eichmann, had spent an extended period of time in Hong Kong before seeking further refuge in South America. Could he be Hopeless' father? Suspicions grew even further when he first produced a riding crop. It was thought that he used it to urge himself on to even greater efforts on the trail, particularly in order to beat that pretender, Macau Drunk. But he soon began to carry it everywhere and developed the habit of using it to emphasise whatever point he was making by slapping the crop against his leather boot as a kind of aural exclamation mark, while employing a rather shrill upward inflection at the end of sentences. For instance, he was observed talking to Sweaty Snail Gobbler after one run at the time - HOPELESS Herr Gobbler, I couldn't help noticing you on the trail tonight. SWEATY Oh, thanks Hopeless. Yeah, I felt pretty good out there. HOPELESS Is zat so? You reminded me of a lava lamp! (SLAP) It would be fair to say that Hopeless' sense of guardianship evolved into something of an obsession and his lack of tolerance for breaches of hash culture and etiquette reached a critical level, particularly with regard to the quality of trails being set. After another Gin 'N Vomit debacle, he'd had enough and gathered the pack together post run to vent his spleen. He strode purposefully among them and let rip. "Yet again ve haff been subjected to another sub-standard run. Zis is going to stop from tonight. In future, hares vill set trails strictly in accordance vis hash rules." "Zat means zat markings vill be no further zan 20 imperial yards apart. And zat open checks vill be no larger zan an imperial foot in diameter. T's vill be uppercase T's. There vill be no lowercase T's on zis hash! (SLAP). If you cannot comply with zese simple rules, you vill find yourself spending a night in ze cooler! (SLAP)". And no italics! If I see any italics, another night in ze cooler! (SLAP)." "And ve only use Berthold Block on zis hash. A font widely used throughout the Fatherland…., er, by expert calligraphers, it is admirably suited to our requirements. Zat means no Arial. Arial is a girlyman's font! (SLAP). Anybody tempted to use Arial vill be inviting themselves to a night in ze cooler! (SLAP) "And Helvetica is a bedwetters' font! (SLAP). Zere vill be no Helvetica or it's off to the cooler for you! (SLAP). The same applies to Calibri, Bookman Old Style and Tahoma. All inferior fonts that haff no place on zis hash! (SLAP)" "And as for zat abomination Times New Roman, if you even think about Times New Roman, it vill be straight to ze focking cooler for you! (SLAP, SLAP, SLAP) As is commonly known, Hopeless went on to compile the Complete Hasher's Style Guide, which remains the benchmark for hash setting around the world to this day. While he has mellowed somewhat over the years, his devotion to duty remains unstinting. Which is why he continues to bring a metaphorical pram full of toys to every hash, which he will not hesitate to disperse widely should the run not meet requisite expectations. Such incidents are even referred to in the Complete Hasher's Style Guide under the heading, "Neckie". And don't forget. Hopeless remains the only known hasher in the world whose hash and real names are one and the same.
(Congrat's to all those hitting the 900 run mark. Incredible feat - PP)
9.42km 76mins
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