A Pagan & Druid Festival in July
The Gods do smile on the Posh.
Well, on some of us. Occasionally. After weeks of sodden rain, the clouds lifted on Monday as if “They” knew that the effort we’d put into 2400 Runs represented 45.73 years, 548.72 months, 2,386 weeks and 16702 days of ‘Their’ imperishable lives too!
For those not present and therefore not recipients of this prized information, it came printed large (so we can read it) on the back of a red and black, moisture wicking, static electricity and worry free T-shirt, un-Poshly made in China. Did Little Shit bring them back in his luggage along with gut-ache and flu on his recent trip?
Only the ground underfoot in Davidson recalled the previous weeks, being slushy and slippy when not puddled on all the bush tracks that our dauntless Hares had found – especially the John Oxley Track to nowhere.
An appropriate piece of nomenclature that! For Oxley (Oxley, -Sir John Joseph William Molesworth 1784–1828) failed greatly in life and deserved such a muddy memorial. As Surveyor-General in 1817 he set out not once but twice to find the great inland rivers of Australia – almost reaching both Murrumbidgee and Darling, but falling short each time in the Macquarie Marshes. He also made the ghastly mistake of recommending Brisbane be brought into existence.
Other inconsequential names festooned our running route – Richard Hedley Reserve, St Martin de Porres Park, Sir Thomas Mitchell Drive. The folks of Davidson obviously like to give themselves airs and graces.
But did they realise that Sorlie Road is named in tribute to a Black man??? George Sorlie may have been born in Liverpool (UK) in 1885, but he was of true blue West Indian ancestry – which didn’t stop him making Aussies laugh from the age of 14 onwards and allowing himself to laugh all the way to the bank as he packed out tent shows which he toured around eastern Oz from 1917 to 1945!
Sir John Joseph William Molesworth Oxley – was responsible for so much of Monday night’s run trail.
A good run is often marked by the number of times that young devil Music Man runs past me after over-running checks. It was thrice on Monday – a good average. And that didn’t include his ham-footed attempts to overtake the line waiting to climb over our old friend the water Pipeline via a couple of garden ladders.
The cemetery (not Cemetary, Hares) also offered a successful check that sucked in most of the front-runners – but not Your Choice, who daintily chose the way between graves towards Blackbutts Road. Having found a path through the last piece of bush, he turned back on himself and helpfully called “On”. My group innocently followed the voice – straight into barbed wire. Thanks mate.
A final twist came with the sign – OFH. Any guesses what this acronym might stand for? As another hand had added GS to the sign – I read it as a message from the Mad Hatter to head in any direction but that suggested. Later it emerged that I’d made the right decision not to take the longer route, On Fucking Home!
But of course, the Mad Hatter was once again MIA. So who was this poetically literate Hare??? Well it turned out that our more-than-competently-marked trail was the product of not one, not two but three mighty minds. All assisting someone else. Joint Under-Secretary Changi may have lead the team, but the Joint Under-Trailmaster for the halt, lame and blind, Druid was not far behind in spirit; and the man with more Fucks (and loo paper) than hot dinners under his hairy belly – the Grape Ape – was Under-Under-Hare for the 2400th Outing. Cruelly, he didn’t make the T-shirt – and history.
History was well served though in Nautilus’s timbered Guide (and Scout) Hall. Faces emerged through the gloom of memory that could only have been dragged out of St Ives by the exciting prospect of recalling great events 45.73 years ago for eager tyros like E-Shit and Tweety Pie. I think particularly of the old Desert Fox, Rommel. Consensus had it, though, that Moishe was really the only one with claims to anything like the full slate of 2400 runs. Good to see Irish again, though, not to mention King Arthur, Bunny (and a promotion for his son’s tasty wine) and White Shit; and good to discover that God Knows wasn’t in hospital as rumoured.
The evening fare was Christmassy without ever really persuading that that Season of Jollity was anything less than 6 months away, even when Music Man attempted a few hearty carols. He also turned up with all the usual suspects in an ‘entertainment’ that plumbed the dismal depths. Absolute topicality was attempted with a Ruddy little number that was performed with the sort of articulation and accuracy which suggested another 6 months re-writing and rehearsing would have got them at least half way there. Perhaps the local Member for Warringah would appreciate it as a campaign song???
Another Hash Journo