The Intrepid Adventures of Jungle Jim & The Goon
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The alleged swash buckling, safari jacketed jungle intrepid adventurer, together with his hash mate, the self named comedian, (but not really humourous) implored the reluctant to travel south and cross “the ditch” courtesy of either John Bradfield or Transfield-Kumangi to enjoy the novelty and difference of the eastern suburbs. Ahhhhh…… that we would benefit from inhaling the stiff, fresh on-shore ocean breezes and admire the Pacific Ocean rollers in summer like temperatures. (I’m not sure which season he lives in, but never mind!)
The promise is always so much greater than delivery when this man of literary hyperbole and overreach slips into full swing with his enticing promos based on his dreams rather than reality. But HEY, we should never dismiss dreams; the POSH is made on them.
And one hashman in particular would have you believe that he is all guts and glory, a true adventurer, of derring-do, a lady killer during his regular sojourns to darkest Africa and the Amazon. A man who regales his riveting heroic stories over the Longueville Bowlo Club bar to the young and impressionable. And why not because when you have that kind of talent it’s a crime to waste it.
Jungle Jim is the proverbial jungle ranger, bush escort and intrepid adventurer. All he has to do is whistle through the forest canopy and Hey Presto……his Jungle Girl comes out swinging on the vines, and the rest is all jungle romance under the secretive cover of the large vine leaves.
And if anyone were to disturb him and his Jungle Girl, he has already trained her in the fierce arts of spear throwing and downright feline intimidation, like posing as a jungle leopard.
Romance under the secretive cover of the large vine leaves
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It was in one of these beer hazed bar side stories that Jungle persuaded the ever erudite and gullible Goonshow to join him in one of his exploits to the “East Side” – not the Far East – or as anything as exotic as that but just plain old Clovelly.
Sadly Goonshow is not the same humourist as his true namesake, so just for this week at least, we will refer to him as just ‘The Goon’. …..Naturally enough within the first schooner of Coopers ‘The Goon’ was hooked ‘line and sinker’ by Jungle’s adventure stories of true hash spirit.
And so we assembled at the Clovelly bowling club car park with a cold and chilly breeze in our faces, as is wont for this time of the year. Summer had not yet arrived thus dispelling any romantic notions of al-fresco running and dining.
The start was through the crumbling Waverly Cemetery, along a narrow footpath atop a 3.5 metre high retaining wall whose ‘un-safety’ fence was equally decrepit, thus ensuring that if any hashman fell it would be a 3 in 1 event……..Dead, Buried and Mausoleumed in one swift, single action. Thus the boys kept close together and had their fancy new LED torches on full beam. Grape was showing off his latest internet bargain…..a $22-00 laser beamed light which burned the shit out of the night time darkness.
Surviving the ghosts and strewn headstones we headed generally north via a series pocket parks with more checks and check-backs than the current of crop of politicians on their hackneyed electioneering hustings. All with equal “excitement” as the party leaders debate of last Sunday. Yawn……
And all the while we kept on wondering when we might glimpse the promised Pacific Ocean rollers with phosphorus trails in the creamy white surf glistening in the hash moonlight of the night. But instead we were served up with street after fucking street of genteel leafy suburbs which could have been anywhere in the well heeled residential sectors of Sydney. At least very few knew where we were in these eastern foreign parts, except Little Shit of course, who professed to know where the trail would go and how to get there. Which was just as well as the front runners kept missing the numerous check back arrows.
Now, one would have thought that a Civilised Engineer who has one foot in the building and construction industry would be absolutely loaded with Gyproc, chalk and all other means of surveying and set out marking materials …….but alas NO! Arrows were distributed at frighteningly long distances. Not even Buckie’s laser like torch could pick out the next arrow, and so we spent the best part of 60 minutes before we arrived at Déjà Vu beach, (Bondi) well at least for those poor hash buggers who had run the City2Surf the day before.
Once there our orientation fitted into place, and we knew it was a long romp home along the foreshore….But again, not quite. The pristine and scenic foreshore footpath was interrupted by taking a supposed short cut under a block of units, up shitty embankment and back on the road for a while. The Pacific Ocean rollers once again receded from our imagination with yet more streets and bitumen, but not for long as we eventually got back to the briny blue, or black as it was at night, with a long run home with the front runners getting in close to 8 pm, where The Goon was administering to the bucket.
Meanwhile the vestiges of the best Committee you’ve had all year and Jungle Jim were hard at work cooking lamb shanks or something like that, accompanied by ratatouille…or so Jungle, Fox Face and Tartan called it. But it was all good food if not a little cold due to the inordinate amount of time “playing in the suburban streets” rather than enjoying those long promised Pacific Ocean Rollers.
So next time Jungle sidles up to you and starts telling you about his exploits in Zaire or down the Amazon, with dusky ladies in small loin cloths, enjoy the story for what it is, but don’t necessarily believe all that you hear.
The On-On was an unusual affair; a private/public cooperative and well worked out. The private cook out by the hash and the public dining room and bar.
Having lured about 45 to the east side of the ditch, they became captives for the night and did well to stay for the On-On.
The Goon administered to the bucket whilst the Jungle helped cook the meat and vegies for the night.
Your Hash Journo
