Atarashi namae
Have I ever mentioned the politics of nabbing a hash name? Well, in Singapore, I always got the feeling you had to be really loud and obnoxious to get a nickname nominated for you. It’s likely to be sexually charged and embarrassing, but hashers wear these monikers like a badge of honour.
I got mine today. I was surprised. Minding my own business, I didn’t make the extra effort to talk to anyone. There were times when I made witty introductions of myself whilst huffing and puffing up a slope. Nothing. Got nada.
Then, Mr Seaman Staines (the extra ‘e’ is not a mistake) pulled off my green beanie and slipped it onto his balding head!
I went: “You…..you….took….my sweaty…..sweaty…..muffrer…..”
Can I just defend myself. Today I learned that scarf is “mufferer” in Japanese. Somehow I got it mixed up with “boshi” which is hat.
So now, I am Wet Muff. It’s sexy, isn’t it?
After the hash run, there is the circle where people call bluff or make accusation of whatever they please on whomever they please. So I got him back. I told everyone he was sitting with his fly unzipped and I couldn’t see a thing.
All I can say is, the Tokyo Ladies Hash Harriets ain’t a bunch of elitist pussies. Someone dared asked me if I fancied black sesame balls (of ice-cream – what were you thinking?!) and I replied in my poshest accent: “I enjoy all kinds of balls.”
Now that’s a ladies’ session of running and drinking.
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