RHHH R*n 858 – A Tall-ish Tale

 

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A Duchess Of Cambridge

It was the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria all over again. I was sailing to the new world, from the land of the Crêpe to the land of the Grappa. A sea change: The Gulf of Genoa. The new world where our breath slowed, ending the hot canine breath of summer. Dog days when the sea convulsed, wine turned sour, hounds grew mad, and man became afflicted with burning fevers and frenzies, the brain boiling like an egg in a bone pot.
This, my first Hash in Italy. Oh, allow me: I’m “Dog of the Hare.” I arrived with nothing but my keen wits, my good looks, and my treasure trove of many words. Plus the Hoo-hah of hope. Oh yeah, least I forget, I had my mistress “Sex Club” in tow. In this new land, she says the best disguise was to be recognizable. She’ll be wearing a yellow T-shirt when she comes…tra la la. Vita E segreti del mare dall’impressione alla scomposizione visiva – If your mind is a matzoh ball, then everything looks like soup. (Loosely translated).
We washed ashore on the Italian Riviera, a land of savages and kings. In Albenga, we were met by our new handler: The Duchess of Cambridge. E la Sua visione del mondo – And His vision of the world. A person plans and God laughs. Duchess employed a loud voice, the international carrier of communication between cultures, as well as a colourful Berlitz of inscrutable gestures. We left all control to the Duchess, the mapmaker, the navigator. It’s not good to risk mutiny by one who controls the sea. What’s the difference between God and Duchess? God doesn’t think he’s on a mission from Duchess.
I was hashing on the Italian Riviera, sniffing and leaving canine messages around unpronounceable towns of – Albenga, Alassio, and Laigueglia. Our shelter for the weekend was the Sole Mare Hotel in Albenga, a town that boasted great hamlets. Food not ever far from our gullets, I ate like a galley slave, wolfing down enough nosh for an entire year. Sea food – eat. I’d never eaten a boiled egg. I soon found a boiled egg in the morning hard to beat.
Evenings were a dog-fight, laughing, singing, puking, the happy buffeting of each other’s ears like drunken puppies, late into the night until we all collapsed in a historic heap. Time can make between-the-leg Prunes out of even the most succulent of Plumbs.
Alls well that ends well. Gratefully, we got a lift home to Cannes from Fairy Plunger and we Bonded. He talked of his favourite resto on the Italian Riviera, in San Remo. He had my muzzle flaps flewing over his favourite meal: spaghetti and lobster. He drove us home, right to my fave sniff spot.
Later at home my mistress yapped: “Hey, Dog of the Hare, now here’s a coincidence: I’m reading Le Point magazine and guess what the Canadian Prime Minister and Barack Obama ate for dinner at Justin Trudeau’s favourite resto in Montreal, the Liverpool House? Spaghetti and Lobster!” On-On till next year.

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