Tales of catastophe, sex and squalor from the Alpine Underbelly...

Belle de Neige

Sunday, 4 July 2010


Oh how amusing it is to see grim-faced pasty Brits sitting crestfallen on sun loungers on an over-cast day such as today. Evil of me, I know. But I can't help glancing down smugly at my epic month-of-sun tan and knowing that I've ticked one of my must-do before I'm 30 boxes. Namely, obtaining an inch-deep all-over golden colour that doesn't peel.

In spite of myself, I have to admit, I can't help liking The DJ. He is infectiously happy-go-lucky and on closer inspection (despite my undying commitment to first impressions) has a heart of gold. He's exceedingly clever and rather more self-aware than I gave him credit for initially. He has wheedled his way into my affections with his enthusiastic rants about genomes, NLP, quantum physics and the architecture of sound. I love a geek on a rant. He says a DJ set is like playing chess - you have to choose your moves. You can't just jump from here to there...and you've gotta love that.

The young lady he drove here with and who subsequently went home several weeks ago was charming but, admittedly, a bit of a thicko, (Apparently on the way down here she managed to reverse his jeep up -actually onto - the central reservation, and at Glastonbury she asked him if Stevie Wonder was blind. Oh. Holy. Jesus) so I can't blame him for being on shag patrol like a horny terrier. He is in Ibiza after all.

I must also give him snaps for coining the phrase 'Chunt'.... I conjugate:

I chunt
You chunt
He/She it chunts....

To Chunt.
To Cunt Hunt.

Well, I don't know whether he coined it, but I like it...

The DJ and I are united in our mutual reservations about The Boss, who is impressing me less and less with his antics each day and quite frankly needs to get a clue, or I'm offski.

'I hope he doesn't fuck it up where you're concerned,' said the DJ last night, 'I'll be pissed off if he does....'

We shall see.

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