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

Belle de Neige

Saturday, 10 April 2010

Le Ski Resort Part Deux

The Season is winding down. Bars are shutting. Seasonaires are starting to talk about 'the future'. The bubble is set to burst.

Despite this, while I was visiting there fell some of the best snow all winter. This has been much to the chagrin of SbH who, due to a heroic (or jaegar-bomb fueled) leap from the bench to the speaker to the pole in his favourite evening haunt has busted his shin and can't snowboard much. There is a giant, angry purplish welt right where his snowboard boot digs into the flesh, which results in many a wince when he tries to do it up. While pig-headed stubbornness, heavy duty painkillers administered by yours truly, arnica administered by E and toffee vodka shots administered by himself have gone someway to enabling a few hours of the slopes, even the lightest touch to the wound produces a melodramatic flinch worthy of an Oscar. Ah well. As I keep telling myself, there's always next year.

I shall miss Family Numero 405, those creatures of the ski-bum crack den who kept me giggling from the moment I arrived until the moment I left. E, of course and lanky Skater Boy, (who so nobly lent us his bed) with his inexplicable ability to charm drunk, unsuspecting ladies through his revolving bedroom door (I think it's his eyes, possibly the aftershave and emo hair), incessant need for romantic drama in his life and inability to find rizlas, ever.

But the boy, of course, made the whole thing a hoot. I must thank him for being there in a dark time back in February with patience, occasionally telling me to Man the Fuck Up and always beguiling me with that head-back, extremely sexy belly laugh of his. For always living up to his name by having scruffy hair (which is surfing worryingly close to mullet territory now...I'm just saying love) and socks which are so crispy they require breaking in half over the knee before wearing. For his tabasco addiction. For being so protective of his arse, and being convinced on the 1st April by Skater Boy that we'd lubed it up while he was passed out drunk and slipped a potato up there in the night. For living true to the statement 'one man's rubbish is another man's treasure' and thereby being so adept at finding random and wonderful things in skips. Like a monoski with a Toucan and palm trees decorated on it, some absolutely rancid racing gloves and a stray dog named Bruce. Well, the dog wasn't in the skip, but you get the idea.

For letting me clean his toilets on changeover day, I must also thank him. That's not a euphemism. I actually did clean his toilets. However, what I got in return was breakfast, lunch and an absolutely filthy 45 minutes in the shower which I won't be forgetting in a hurry but the details of which I hesitate to divulge at the risk of confirming rumours that we're a bit kinky. Just know, changeover day in SbH's chalet is about so much more than windowlene.

Well it's all over for Belle for now.

What's that you say? 'Get a job?'

Fuck off!

I'll see you in Ibiza darling, where no doubt I will find an equally if not more worrying bunch of characters to amuse both myself and you with.

Anyhoodle, people. I'm not exactly sure what just happened here but it was fucking funny. Let's do it again next year.

Strange creature in the mountains...not a Yeti

So I managed to beat the illness into submission with the cunning use of antibiotics and 'kemotherapy'....that being consuming such vast quantities of drugs and alcohol that I killed almost all the cells in my body, including the bacteria on my tonsils. As a result the last few days of my little trip have not been the disaster I foresaw. They've been a forking blast!

It has been basically a ten day bender ever since I got back to the resort. This was not the intention, but unfortunately when you are living with a bunch of crackpots it can't be helped. SbH of course has been his usual charming, sexy-assed self but living with Skater Boy is like being handcuffed to a handicapped Tasmanian devil, particularly when there's blue sky and powder around when he dances round the flat searching for every possession he owns which is either in a crusty heap underneath something SbH owns or wedged down the side of the bed covered in the ash he flicked there during the night. No. There is no escaping the party. It bounces in the door and comes to you. Even when you're already snuggled up and half asleep, or trying to have a quiet night in with a box of condoms and a bottle of champagne.

When I say, 'comes to you' I mean this literally. In the sense of someone bursting in the door and jumping on you and your boy literally a second after you've finished shagging, shouting 'TIMES UP! YOU SAID 40 MINUTES!!!!!' and pretending to rut you both before leaping up pulling his pants down, tucking his testicles between his legs and demonstrating what he proudly tells you is called 'The Fruit Bowl'.

Yes I'm talking about E. After a week spent living with him, some more room on this blog must be devoted towards the ball of anarchy, golden one-liners and anecdotal genius that is he.

Imagine turning up to go skiing with your bought and paid for ski guide and being confronted with E. Essentially a 'noorvern', bearded and pony-tailed beanpole wearing an ancient, grimy yellow and blue onesie with nothing but his bare arse underneath, a grey alpine shephard's hat, tutti frutti goggles and a bandana with 'yellow snow' written on it. Your ski guide is a stoned, north Austrian-looking bananaman with a penchant for yelling 'Judaaaaaaas!!' at people who displease him in some way and throwing himself down pretty much any cordoned off no-go areas of off-piste snow he can find.

'You're gonna go down that black run over there and wait round the corner for me' he drawled to a pair of wide eyed 16 year olds the other day, before hurtling off in the opposite direction down a piece of highly suspect untouched powder between two enormous rocks. One can only speculate as to their astonishment when they saw heathen bananaman descending on them from above scarring a massive S in the powder and screaming 'Woooooorrrrrrd mutherfucka!!!!!!' ….and the story they relayed back to their parents later that day.

When E goes out he wears a teabag on a piece of string around his neck so as never to miss the opportunity of teabagging someone. He also performs such magic works as accidentally stealing skis - spotting some extremely high comedic value 80s planks...about 3 inches wide and 3 metres long, propped up against a post outside the pub, tinkering around with the bindings while noone's looking and taking them out for a sneaky try. The owner, meanwhile in the pub, unaware, unfortunately on looking for them moments later concluded they'd been thieved and fucked off, presumably to the gendarme by the time E came back and good-naturedly stacked them back up against the wall.

He can veer from the possessed gremlin, (prancing round the room holding his nuts in a 'brain' shape and slapping SbH on the back so hard he was moved to say 'I could quite do with punching you in the face right now') to one of the kindest individuals you'll chance to meet (administering arnica to poorly legs, ibuprofen and strepsils to poorly tonsils and warning me with sage concern to look after my dodgy knee even when blind drunk).

SbH and I decided to make a little book of quotes and have therefore been secretly writing down almost everything that's come out of E's mouth in the last few days. We may start a facebook page:

'I've got a friend who can put a triple A battery down his bellend.'

'You fucking Judas'

'Have you ever heard of the screaming Eagle? Two in each hole and one in the mouth. (flaps arms around) Arrrgh! Arrrrrrgh!'

'You'd better watch yourself buddy, or I'm gonna fuuuck yooou uuuuup'

Skater Boy: 'What's the plan of action?'
E: (Thrusting groin in Skater Boy's face): 'Your face is the plan and THIS is the action'

(On being asked if he's ever done anal) 'Yes I have. Well technically it was just a large thumb up the bum... but still'

(While on phone) 'Yep. My testicles are on someone's forehead as we speak. How do you feel about that Mum?'

'I've licked about 10 different girls' arses my friend, so yes, I know exactly what a bum tastes like. There's no point going down on a girl if you're not gonna lick her arse and sneak a cheeky tip in'

'There's nothing like walking round the corner carrying four plates, straight down the barrel of a ball bag and an arse kicking. You shit bastard!'

'I'm gonna shit on your balls'

'Is it wrong to take two kids under 16 out skiing wearing a t shirt that says 'fat kids are harder to kidnap' ??'

'Hi, I'm a ski instructor. Shall I put my balls in your mouth now or later?'

'I don't know what it is mate, but I'm loving your balls'

'Madam. Your presence is required on the dance floor'.