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

Belle de Neige

Tuesday, 4 January 2011

Woes of the Manager

‘Manager– isssssssk!’

....and I quote from an email from Shazzer dated October 2009 which I stumbled across today. We had been discussing the possible ski-related job roles that one could conceivably apply for post apocalyptic break-up. Is she speaking to me from beyond the grave?

‘Mate. I know the word ‘manager’ is rather beguiling, but seriously - imagine the worst organised place you have ever worked – times it by 1000 and then insert the phrase 'piss-up in brewery' and you are not even close to how these skin-flints will be trying to, with laughable organisation, bum-fuck their staff for blood, sweat and tears and con their clients into a budget holiday dressed up as luxury. Plus your staff will be wanting to come to work every day off their heads / skive work (as they are getting paid 50c a day - see reference to bum-fucking earlier)and have only come here to ski not clean toilets for 9hrs a day and if you are the person in charge of telling them to go to work you end up pretty isolated. Our hotel in Les Arc ended up pretty much Lord of the Flies style. I would recommend steering clear of all managerial roles – the money is not there to justify it. Could be fine. Could be disaster’

Hmn.... Could be fine. Could be a disaster....

What a pithy and concise précis of the life of the Manager. Particularly the bit about bum-fucking. We are the great unloved. Shat on by clients, shovelled up by Head Office and beset from all angles by staff – or minions as I like to call them – who seem to think that their manager is either a maid, mother, school teacher, psychiatrist or personal assistant. Who seem to think ‘I was skiing’ is an acceptable excuse for not handing their accounts in on time, and that it’s ok to leave a rotting mound of poultry next to a birthday cake in the fridge or skid-marks on the underside of all the toilet seats in their chalet.

‘Gosh – you’re popular’ said a minion to SbH the other day, when his mobile phone rang sixteen times during a ten minute meeting.

Yes. Popular. We are both very popular. If by popular you mean in the same way a wildebeest is popular with a ravenous pride of lions.

Thank fuck for tea.

If everything else has well and truly gone up the shitter – or to put it another way – tits up - in true . British form, one can always sit down and have a nice cuppa, can’t one?

Never fuck with tea. This is a personal slogan of BB2.1 and a truism I hold dear. Never rape tea with other substances, such as booze – or as I once tried at 7am after a 36 hour bender – Ketamine. Bad idea. Drink K-T when you already can’t tell your arse from your elbow and you know you’ve reached the final and most remote outpost of Spangladesh, and now have no compass to get you home.

The minute you fuck with tea. Everything is fucked.

So it’s a good thing Wiley Miss G brought me a nice pack of Yorkshire tea bags when she came to visit a few weeks ago. Because the Lipton Yellow Leaf crap the Frogs try to palm off on you is like drinking stewed gnat’s piss and out here packet of Tetley’s finest Cigarette Ash Bags costs the princely sum of an arm, a leg and a quicky up the bum round the back of Sherpa.
Man, I have needed tea in the last few weeks. Being Manager in a ski resort is like spinning 50 plates while writing Shakespeare in calligraphy on a blackboard with a quill held between your butt-cheeks. Really quite difficult. And if you stop concentrating for more than about 0.5 seconds, the whole shebang comes crashing down around your ears.

And woe-betide you if you contract Gastric Flu, as I also did last week. I spent five days catherine wheeling, spewing gunk from every orifice, and sweating like a paedophile in a crèche while being squawked at down the phone by various disgruntled clientele, angry because their limp-wristed arse-hanging –out-of-jeans chalet host cannot perform the simplest most menial of tasks without fucking it up beyond recognition.

‘Can you absolutely guarantee it will snow this week?’ one client had the stupidity to ask me.‘Well, I don’t know. I ‘ll have a chat with God, he’s generally quite clued up on these matters’, I said.

These people are supposed to be on holiday. But you wouldn’t know it, they’re all so fucking miserable.

Incidents worth mentioning have included the crazed Chihuahua that managed to escape from its fur-bedecked, maniacal owner for a few precious minutes and was so beside itself with joy that it crapped all over the next door neighbour’s chalet.

Then there was the well-known circus troupe that rocked up in town to perform at a well-publicised event with 4 pallettes of industrial sewing machines and used one of chalets as a factory production line to make their costumes. They blew all the electrical circuits and then complained the Jacuzzi didn’t work. They then left a week later spiriting away mysteriously with them two of our stand alone heaters, a set of towels, two mops, the remains of SbH’s sanity and a hoover.

There were the Russian guests who repeatedly called us at 6am complaining that the toilets in their chalet are too small and are therefore were ‘bruising their (no doubt emaciated, scrawny, anorexic) elbows’ .

Oh yes, and the neurotic housewife who threw a wobbly when I refused to send a bus boy round to the restaurant she was dining in with a high chair for her child. ‘I am not accustomed to this poor level of service’, she complained. ‘Really? Well I’m not accustomed to shoving high chairs up people’s arses, but I’m quite up for trying it to be honest.’

But all of this pales into insignificance against the backdrop of the near apocalyptic catastrophe that befell me last week. However, since apparently the previous TO I worked for has now put a clause in its employment contract banning employees from writing bare-all blogs, I shall go no further with the details than to say it involved a naked, steaming drunk Eastern European, a small child, an unlocked door and some very outraged parents, who won’t be holidaying with us again.

I could round this all off by saying that working through Chistmas week and New Year with Gastric Flu would have been impossible without the love and support of dearly beloved SbH, but if you call dancing around the room waving his ‘love pole’ at me and asking for blow jobs every five minutes love and support, you need your head checking, you honestly do...Okay, fine so maybe he pretty much did my job for me, took shit from various clients on my behalf and showered me with sympathy all week, but I think you'll agree blow jobs are out of the question when your nose is blocked and you need the toilet every thirty seconds...

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