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

Belle de Neige

Monday, 7 March 2011

Pissed off and nearly thirty. A rant.

A wise woman once told me that had she been able to choose an age and simply remain that age for the remainder of her days, that age would have been thirty.

I've heard it said by others too. Thirty is a great age. A fabled age. A coming of age. An age where you can cast off the shackles of your twenties and just be you.

Your twenties are a stressful time when you are hungry to please, earnestly trying to succeed, looking for your place in the world and concerned about what others think of you. Uncertainty, instability and inexperience all seem to conspire to trip you over all the time.

I’m hoping when I hit thirty I can simply stop giving a fuck and start enjoying life.

I am now three years off thirty, and to me the idea that there is a time, just around the corner, when I will be able to call a cunt a cunt without worrying is enormously comforting.

The best thing is I can actually feel myself growing into my thirty-year-old's shoes already.

These days, for example, I have been fed enough crap advice from enough ill-informed arrogant bastards, that I can indeed smell incompetent bull-shit from two hundred yards and have no problem saying so. Actually I’ve always been fairly good at sniffing out bullshit, it’s just in the past I would have kept my mouth shut, whereas now I’m the first to blow the ‘wanker whistle’. It doesn’t always make me popular. But I do find far fewer people attempt to trifle with me nowadays.

How ironic then, with my new-found self confidence and finely tuned Crapometer, to find myself in a job where it’s actually in my remit to pander to and sympathise with every vulgar half wit who crosses my path.
Like for instance the Brazilian family of clearly delicate sensibility who this week complained they couldn’t sleep because their beds were too ‘squeaky’. My gut reaction was to buy them ear plugs and a massive vat of Man-The-Fuck-Up, but what I in fact had to do was apologise and get the chalet host to struggle around and somehow tighten up the bed springs.

Then there was the frankly barking mad Dutch woman, quivering with neuroses, who pulled me on one side yesterday to complain that her chalet host didn’t know how to cook. This guy has been running a chalet all season.

She is one of those people that stands way to close to you and invades your personal space when they speak to you. Since she hadn’t yet actually had the opportunity of eating a meal prepared by the host I enquired as to how she had come to this conclusion.

‘Well…he was touching the food with his hands’ she replied.


‘Erm’ I said, ‘Isn’t it quite normal prepare food with your hands?’

‘He was mixing something with his fingers. It’s just I have my grandchildren with me’ she explained, ‘and their parents get very worried about this kind of thing.’

Fucksake - I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Gordon Ramsay touch some food once on telly. Yeah. I’m pretty sure every motherfucking Michelin star chef on the planet touches food with their hands. Unless you're a Jedi it's quite hard to do anything practical without the use of your hands.

I wanted to say:

‘So am I to understand it that you want to protect your snotty little brood from catching some sort of foul disease from my staff by asking the chalet host to cook your dinner using exclusively the power of the Force, you insane old bag?’

But what I actually said was:

‘Right, yes of course, I understand your concerns. I’ll talk to him about it and if you’d prefer to cook your own meals I can just send him in to do the washing up, if you like.’

Oh the agony of duplicity and insincerity.

I particularly enjoyed today being lectured in the ‘art of management’ by socially inept twerp who couldn’t manage a fart in a space suit. All it requires is the relaxing of one’s sphincter at the appropriate moment, after all, and this person spends so much time speaking out of their anus that one would have imagined they’d have fart management down pat. But no. Their inability to manage not to insult and infuriate everyone in the near vicinity every time they open their mouth is utterly fascinating. Unfortunately this person is in a position of authority and it could be counterproductive to let rip with an enraged speech involving the words ‘Pot, kettle, black, talking and sphincter’, so instead I shall have to opt for a more insidious form of revenge, which will be served extremely cold...

Here endeth the rant.

Wednesday, 2 March 2011


Seasonaires have an incredible ability to deny, or ignore illness and injury: To medicate tonsillitis with spirits: To ignore that increasingly painful purple whelt developing on the shin: To invoke the practise of keymotherapy (destruction of all cells, both healthy and parasitic in their bodies with the cunning use of booze and fags): To see how far it’s possible to ski on a compound fracture (that’s when the bone is actually sticking through the skin).

SbH boarded down to the pub and had a pint and a burger after he broke his back. It took him a good hour to twig that a visit to the doctor might be in order. I have another friend, A, who skis with no ligaments in either of his knees, and several acquaintances who have had in excess of ten operations, yet still spend most days hurling themselves down icy precipices at speed.

Disease is the other killer. It spreads with the power of an epidemic every season. And it’s not surprising.

Think about it. You’ve got a village’s worth of randy teenagers suddenly set free from the parental nest, banjaxed to the eyeballs every night on toffee vodka, snogging and shagging their way through the equivalent of six months of fresher’s weeks. Word has it that the entire staff body of one tour operator in this resort have managed to plough each other over the course of the season. They may as well all have got together naked in one room and economised on effort.

This doesn’t exactly surprise me to be honest, considering my own staff seem to have spent the entire season taking it in turns to lick or fiddle with each other’s private parts every night with gay abandon ...yes, and then they go to work and cook your dinner without washing their mitts...

Add to this toxic mixture a healthy dollop of your basic cynical serial mountain worker on their 15th season, carrying every STD under the sun and up for poking anything with a hole that breathes (Skater Boy is like a kid in a sweet shop, my dears.) Then there’s the network of sex pest French chefs and waiters to contend with, adding a whole new dimension of potential for lurgie to spread like margarine. A Petri dish of filth.

Around this time of the season it all starts to get a little bit incestuous. Pretty much every one of my minions has come down with the same mysterious ailment this week and this without doubt is because most of them have locked either lips or genitals, or lips with genitals at some point. Calamity, I hear, after a quick dip from the Vagabond, went onto lock lips with The Man of Leisure. Bangers banged Mini SbH, who then had a knee trembler with Brain Damaged Pig who in turn had an interesting evening with her ubiquitous sidekick, The Furtive Ginger, Bill (of Bill and Ted), and Calamity’s older ski-bum brother, involving a lot of giggling and mid-shag man-swap. Their mothers would be so proud.

Seasonaires are uniformly horny. A friend of mine –we shall call her Shower-Shave-Shag, announced to all who would listen in the pub this evening (swaying and grinning, vin chaud in hand), that she was just popping home to have a quick freshen up and shave her faff, and then coming back out to get laid. Nice.

When the Tit-Gypsy asked for time off this week because her face was swollen and her throat and lips had become afflicted with a vile blistering condition I couldn’t help but ask whether she’d been sucking one too many cocks. Or at least sucking The Man of Leisure’s cock once too often. She didn’t look too impressed.

Mini SbH is suffering with flu, The Vagabond has been struck down in his prime with some kind of stomach complaint, and pretty much all of them have some sort of deep, hacking cough to contend with – the result of months of living off vitamin-free table scraps and turbo drinking. Let alone sticking their tongues in every available orifice of every available chalet slag in the vicinity.

Not that SbH and I can criticise. We seem to have been passing ailments back and forth between us for months. Whenever I’m well he’s ill. And vice versa.

If I was a responsible, upstanding individual I would introduce some kind of Shag Box and collect monetary fines for indiscretions lest my entire team develop AIDS and have to be laid off. But since SbH and I are currently working overtime to cultivate a friendship with a really fit couple we quite fancy a foursome with, I don’t really feel I’ve got the moral highground.