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

Belle de Neige

Thursday, 27 December 2012

Some more pet hates....

Week 3:

Snow: More of it please. Less rain, would be a happy medium.
Toilets cleaned: 96
Miles of elephant bog roll used: 4 million

Well that's Christmas out the way. If you work in a chalet you will know well that Christmas is not a festive season of joy that one looks forward to with excitement and anticipation but a dreaded, tortuous fiasco that finds one sweltering in the kitchen amid towers of seething pots and pans while the guests overdose on champagne and spend Christmas night chundering all over the chalet while you cower in the kitchen in dread. Now that's over we just have the nightmare of New Years' Eve to contend with. I can almost feel the hangover already.

Anyway to mark this festive season I thought I'd put together a few more of my pet hates for your enjoyment. Now I'm a chalet bitch once again, ahhh it's all coming back to me. From the cupboard of despair (yes, our chalet has one) to hair clogging up the plug hole...Today, I would like to add the following to the list:

Porridge oats
Scoffed as a snack and left to crust on the rim of the bowl in the sink. Is there any adhesive more powerful known to mankind? Seriously? You could build car parks out of it. Can't you fuckers put your bowls in the dishwasher? How hard is it?

Those guests with apparently with no warm blood in their veins whatsoever. They simply have to put the heating on full 24/7 and then ask you to light the fire. Then they go and open the bloody window to let some air in. Well that's energy efficient! I spend the morning choking back the sick as I hoover in a sauna, dehydrated from last night's exertions nailing pints of 1 Euro wine with the Princess of Norway and the Foxy Chef. The heat is making me dizzy. I am going to chunder. It's not an if, it's a when.

Empty Vessels
Which, as the old adage goes, make the most noise. I remember the house keeper of one family we had staying - a sweet woman but as dense as an ingot of solid iron hewn from the cold heart of a distant comet. She spent the entire week hanging round the kitchen babbling at me in a hoarse whisper so her boss couldn't hear and asking inane questions like, "Are you going to put the dishwasher on?", "Is this a pomegranate?" (it was an apple) "How much butter have we got?", "Ooh isn't it snowy outside?" and "Oooh isn't it warm inside?" The thing is she was terribly sweet and helpful - refused to let me clean her room and helped with all the clearing up and I knew she was just trying to be friendly. She was a little like a small, cute puppy unaware that its yapping makes you want to attach kitchen utensils to its head with a nail gun.

...and finally, in true Christmas spirit:

Who sit around the house all day reading and asking for tea and don't go skiing so you can't play music while you're cleaning or drop a smelly beer fart if you need to. Damn them!

Sunday, 23 December 2012

A small prolapse

A cloud is sitting at the foot of the mountains like a ghostly river flowing through the valley. I watch it evaporate in the sun gradually as I go about my chores. It's the exact shape of Will-o'-the-wisp, which makes me remember the cartoon so brilliantly narrated by Kenneth Williams with the witch called Edna that was also a TV and that weird caterpillar thing with the big red top knot.

Now that come to think of it, that was a bit fucking odd really, that cartoon, wasn't it? I used to love it though. I think we had a tape of it in the car that Mum used to play me on the way to school. Funny the things that you accept as completely normal when you're a kid. Like not cleaning your skid marks off the u-bend. Not naming any names.

I stop to rub some hand cream into the ends of my fingers. I already have chalet hands. Cuts, burns and general chapped dryness. Lemon juice is a real bitch. What's more, it appears this is not my only ailment. No. I'll cut right to the chase. I, Belle de Neige, have sprung what can only be described as an arse grape.

I was first made aware of it when I tried to wipe my backside a few evenings ago after a particularly satisfying sitting. The action was met with a shooting pain in one quarter of the sphincterial area followed by a yelp of pain by yours truly and shortly thereafter a frenzied, horrified self examination. I was mystified. According to the magnifying mirror everything down there looked perfectly normal even though it felt as if some one had attacked me with a lube-free rubber butt plug. At the very least I was expecting it to be an anal fissure.
I couldn't understand it.

"What the fuck?" I asked  The Foxy Chef, mystified, in the pub later on.
"Sounds like a hemorrhoid to me," she said sagely.
"Fuck!! Like what old ladies get?"
"Yeah... have you been straining lately?"
"No! ....Well, not that I particularly recall."
"You must've sprung it when you stacked it the other day. Muscular spasm. Happened to me once..."
"What did you do?"
"I just pushed it back up inside"


Now that she came to mention it I had been through one or two butt-clenching experiences in the last 48 hours to which I could attribute this ailment. There was the unsolicited and completely un-prepared for 2 metre drop half way down a little gully the day before, where my ski tips hit the approaching lip of snow like a fork lift truck driving headlong into a polystyrene wall and dug in resulting in a double-eject face plant and then lots of scrabbling around trying to relocate said skis in 2 feet of powder. And then there was the slightly alarming torchless trudge home from the pub in the dark at midnight along the windy deserted road to our chalet. I was alone. The mountains to the north were backlit hauntingly by a sunken moon, tinged with red as if from a furnace within, like something out of Mordor. There was utter and complete silence of the sort you can find nowhere else but the mountains. The only sound is the tinnitus you didn't realise you had. Usually I would have appreciated the magnificence of it but four or five gins had given me the fear. All I could hear in the silence was my own heart thudding inside my chest, my blood entering my head like a sponge being squeezed from the uphill effort and I spent the entire 15 minute walk peering suspiciously over my shoulder in the hope of definitely not seeing a sinister dark figure tailing me with murder in mind. Then, ten yards from the safety of the front door, I paused to appreciate the view without fear, slipped on a patch of ice and fell smack, fully onto my back, winding myself.

...I reckon that's when it happened. The hemorrhoid, I mean...

"I wouldn't worry you can just push them back in with your finger after you've had a shit..." The Foxy Chef was saying, leaning on the bar. "It's quite soothing actually. Just push it back up inside and forget about it."
This I suppose, is not all that surprising, coming from the girl who nicknamed the cyst on her vagina 'Mini-me' last season. Hey. Sometimes it's just best to wear these things as a badge of honour, I guess.

Tuesday, 18 December 2012

Open Season

Ok, sorry, sorry, sorry. I've just been really fucking up to my tits in it, ok? Christ. I had to find a co-bitch, meet a massive freelance copywriting deadline whilst simultaneously trying to rent my house and also sell my house (long story), move out of it, deal with all the associated bullshit plus a small family crisis, then drive to another country with six month's worth of belongings - selecting capsule wardrobe for six months in mountains = biggest ball ache ever. Then once I got here I had to contend with a whole catalogue of nightmares which I won't go into in detail but suffice to say I've been back in the mountains for about two weeks now, and I have already:

1. Been involved in a small car crash
2. Almost sawn my finger off
2. Dropped a dress size
3. Double ejected and drowned face first in thigh deep powder after seriously misjudging the depth of snow on an un-bashed piste (failure to check din settings since lasts season's tentative foray back onto skis = humiliating yard sale just 10 yards into first run of first day of season. Note to self, must buy some beeps.)
4. Lost a set of keys
5, Dealt with a rodent infestation
6. Battled against a tide of puree poo liquid waste rising up through the floor of my bedroom (perennial plumbing issues relating to shoddy French Alpine workmanship)
5. Eaten my body weight in cheese

So, it's been busy.

The other reason I haven't been writing is that I've been in a quandary. You see, I am now faced with the complications of working in a private chalet - ergo one can't mention any specifics, which, for a writer makes life rather difficult. In fact one can't even mention vagueries, or anything remotely resembling a vaguery, for fear of incurring the wrath of one's boss / getting fired. The last word in private chalet-bitchdom is discretion and ski resorts are small. Fucking small. Everyone knows everyone. Their spies are everywhere and I've already been dropped in it enough times to know that when faced with any accusation of being Belle-de-Neige flat out denial is the only option. Especially since, due to more than one or two inebriated, rambling, bollocks conversations in more than one or two of the local late-night establishments my profile around these parts isn't exactly as low as it ought to be. On more than one occasion both SbH and I have been asked if we know who 'she' is by some unsuspecting acquaintance.

"D'you know who this Belle de Neige girl is then?" a friend's mother asked me the other week.
"Belle who? Sorry, never heard of her."

It's got so bad I've had to enlist the services of a mate of mine to act as a decoy and sent her off into the resort boasting loudly that she's Belle to anyone that will listen. She's rather attractive, slightly unhinged and extremely luminous - just the sort of character you'd expect to go around saying outrageous things about herself and everyone else and cleaning toilets with the toothbrushes of people who annoy her. Of course it helps that I'm actually a bit of a wall flower. Not the first girl you might notice in the room, shall we say. Blend easily into the background. Enjoy the odd sojourn on my tod. No one would ever suspect...

Anyway, here we are, back in the mountains and bugger me is there a lot of snow. Getting anything done is an absolute bitch. After almost two weeks now of almost wall to wall neiging we're practically drowning in the stuff. The trees outside the chalet are bowed and sagging with great armfuls of powdery loveliness. Today I ventured tentatively out with the Man of Leisure and his new lady friend The Princess of Norway (no, really...), looking very elegant on telemarks. We got lost in a toneless world of foam coming seemingly from the ground and the heavens simultaneously  You couldn't see for miles. I relished the blind simplicity of it after all the complications of home. A sense of uncertainty over the lay of the land only two feet in front of you has a tremendous focusing effect the mind - you can only meditate on floating across endless fields of formless white dunes up high and picking a safe line between the trees. The expanding foam of whiteness seemed to enter my brain and expand, pushing out the dark thoughts and concerns. For a moment I let the others go on ahead and stood among the trees. My hair had turned to chiming icicles on my shoulders. I put my face up so tiny, perfect flakes settled on my cheeks.

Monday, 22 October 2012

How to get a job as a chalet bitch. Dear Katie...

Dear Belle:

Love reading your blog, you remind me of a female Ricky Gervais. (I love him, I mean it as a compliment!) I'm currently sending out c.v's to tour operators to be a chalet host but have not had any luck so far. Is there anything in a c.v that makes a TO immediately want to hire someone? And things that make them immediately throw a c.v in the trash?

I'm 21, have worked as a waitress and I speak Spanish pretty well… but of course I have never worked a season... would they consider that as being not good enough or am I just applying too late in the game?

Any tips for what they look for would be really appreciated!


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Dear Katie

A female Ricky Gervais, eh? 

As you may or may not know I am exceedingly vain, and therefore anyone who showers me with compliments goes straight to the top of my VIP list. Give yourself a pat on the back. You are clearly awesome and flattery will get you everywhere, darling. I can tell you are a woman of sound judgement, impeccable taste and cultural sophistication. You’re a little older than the average Irksome Blonde 19 Year Old and you’ve had a bit of relevant experience with the waitress thing, so it shouldn’t be hard for you to land yourself a perfunctory season job, don’t you worry. That said it’s a little late in the game at this point so you might want to consider getting yourself on a reserve list with as many TOs as you can find so you’re ready to come to the rescue when (that’s WHEN not IF) the first spate of limp-wristed public school gappies drop out during Christmas week.

Sorry to say darling, but speaking Spanish will be about as useful as a cock flavoured lollipop unless you are applying to work in the Spanish Pyrenees, so I’d start there. That said, even thought they put it all over the job descriptions, 90% of Brit seasonal workers fail to make even a cursory attempt at speaking the local language (much to the chagrin of the natives) so I wouldn’t worry too much about that. The key thing for you, I think, is not to be picky. You can either be choosy about where you work, or what you do at this late stage in the game, not both.

On the subject of Tour Operators, I do have one or two pearls of wisdom to cast before you.

As the man himself once said, in the guise of David Brent:

“Trust, encouragement, reward, loyalty… satisfaction. Trust people and they’ll be true to you. Treat them greatly, and they will show themselves to be great.”

As a member of staff at one of the many great Alpine Tour Operators of the day, you can expect to experience absolutely diddly squat in the way of encouragement, reward, loyalty or satisfaction, let alone greatness. They will not trust you either. They will be suspicious of you, patronise you, suck you dry and discard you like an old, mouldy, bleach-damaged marigold at the end of the season (or half way through if you break your leg) without as much as a thank you. That said, you are not looking for congratulations, long-term job satisfaction or a career in toilet cleaning (and if you are, then I recommend you ditch the season idea entirely). Hopefully you are looking to ski? So as long as you remember at all times that this is a marriage of convenience you will be fine.

Is there anything in a c.v that makes a TO immediately want to hire someone? And things that make them immediately throw a c.v in the trash?

When I delve back into the foggy memories of the last few seasons I’m somewhat at a loss to answer this question. You would think that most TO’s would be on the look out for confident, capable, well-groomed, energetic, youthful individuals who have more than 72 hours’ cooking experience, and some vague competency in social situations. However going by the array of dribbling cretins I’ve worked among I cannot in all honesty say that these qualities are endemic among alp-workers. Not the majority of them, anyway. Which leads me to think that Tour Operators are pretty much open to anything as long as it’s able-bodied and can operate a hoover. Previous experience is certainly not an essential. Considering in general TO’s in search of reliable employees are choosing from a riff raff of drop outs, gap year coasters and mid-life crisis sufferers in general I don’t think there is anything specific that would immediately make then throw a CV in the bin. Whether you’re fat, thin, ugly, deformed, lame, gape-mouthed, fusty or just plain ignorant, only one thing is certain; they don’t want quitters. Ideally they want people who will quietly get on with it, handle their own shit, not get themselves paralytic every night and miss work / call in sick. In return they will (hopefully) give you a ski pass and leave you the fuck alone to get on with your job without breaking your balls (but don’t expect any praise.)

Therefore, if you do get an interview do not (as one of the people I spoke to over the phone last week did) spend the entire time moaning about your previous employer, whining dramatically that you never had enough free time and then round it off by admitting proudly that you quit your last job when the going got too tough for you. I couldn’t believe my ears!

What I recommend you exhibit:

1. The ability to boil an egg.
2. An anecdote about a situation in which you’ve successfully had to defuse a disgruntled customer of some sort.
3. A bit of backbone, flexibility and willingness to co-operate / help out in a crisis.
4. Cheerfulness / a rosy disposition

Katie, my advice to you at this stage in the year is that it’s a game of numbers. Scrape the barrel of your limited lifetime’s experience for anything that could be remotely relevant to the roles you’re applying for, write a (coherent, spelling mistake-free, non-vile and gushing) personal profile and cover letter, explaining what a practical, capable, energetic, friendly and enthusiastic person you are, willing to muck in, learn fast and get on with it. Crucially, explain why you want to do a season. Something along the lines of wanting to expand your horizons, challenge yourself and improve your winter-sports skills in the process should do the trick. Don’t forget to mention that you like skiing or have always wanted to learn and then apply for every job you can find. 

Of course you don’t have to work for a Tour Operator. You don’t have to be a chalet bitch or a ski rep. Failing all of the above, if you haven’t found any useful employ by mid-November get yourself out to Sierra Nevada and find yourself a nice gig in a restaurant somewhere. They pay better anyway.

…Something will come up. And when it does, grab it with both hands. It’ll be the best fun you’ve ever had.

Good luck m’dear.


Tuesday, 9 October 2012

Interview Fail

 In the last two weeks I have been sent CVs of every colour and creed for the delightful privilege of potentially being my chalet co-bitch. Most of these, I have to say, have been a parade of ineptitude and twattery.

My core criteria for finding a decent partner in crime are not that complicated, you know…

-         Must not be a total retard (ideally should have more than 3/4s of an inch of brain)
-         Must be vaguely clean, presentable and professional – no acne, eyeball piercings or facial tattoos.
-         Must be able to cook. And by that I mean cook. Not boil stuff in a bag and then mix with baked beans.
-         Must not be a faffer /wet blanket / confrontational / defensive / arse clown / lazy bones / irksome blonde 19 year old/ need fag break every six seconds.
-         Must love mountains / skiing / snowboarding.

It’s a pretty simple formula. So it fascinates me the kind of shit expectant people put on their CVs. I mean, seriously, how can you get it that wrong? The internet is literally lousy with articles on ‘CV Tips’ and examples of how to do it correctly. Your CV is a 2D projection of your living, breathing self. It’s your personal emissary. The very first most basic, fundamental thing that you need to get right so that your potential employer doesn’t immediately brand you a dick and shout ‘Next!’. So surely, surely the very first thing you’d do is make sure the opening ‘personal profile’ gambit makes solid sense?

But no…

Take these two snippets, for instance:

“I am hope to more seasons, to enabled me to enjoy my love of mountain.”

Ah, I thought. Fair enough. She must be Spanish or something. Fair play for having a crack at the language. But no. There emblazoned proudly beneath the title ‘Curriculum Vitae’ was the proclamation that this person is in fact ‘British’.

Then there was this one:

“I thrive in making good to exceptional and have good communications skill.”

Oh. You do, do you?

The best one was the bloke who sent me a CV that was totally acceptable in every other way, fairly coherently written, no spelling mistakes, logically structured…but at the top of it he had pasted in a picture of himself. Not a nice, professional head and shoulders shot projecting a debonair, capable and impressive future employee, but an off-centre, grainy snap of what I can only describe as a portly chav with moobs, standing in a pub wearing a wife-beater t-shirt, looking not a little bit shifty and with…I shit you not…one hand on his crotch. It was as if someone had crept up on him with the camera and caught him having a wank.  

Oh yes, and also, if the job description stipulates ‘must be an excellent cook’ don’t admit to me straight off that your skills “aren’t too good in that area” and then go on the defensive with the words, “But I think it’d be fine as long as the other person’s an experienced chef.”

Right. Ok. So you’ll be fine as long as the other person does all the work. I see. Stop wasting my fucking time.

By the sounds of it Skater Boy hasn’t been having too much luck either.

“This came in today,” he told me on Skype last week. “18yr old. Under interests: ‘Analysing music to fully understand what the metaphors in the lyrics mean’…”
“You should hire him just for the comedy value, but then torture him by banning any music except Scouting for Girls.”
“I’m going to tell him I like One Direction.”
“Or N. Dubbs.”
“Can I call you?” he said. “I’m doing a Skype interview in a few minutes and I want to see what my background looks like on camera.”
This should be funny, I thought. “Ring away.”

He rang.

“Hmm. Background looks fine,” I said, looking at the vaulted oak ceiling of his parental home behind him. “It’s your barnet I’d be more worried about.”
“Funny,” he said shifting around and fiddling with something out of shot. “Oh the joys of Skype interviews,” he stood up to show me what he had on. “Top half smart, bottom half pyjamas.”
“I wouldn’t go quite so far as to call the top half smart, love” I said, noting the loose-knit sweater with holes in it and the freshly rolled cigarette he’d just shelved behind his ear with grubby-nailed fingers.
“Right, must go…” he said in business like fashion. “Interview to do.”

Working from home can be a lonely and isolating, if peaceful experience. Personally I don’t relish being around people 24/7, particularly office bods, who you invariably can’t stand and resent having to spend the best hours of your life with anyway, so it suits me fine. Still, I enjoy the odd interruption from the world outside. Luckily for me also I have a very sweet tooth, which starts to kick in around three o’clock in the afternoon giving me an excellent excuse to leave the house and go for a walk in search of something chocolate covered and satisfying. On this day at precisely that time the sun accommodatingly peeked its head out from behind an ominous grey smudge so I upped and went to the newsagents. There were a couple of preened, primped girls having a very loud argument about an overdraft or something financial or other on the corner of the street. It must be exhausting to be one of these women. Everything about them from their shouty voices to their coiffed piled-high hair, clown-pink cheeks, heavy handbags and agonisingly high heels is shrill and thunderous and pissed off. They seem to be in a constant state of high dudgeon about something or some boy or some injustice foisted on them by the world. Sometimes I think the best therapy for such people would be to rip their faux Gucci shades from their bonce, plonk them on top of a mountain and point out how big the rest of the world/galaxy/universe is compared to them. 

When I got back to the house Skater Boy rang again.

 “Got a sec?”
“Yep. How was it?”
“Nice girl. Fit.”
“Irrelevant. Won’t be taking the job.”
“Ah. No experience?”
“Non-skier. Don’t want to be stuck giving her free lessons all season.”
“Perish the thought.”
“Then there was the other thing,” he looked crestfallen.
“I don’t think she’d take the job even if I offered it.”
“Why on earth not?”
He reached out of shot and brandished the mug he’d been merrily slurping tea from throughout the interview…

It was several minutes before I managed to regain my composure.

“Oh darling. That’s absolute pure, solid, comedy gold,”
 “I wondered why she had such an odd expression on her face.” He set the offending piece of crockery down on the table with a thunk.
“Oh well. At least it detracted attention away from your barnet.”

Monday, 1 October 2012

Your greatest fear: There is no PMT. This is just your personality

Rather forlorn today. I’m fighting a monthly urge to clean and tidy everything within three hundred feet of myself, coupled with a deep seated impulse to growl at innocent passers by like an angry mongrel bitch while trying to gnaw my own foot off because it’s annoying me. I knew immediately when I woke it was going to be one of those Mondays. I could hear the water spinning off the tyres outside, dripping off the window frame and bubbling in the drain. I turned over and put my forehead against the warm, soft skin on the back of SbH’s neck, enjoying the sub-duvet denial of daylight. He murmured something sleepy and reached for my hand. “Ah,” I thought, “How sweet,” ...until I realised he was just trying to manoeuvre my digits into position around his customary early-morning erection.

              So this afternoon, I ventured outdoors to collect a parcel for SbH from the post office (because fucking Royal Mail, of course, had to pick the one hour in the entire week that I was out last Friday to try to deliver the bloody thing). Even though the parcel allegedly contained a ‘surprise’ for me, a fifteen minute walk through the rain to the post office did nothing to improve my mood. Having spent most of the morning festering indoors at my desk I decided to treat myself to what turned out to only loosely resemble a coffee. Must remember never to do this again. The nearest street with shops and cafes on it is a loathsome pedestrian alleyway of Robert Dyas and W H Smiths outlets where every freak and mutant in the city seems to swarm like flies to an ugly festering turd. It’s actually quite fascinating; I mean, there are people who are at least four times larger than a human being ought to be or look as if they’ve had their features drawn on with a blunt mathematical compass by a one-eyed, three-fingered learning-impaired toddler in a darkened room.

Today I saw:

-         A 90 year-old lady with stud heels, a pink Chinese umbrella allowing her haughty Chihuahua to piss on someone’s bicycle.
-         A bald-headed man with a ‘coil’ comb-over like a cinnamon swirl
-         A woman who I am 98% convinced had three buttocks

Having forced down the tepid, bitter washing-up-bowl brown excuse for a coffee I decided to have a peek inside SbH’s package. Peeling off the sticky tape and rummaging within I withdrew the first object and surveyed it disbelievingly. How thoughtful of him. And now, here I am in the middle of a busy freak-infested coffee shop proudly, if inadvertently, brandishing a purple double-ended dildo for all to see. Fantastic.

Three buttocks gave me a sideways glance so I hurriedly returned it to the box.

Think how disappointed he’ll be when I tell him what time of the month it is.

Alarming Ski Fashion

You know when they shave poodles' arses but not the rest of them?

 Ever wondered what they do with the fur afterwards?

Well now you know.

But seriously. What the fuck is this? A new look for Santa Clause?

Personally I like it. No doubt many of my Russian clientele will be sporting something similar this winter...

Wednesday, 26 September 2012

Raindrops keep falling on my head

Not to state the obvious but, it’s still raining. Sluicing down the road and up your trouser leg. Bullets on tin. Sloppy brown water washing ever closer to your back door. My yard keeps flooding. The drain is full of flotsam and jetsam and cat shit and squirrel droppings. I’m taking to it with the ostrich approach. Yesterday, still nauseous from the weekend and hungry for nothing in the kitchen I ventured out to buy a loaf of bread from the high-in-saturates bakery at the end of my road wearing oilskins. I peeked out from under the hood at the sea; last week a sapphire, sparkling blue, now a hoary, angry beast. A giant tongue threatening to eat up the city. I returned with wet knees and a black pudding and egg Danish pastry that merely compounded my displeasure with self-loathing. Fucking rain.

           The summer has been a nightmare of unpaid bills, unofficial overdrafts and bank demands. This is what happens when you get fully saddled by your ex lover with a mortgage you can’t afford and should never have taken out in the first place. I had to sell Scruffy-but-Handsome into slavery in order to feed us and he’s borne it very cheerfully. Last week he even came home in a fit of confusion, saying he was (and I quote) “enjoying” his new job.
“Well, I mean. You don’t have to do another ski season,” I said.
The company he’s working for is a big hitter in the world of Google. He’s been seduced with a shiny new laptop and a bit of novelty into climbing the slippery pole and now seems to know everything there is to know about Google's algorithm. His boss seems to think the sun shines out of his arse because, unlike the rest of the staff, he has more than four brain cells to rub together and one or two original ideas.
“It’s just that I’m quite good at it,” he said as he folded his clothes and put them in the cupboard, “And they’re moving me along quite quickly, giving me more responsibility and they’ve said I could go quite far in the company.”
Oh yes. That old chestnut. They pounce on you with this speech during the first three enthusiastic months. The time when you’re doing actual, real work; months before you start losing the will to live and just staring blankly at your screen for an hour every morning, then going for an extra long shit or a wank in the toilets.
“Well, you’ve got youth on your side, I suppose,” I said, trying to be encouraging. I was sitting on the floor with my back to the wall, not a little shocked by this u-turn. “…if you feel like you’d be passing up a great opportunity.”
That was last week when the sun was still shining. Since then every morning has been a little colder, a little darker. The duvet has been a smidge more difficult to extricate oneself from. We’ll see whether his mood changes when the rains come, I thought.
            About ten days ago I went and met my new boss. I have, you see, managed to land myself the golden fleece of season jobs. The private gig. A recommendation from a friend, E who had the position last winter. It felt odd dressing smartly for a chalet bitch interview. Should I go for smart, prim and professional? I wondered, Or buxom serving wench bending over you with the cheese board of an evening? In the end I cut a line right down the middle; smart grey dress, just ever so slightly too low cut, with a blue and red check suit jacket and low, brown heels. After the first few questions (why did I want the job, could I ski, could I cook?) he eyed me apprehensively from behind his desk. I got the impression he was out of his comfort zone and wondering if there was anything else left to say. Impetuous, these rich types. If they like the look of you, the cut of your jib, etc, in the first five minutes you’ve usually got the job regardless of whether you can cook, or even handle a bottle of bleach.
“I’ve brought a list of questions,” I said. “I spoke to E about what you like to eat and I’ve made a menu plan,”
“Oh thank God,” he said, looking relieved and swiping it from my hand. “Good. Ask me questions. This is great,” he waved it at me. “How very organised of E to draw this up, isn’t she great?”
I bristled and bit back the urge to tell him it was me, actually. Mustn’t seem petulant or pushy, at least not at this stage.
            The search is now on for a chalet co-bitch. Being a tip-top cook with bags of experience SbH could, of course, take the job. However, in my experience, working in a chalet 24/7 with your lover is about as good for your relationship as tattooing each others' names and the first night you shagged to your foreheads. You’re guaranteed to part company shortly thereafter and have to live with the regret for the rest of your days. Anyway, you’d think, being that the job entails living in a luxury ski-in-ski-out chalet that’s going to be empty for seven weeks of the season, eating like a king, and driving a brand new Porche Cayenne, that most people would sell their arses for it, but finding someone to work with has been murder. So just in case anyone out there is interested:

Required. 1 x skiing / snowboarding male (I loathe working with girls). Must be very good in kitchen, over 23, neat, tidy, non-stinky ski-bum type, able to drive and preferably nice to look at, please, if you can be at all. Sense of humour essential.

If you know of anyone who fits the description point them my way…

And I leave you with news the Skater Boy (you’re not going to believe this) has realised his lifelong dream and bought his own chalet.  It’s most alarming to think that you, yes you, could be booking a ski holiday at this very establishment, as we speak. Take your own sanitizer and hide your toothbrush and your prescription medication, that’s my advice. More alarming still is the fact that he’s given up the weed and started going to the gym; suddenly become all motivated and responsible, or is at least doing a great impression of it. Even better, being on the receiving end of CV applications from hopeful seasonnaires keen to enter his employ has been giving us a really good guffaw or two...

“I shouldn’t laugh,” he said to me on Skype, “But this job application came in to me today: 


“That’s special,” I replied.
“She works for ASDA and has 4 GCSE’s.”
“Defo take her on...a dream employee.”
“It's quite sweet really.... I feel bad.”
“Me too.”
“She's probably some poor, spotty oik of a checkout girl who's seen the film ‘Chalet Girl’ and is dreaming of a better life.”
At that moment, SbH suddenly came in from work, grumbling loudly.  He commutes by bicycle along the seafront and the wind had blown his hair into a vertical shock. He was drenched.
“What was I thinking?” he bellowed, shaking water off like a dog climbing out of a pond. “It’s too warm, too flat and too wet.”
 “I concur,” I said brightly, giving him a towel and a kiss. I never doubted him for a second of course.

Tuesday, 17 July 2012

Ski Movies: Cut the crap and ski, bitches

It's that time of year when, disillusioned by (and for some strange reason, also surprised by) the fact that, yes, nothing's changed, the weather in England is still as shite as it always was, it's still pissing with fucking rain, we all start watching ski and snowboard movies. It's part of the yearly cycle we all go though - particularly those of us in denial about wanting to do another ski season. The 'I'm not going back again this year' Clan. The 'I really need to move on with my life' Types. Yes. You people, who will be busily applying for every shit chalet job you can find come the even worse weather in October, when the novelty of the office job you've been holding down for six months wears off and it hits you, once again, that this could be it for the rest of your life.

If you're sitting at work, and this is you. Here's something to keep you occupied on your lunch break today:

Anything involving Shane McConkey aside, though, a word about the ski/snowboard movie; a thrilling and wonderful, modern phenomenon. If you’ve never watched one of these then let me just paraphrase for you: You are generally in for an hour and a half of gawping at a Canadian trust fund kid, with unlimited access to Red Bull helicopters, skating down sheer rock faces the width of a pencil on outsized lollipop sticks and living to tell the tale. This is absolutely mind-bending to watch, but unfortunately you also have to (at the behest of the director) put up with a lot of over-indulgent bollocks philosophizing during the interview sections, with people like Travis Rice going on about how super stoked he is about his ridiculously fortunate existence.

Well, lucky fucking him.
 There are a number of stock phrases you will encounter:

‘It was totally super sweet’
‘I realized, I’d like, tapped into a new energy source, man’
‘This is it - this is what life’s all about’
‘It just felt right, man. It felt like destiny’
‘I’m totally inspired to ski new lines and push the boundaries’

Everything that is said in a ski/snowboard film, pretty much revolves around a variation on one of these themes. 

My personal feeling on this is that since not all of us were lucky enough to be born on a mountain with a golden ski secreted niftily up our rectums we don’t really want to hear your wanky drivel about the fact that it’s all you ever do. We are already jealous enough. Yes, I’m sure you are ‘super stoked’ about ‘living simply’. Except how is owning tens of thousands of dollars worth of ski kit and having enough money to fuel a private jet to take you to Patagonia, living simply? 

Listen you lucky mother fuckers – it could have been me, if only I’d been born in Jackson Hole instead of Cuckfield. It could be you up to your eyes in beouf bourgignon and soap suds every winter just to get a look in. So, do me a favour. Stop talking and just ski, bitch. Make me go oooooh, and ahhhhh with your crazy tricks. I’m not interested in your philosophical stance on life. I don’t understand how you do what you do – I’ll give you that. It’s bloody amazing. But believe me I get why…. So please, spare me the drivel about this all being the meaning of life. I just want to see you pull a cork 580 off the north face of the Eiger in the middle of an avalanche, land it and ski out completely unscathed. That will make my day. Oh yes, and thank you very much by the way. I’m loving your work.

Tuesday, 19 June 2012

Three fail-safe life rules

Three rules I abide by in life:

- Never shit on your own doorstep

- Never trust a fart

and (after nearly breaking my toe today)

- Never store a surgical glass dildo in an overhead cupboard....

Thursday, 31 May 2012

Keep Calm and Cunt Off

Oh, had you heard? It’s the fucking Queen’s Diamond Jubilee this weekend. Well blow me down, what a fucking surprise! I didn’t spot that one.

I must have missed the 24/7 prattling on every TV channel about the old dear and how marvelous she is. About how lovely the Duchess of Cambridge is with a swishy hair and her big white teeth.  Blah blah blah. I must have missed all those sodding ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ slogans spaffed across every object with white space on it that have sporned THIS abomination.

No, really, I challenge you to get through a day without seeing one. Today I have been treated to:

  • Keep Calm and Grow a Mustache
  • Keep Calm and Buy Stuff (fucking hell)
  • Keep Calm and .....Be Yourself (foul!)

How about ‘Keep Calm and Gouge You Eyes Out With A Spoon’?

Keep Calm and Cunt Off, I say.

Seriously. Could I be any more bored of hearing about it?

No I fucking couldn’t.

To be honest I do actually really like the Queen, she’s a real brick and to be given the utmost R.E.S.P.E.C.T. People ought to listen to her sort a bit more often. It’s not her that gets on my tits. It’s every other corporate cunt jumping on the band wagon with completely random-unrelated stuff that has nothing to do with it whatsoever, smacking a union jack on it and calling it ‘Jubilee…’

Jubilee cupcakes and tea cups I can deal with.

But it doesn’t stop there. They are taking every fucking inanimate object or abstract idea, sticking ‘Jubilee’ in front of it and expecting the average punter to cream their pants with delight at the prospect of a ‘Jubilee themed iPod’ that they can keep forever. Yuck!

Today I saw an advert for a Jubilee Lawnmower (union jack handles). What’s next?

Jubilee Edition Hemorrhoid Cream (clotted)
Jubilee Cast Enamel Squirrel (well, why the fuck not?)
Jubilee Hamster Shaving Kit (for when you really need to shave that hamster)
Jubilee themed stab-proof vest (to protect yourself from the psychos down the river pageant)
Special Jubilee Edition Quran
Jubilee Butt-Plug (in shape of Queen's head - much more fun than a mug)
Jubilee themed Diamond Encrusted Gimp Suit (now that I would buy)
Jubilee Celebratory Rape Alarm
Jubilee Ice Pick (to stab yourself in the head with when it gets too much)

This is very much a Jubilee themed Jubilee.

I think it is fairly safe to say that life hasn’t exactly gone as planned in the last six months, which is probably why I am a little narky about this Jubilee shizzle, considering I had no intention of being in the country for it. Today I sent Scruffy-but-Handsome off to a job interview dressed in a suit. The overall effect was rather reminiscent of dressing a corgi in a tuxedo. Cute and slightly amusing, but definitely not something I planned to ever do.

The one saving grace of the last 2 weeks has been that I finally managed to sell the house. This means my lodgers are moving out this weekend. It’s been quite a journey, having this rag-tag and morally suspect set of individuals living together;

1)   Me - errant part-timer trying to project the appearance of being legitimately busy and important with nose-constantly-in-laptop working on various 'projects' one of which being this blog, whilst actually doing three shades of fuck all.
2)    Lodger 1 - precarious platinum-blonde and all-round lovable one-time gypsy with a dog and a slightly murky past that may or may not have involved pouring acid in her enemies' swimming pools and slashing people's tyres.
3)   Lodger 2 - freelance stock-market-trading spiv with sloaney wardrobe pretensions and (it would appear) an enormous amount of cash in the bank (spends almost 24/7 in his bedroom glued to four computer screens gambling with fraudulently-gotten gains and if he's not doing that stuffing coke up his nostrils and renting whores.)

Part of me is sad to see them go. The other part (the part that has been living in constant terror of being horribly murdered in my bed with a machete, or finding Lodger 2 swinging from the ceiling fan one evening) is quite relieved. 

It’s sort of the end of an era.

Well, anyway, since I am in the country for this bloody Jubilee I intend to enjoy it.

Therefore I will be spending most of the bank holiday playing ‘BBC TV Coverage Jubilee Cliché Bingo.’ This basically entails sitting on the sofa in your underpants eating cake and downing a Tequila every time you encounter one of these hackneyed hyperbole clangers:

  • Cliff Richard /Paul McCartney (1 shot Tequila - double measure if on stage together)
  • Keep Calm and (insert fucktarded cliché here - sambucca shot)
  • A Union Jack being waved feverishly by a spotty oik (Gin)
  • Victoria Sponge (See it, eat it)
  • Coronation Chicken (See it, eat it)
  • Huw Edwards saying any of the following: ‘The People’s Queen, Day of National Joy, Her Majesty’s Famous Sense of Fun, Deeply Moving, And What a Magnificent Spectacle This Is, Such Dedication and Hard Work, Oh Look There Goes Pippa Middleton's Arse' (1 glass champers)
  • Bunting (Rum)
  • Prince Phillip saying something fabulous and pissing everybody off. (1 seasonaire nightmare)

I shall then probably put a fuck load of drugs in my face, party until I’m sick and round it all off with a Jubilee themed gang bang. God Save the Queen.

Oh yes….and if anyone else has any Jubilee Clichés for me to add to my bingo list I’d be thrilled to hear them…

Tuesday, 22 May 2012

SbH: A humble fucking request

Dear Neighbours,
     Whilst we appreciate that birds, and pigeons in particular, are fine and noble birds and that their livelihood and wellbeing is of the utmost importance (not only providing the animals with wellbeing but one's inner being as well) we do not feel that your avian sanctuary, or as an estate agent would term it, front door, has appropriate safeguards from stopping their droppings landing on our (currently dormant) avian sanctuary/ doorstep.
I feel that we have been very patient and understanding with your quest to maintain the nutritional and dietary needs of the majestic native town pigeon. And I can understand your concerns for the species' wellbeing with scarce food resources and a dangerously low population. However when I returned this evening to find a detachment of the Royal Flying Corps Pigeon Squadron had carpet bombed our dormant avian sanctuary/ active front door step I found that my patience and understanding had reached its limit. To this end I am writing to you with a request to stop feeding the endangered town pigeon in front of your house. And if I may be so bold as to recommend some other places you could perhaps re-site your ground breaking avian sanctuary:
-A park
-A pond
-A forest
-A wood/ wooded area
-Any government building
-A busy intersection
-A field
-A cliff
-A ‘kill box’
I hope you have found these suggestions useful and thought provoking avenues to look into and I think that your lone endeavours to ensure the survival of the humble town pigeon are highly praiseworthy and I hope you can understand the position that we are in. So to this end I kindly but firmly ask you to please stop feeding the fucking birds on our doorstep and whilst you’re at it feed the squirrels something that they won’t deposit the husks of in our back garden by the sodding tonne. Possibly another seed or nut – or arsenic. If you persist to feed the woefully endangered, majestic, ethereal fucking pigeon I will counter feed the flying shits with rice and other such expandable goodies until your front doorstep looks like a pigeon enactment of a Serbian mass execution.

Yours faithfully,



...Ah. Domestic bliss. Last weekend the Umpa Lumpa moved out, much to our (probably slightly too evident) joy, leaving the house a veritable happy-land of relaxed frippery and fun. But alas, as we all know, when God ushers one cunt out the window he ushers another one right in the front door - and indeed, it is our front door step that has borne the brunt of this law according to St Bastard.

Continuing on his theme of ranting at the world and all of the creatures in it, I arrived home yesterday to find SbH seething in front of the computer, hammering at the keyboard and foaming at the mouth.

"Have you seen the front door step?" he fumed, pausing for a moment from his furious typing to give dramatic weight to his rage.

I replied that indeed I had seen it. And I was not impressed.

Anyway, the fruits of his labour, which I relay here for your enjoyment, are a mixture of indignant literary inspiration and pure bile, and have been duly printed and nailed to our next door neighbour's shabby front door, fuckers.

Question: If they continue to encourage the local pigeons to redecorate our house in excrement, would it be wrong to leave a flaming bag of our own faeces on their front door step and ring the bell?

Monday, 14 May 2012

The Great Pork Pie Conspiracy

"I just don't understand it!" SbH was staring in disgust at his lunch. "It must be a government conspiracy or something..."
"What?" I asked, nose-in-laptop, only half listening.
"This is the fourth packet of pork pies this week that doesn't have jelly in them...."
"Jelly. Pork pies. Why the fuck can't you get pork pies with jelly in them any more? What's that about? These are Melton Fucking Mowbray for fuck's sake. How can they hold their heads up as a beacon of pork pie manufacturing excellence while churning out these lacklustre clumps of stodgy matter?"
"I feel very strongly about this. I think it says a lot about the sad direction in which our society is going."
"I daresay you're right"
"First they take our freedom, now they take the fucking jelly from our pork pies!"
"Babe, it's just a pork pie..."
"Just a pork pie? That's the kind of apathy that breeds this kind of subterfuge. They've probably been quietly reducing the amount of jelly in pork pies gradually for years without anyone noticing and now they've passed some obscure law that precludes them from putting it in at all! You can't get pork pies in France. I've been looking forward to one all winter and then I have to come home to this shit," he stuffed a piece of cheddar cheese and pickle into his mouth sadly.

Scruffy-but-Handsome is bored. 

It's to be expected really, he has nothing to do. There's only so much time you can spend searching on line for jobs you despise and have no interest in doing, before your once sparkling ego deflates like a small child's helium balloon that's been left behind the couch for a month. Hanging there like a limp condom waiting for someone to put it out of its misery with a pin. Then you start getting angry about pork pies.

"Look at this," he said, pointing in outrage at Gumtree on his computer screen. "Earn over £10 an hour as a beauty consultant....well that sounds right up my street! Or how about this one...significant opportunity - a career in welding could be yours - fucking brilliant!"

"Darling, these are the jobs normal people have to do. You know nine-to-five shit..."

"REALLY? You're joking.  Come on, I don't think so. Listen to this abomination: 'Earn big, work from home. Home shopping continues to go from strength to strength and you could be part of this success right now! Simply deliver and collect our well-known brochure in your local area and take the orders they produce to the customers when they come in – it really is that simple. Wow!"
"That sounds like a mug's game"
"Exactly. How many of your friends fuck around selling catalogues door to door? This is bullshit. It makes me want to put my snowboarding helmet on and run headlong at the groin of this catalogue delivery boss...Mr Raj Rajeed or whatever his name is."
I gave him a long-suffering smile. "I might draw your attention to the fact that I worked in a call centre last year to make ends meet. Extorting cash from grannies for a Catholic charity. That wasn't exactly my dream job either."

At this point the Umpa Lumpa came lollopping down stairs to get a coffee with a face like the shitty slapped arse end of a cow. I have resolved to ignore her as stoically as possible until she moves out (only another glorious 2 weeks to go!) but SbH is far too affable for this...

"Afternoon," he said cheerily.
She gave us both an icy glare and continued into the kitchen.

I have full sympathy with SbH's frustration. Fitting his current injury-limited capabilities, personality and career skills into a normal nine-to-five job in a job market that's about as fruitful as Mother Theresa's ovaries is like trying to get a hyperactive petulant toddler into a hairdresser's chair.

"Hmmmmm," he continued, scrolling down the list of jobs, "Ophthalmologist...well, I'll have a punt at eye surgery, but I should probably scan a few diagrams first...oooh! Back Protector Testing - this could be just my thing. Fucking myself up for money, perfect!"
"They do say find a job you love and you'll never work again."
"Mmm, how about Disrobing Executive?"
"Yeah  .... oh wait.... great, brilliant! Now my computer's crashed. Aaaaargh! That's it. I'm going to take some fucking laxatives and see how far I can get into Microsoft headquarters before my arse explodes! They won't even be able to tackle me to the floor or point a gun at me because sudden shocks could set me off! It's a fail safe plan."

I have resolved to just let him vent for the time being until he finds something to occupy his time. But please, if anyone out there has a job for a scruffy-haired maniac with verbal diarrhoea who likes to fix things and/or break himself, please get in touch.


Thursday, 3 May 2012

SbH and the art of over-achieving

“I’ve blown my shoulder out,”  SbH said mournfully down the phone to me.

It was about twenty four hours after I’d seen a (nother) Facebook picture of him running around an après ski bar with his eyes looking in different directions and his bollocks out.

“How?” Please tell me it was at least a cool snowboarding trick that did it.

“I was trying to do a handstand...”

Oh bother.

I wasn’t amused. This was rather a large fuck up on his behalf. You see, it was all going to be different this year. We were going to get the big ‘job on a yacht’ (hopefully owned by an absentee Russian billionaire with a penchant for big tips) and spend the summer up to our glands in cash, expensive watches, speedboats and champagne. Instead, due to a cruel twist of both fate and all the ligaments in SbH’s shoulder we are sentenced to morphing right back into our roles as the freeloading between-seasons drifter people that everyone despises. How on earth did I end up back here? Jobless, penniless and soon (when I sell the house I can’t afford) homeless as well. Notion of possibly having to slope back to my childhood bedroom with my tail between my legs for the summer is quite horrifying. Daddy will be pleased.

At least for now we have The House. Although one of the lodgers (a poison dwarf with helmet hair and, it is fast becoming apparent, sever control issues) was none-too-pleased when my dishevelled partner in crime turned up with a tectonic convergence of clothes unwashed since November to deal with and exploded all over the house.

“Er....I was just wondering,” she said a few days ago, hovering tentatively in my bedroom door way. “Is he going to be staying long?”
“Why? Would that be a problem?” I asked, smiling sweetly.
“Well yes, frankly” she sniffed. “It would have been nice to have at least been consulted”

Oh do fuck off. I haven’t had a decent fuck since February, when I went to stay with him in his over-populated ski resort digs and to be blunt I’m not going to let a sexually frustrated UmpaLumpa get in the way of my orgasmic needs.

I plastered the most concerned-for-your-feelings expression I could muster over my features while battling with the thought that this was pretty fucking pert of her. Is it common practise for a landlady to request formal permission from a lodger if she wants to have her boyfriend to stay? I don't fucking think so.

But she pressed on...

“I just think it’s going to be a bit crowded, you know, with one more person using the bathroom and the kitchen all the time."

My tentacles started to flex. I wanted deeply for her to get out of my face.
In all truth, she had not picked the best day to tackle me on this subject. I was not in the most jovial of moods, having had a rather big weekend (for when one is unemployed what else can one do but get tight?) The comedown is the hell of all diseases. Most tortuous of all, because it is self-inflicted and therefore reprehensible. If you are short sighted enough to make a deal with the devil and wax all your fun tokens in one go, for one pure moment of pleasure that’s your affair, and you must accept the repercussions. You must accept, for example, that for several days afterwards you will hate absolutely everything and everyone with a quite terrifying Hitler-esque rage. You will crave sweet, cloying things like ice cream and chocolate, sexual gratification and booze – the things that might ordinarily make your little cup of joy overflow – only to find that the inside of your mouth has been upholstered in leather. Food turns to ash on your tongue, tea makes your stomach churn, there is no iridescent beauty in a blue sky, you are filled with a distinct sense of apathy about the world and everyone in it. Is it worth it, for that one night of saturation? Well, yes, if you want my personal opinion. But one must be aware of the bargain one has struck and cope with it accordingly. And if you’re on the receiving end of someone’s terrible Tuesday my advice is – get out of the way as swiftly as possible and preferably shut the hell up.

The UmpaLumpa had clearly not cottoned on to my rabid state of mind. However, one thing being a Chalet Bitch has taught me and that’s the importance of being supremely two-faced in situations such as this. In other words, I know I’m a cunt, but nobody else has to. So instead of getting irate I simply said:
“Oh dear”
“God I’m so sorry”
All the time imagining what it would be like to pick her up, hang her on the hook on the back of my bedroom door by her collar and then poke her with sharp objects.

Honestly, being this pleasant all the time is incredibly fatiguing...

Thursday, 26 April 2012

The Chairlift of Lost Hope

I have a question:

How is it possible to retain one's sanity, nay, one's very civility, when one seems to be constantly surrounded by complete dick heads? And if not dick heads then incompetent let-downs, straight-forward fruit cakes or (by far the worst) whingey wet-blanket types who moan on about everything as if I give a shit.

News flash. I don't. Bugger off.

God everyone gets on my tits. With their habits and ways and points of view. Putting on a polite, interested face is exhausting, particularly when your inner monologue is (as mine tends to be) at extremely stark odds to your innocuous exterior persona. It occurs to me how extremely inflammatory (yet oddly liberating) it would be if everyone within my realm of acquaintance that I thought was a cunt knew I thought they were a cunt. That I am, in point of fact, at best totally indifferent to their feelings and views and merely putting on the front of giving a shit for a quiet life, so they'll hopefully shut the fuck up and go away. I can count the number of people I actually like and would seek to spend time with on one hand, so pretending to be bothered about cultivating a friendship with someone I see as being merely a means to an end is nothing but a tiresome, constructed social obligation.

I am speaking of my lodgers. Yes, I have lodgers. Three of them. Which, by association must mean I have a house and  therefore a mortgage, right? Right. Well that's a turn up for the books.

The truth is I have had a mortgage all along. It fell into my possession a few years ago when I was with a man who was and to some extent still is, seriously in need of having his bumps checked. The story  went something like this:

  • Wake up one morning, realise you are getting a little long in the tooth to be still living in a one-bed rented flat, and waxing all your cash on coke
  • Decide this lifestyle doesn't fit with your projected brand image or compare favourably with that of your peers
  • Look at finances, realise situation hopeless as self-employed and up-to-bollocks/vagina in debt 
  • Have sudden brainwave
  • Convince hapless father to part with some cash to aid you and your beloved's  'first step on property ladder' 
  • Buy ridiculously, needlessly gigantic house at top of market on pretence of it being 'a long term investment and future family home' against all advice to the contrary and your own gut feelings.
  • Move in and turn into a sulky bastards because it costs a lot to maintain
  • After a year of stress and misery decide to get married to patch up problems
  • Get cold feet, call it all off
  • Decide to fuck off and do a ski season, leaving cat and The House in hands of Ex-Fiancée-that-needs-his-bumps-checked.
  • Watch in horror as property market crashes 
  • Receive phone call from  Ex-Fiancée-that-needs-his-bumps-checked to the effect that he can no longer afford The House and wishes to move out, live in one-bed rented flat and go back to waxing all his cash on coke.
Ah well. So culminates a long career of impulsive decision making and trying to run before one can walk. Study the past, if you would divine the future.

So thanks to all these elephantine levels of fuckwittage on behalf of more than one cunt (and I include myself there) everything went a bit Afgan after that. Needless to say in the last six months I have had to spend far too much time in the company of my  Ex-Fiancée-that-needs-his-bumps-checked under the shadow of a dangerously psychotic lawyer-wielding ex-friend, wondering what on earth to do with looming spectre of The House (now a rather lack-lustre-tumbledown-weed-encrusted-front-falling-off-the-building-and-leaky-showers affair) in the midst of a recession.

Prior to all this life was peachy keen. Scruffy-but-Handsome and I spent the run up to Christmas working on a yacht in Greece and had great plans to swan off on another ski season together come January, but alas. Instead I found myself waving him off on a ski season without me and moving back into The House - the seat of all my former commute-based, nine-to-five, two-point-four beige-coloured despair. And this brings me to the lodgers, who I brought in to fill the gaping chasm in my finances which can barely cover the internet connection, let alone the giant mortgage. 

You see, the problem with taking the ostrich approach to life (burying your head in the sand and ignoring the unfortunate reality of some inordinately bad decisions you made a few years ago) is that position puts your arse neatly on show. Mine was just ripe for being either bitten or having the erect cock of fate thrust savagely into it without a by or leave. Which has duly happened.

So here I am, three years on from that fateful moment on the tube when I thought 'fuck this, I'm going skiing for the rest of my life'. Right back where I started.

But this time, with lodgers and a very very different man about the house.

Should make for an interesting summer...