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

Belle de Neige

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...