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

Belle de Neige

Tuesday, 11 February 2014

Why don't bitches ride no more?

Excuse me, but what the fuck is this?


Oh. I know. It's Vogue magazine peddling drivel on the subject of skiing. As if they have even a rhesus monkey's inkling in Higgs Bosun of what they're talking about.

Allow me to speak for an entire section of snow-borne society in saying this to you Vogue:

"FUCK. OFF."

Yes Vogue you bunch of prancing tossers. I'm talking to you. Peddling this kind of bullshit in our territory, is not welcome. You don't belong here. How dare you write an article on 'ski chic', when you don't ski? If Seth Morrison turned up on the Paris catwalk and started lecturing Kate Sodding Moss about Manolo Blahniks what sort of expression do you think would creep over her alabaster features? It would be one of pure fury, disdain and bile-soaked ire... So may I enquire why you feel entitled to print such a load of drivel and sell it to the unsuspecting, paying public?

Aren't your tits a bit cold, luv?

For those of you without the stomach to read it, let me summarise this lacklustre piece of pseudo-fashion journalism for you. The general gist is as follows:

"How to be ski chic? Don't ski. As every on-trend fashionista knows, skiing is a non essential part of a ski holiday. The real point is to get selfies and be 'seen' poncing around in Lacroix with a fruit bowl on your head, looking like a cunt."

I don't know where to begin with this article. I feel deeply in my soul that it's the root of everything that's wrong with ski resorts and the 'upper echelons' of the clientelle that visit them. Particularly people like Sadie Fucking Frost. And Nick Knob Grimshaw.

A few of my choice turds from this article:

Wear monochrome


Up a mountain? Oh yeah. I'm so cool I'm dressed like a rock.

Moon Boots are still in

 

Er....I beg to differ. What in the name of Zeus' left testicle are you talking about?

Anything goes...even Pandas on your trousers.



Say what?

Yes. That's true, if you're seven years old and your parents are blind people from China.

...I think more than anything it's the haughty, conceited, know-it-all tone of this article that offends me most. It oozes arrogance -that familiar hallmark of the ignoramus - like a suppurating boil. It's meant to be tongue in cheek. But no. It's just shit.

Nick Grimshaw and Sadie Frost took meditation classes instead of skiing, did they? Well hopefully the narcissistic, agave syrup guzzling half-wits spent the time meditating on what a pair of cunts they are, wasting money in an otherwise hostile environment. 

Meditation clearly working wonders there Sade...

You turn up in your over-egged four by four, demanding heated driveways, so you don't slip over in your stupid, overpriced shoes and your canine canape's feet don't freeze, raising the temperatures in the resort and fucking the environment while you're at it. Then you proceed to not ride because you have no joy in your soul.

If you have come to a resort to 'see' and 'be seen' one has to ask, why? Aren't there a million other less extreme environments in which you can satisfy your nebular ego? You have totally missed the point of what the mountains have to offer. You can prance around in a fur lined Moncler anorak anywhere. Go to Siberia and die. I certainly don't want to look at you. Especially if you're that much of a hag that over exposure to clean mountain air makes your skin chafe and flake off. Maybe you should lay off the cocaine and botox if that's the case! Or eat some meat (because you're no doubt vegan or some shit like a 'Cloudarian'). 

This kind of crap is exactly why bitches don't ski no more!

Ladies of the Alps, I say to you that people like this should be pole whacked in the Montcler tits. Don't be a Sadie, or an Arizona or a Tamara. Be an Aimee or a Jenny.Get out there and live, and ride and get messy and scare yourself. Say yes to everything. Jig around topless with a pint of Mutzig in each hand. Crowd surf. Then be on the mountain at 8.45 choking back the sick, but RIDING GOD DAMN IT. Girls that ride are awesome. I've met some of the most, interesting, capable women of my life on ski seasons. The type who, like Aimee, will go upside down just to get the crowd going.They have bigger balls than most guys you'll meet. They're the type of women you aspire to be friends with.

Both these ladies, I might add, started their ski careers scrubbing poo off u-bends in chalets, so none of you lot out there have any excuse.

What is more troubling though, about this fact, is it actually indicates that there is a modicum of believability behind the story line of 'Chalet Girl' the movie...

So in conclusion, if you want ski fashion tips don't take them from Vogue. Take them from this lady:


I hope you'll unite with me in saying "Vogue! Take your cashmere-cunt readership, piss off back to your air conditioned Notting Hill conversions and stop throwing  cigarettes all over the mountain and pushing up the prices."

Here's the reality. If you go to a ski resort and you don't ski, you are not chic. You're just  a dick, in the mountains.

Friday, 17 January 2014

Threesomes, foursomes and much much moresomes - NSFW!

Riffing on the theme of a recent article I wrote for Whitelines magazine on the subject of 'sex in the snow', I thought it would be appropriate to expand on a topic that's close to my heart:

The Private Chalet Shag

Particularly since, during some idle hours of 'research' this afternoon, I stumbled across this little gem:

NSFW...but extremely funny...

How, I have been wondering, has this classic moment in film history, the original 'Chalet Girl' slipped through my net? Its colossal naff-ness makes my little cup of joy just overflow. And gives SbH a semi.
Also, one of the girls, looks alarmingly like one of my ex-season-staff. Which is both amusing and terrifying.

Anyway, returning to topic, as I said before, if you are one of the fortunate few who happen to have a private chalet job this season, listen up! It is your responsibility...nay....your duty to have sex in that chalet as much as possible. With lots of people. Preferably at the same time. If you've rocked up in the Alps in a leather-interior four-by-four bought and paid for by a boss with more money than sense and are planning to spend your time (during your five weeks off) quaffing his wine cellar and playing video games in the cinema room, then fine. But if you fail to seduce one or two of your fellow seasonnaires into getting their jiggly bits out and frolicking in the hot tub, then you're doing it wrong.

Is that....?

Watching your boss drinking tea in his underpants with his feet up on the ottoman you got reamed over not four days ago, is an experience I heartily recommend.

If you are of the depraved, fire-starting persuasion, but your fellow seasonnaires are a little bit backwards in coming forwards, here are some possible suggestions for catalyzing naughty play time en chalet:

News travels fast
Engineer a rumour around the resort that you're into threesomes - you'll be surprised how many unexpected dark horses crawl out of the woodwork and ask for a cheeky invite round to dinner when they get a sniff of this.

Strip poker, truth or dare, spin the bottle 
Remember that people tend to do things in ski resorts that they would never do elsewhere. Carpe Diem. The time is ripe to entice your mates out of their undergarments and strip poker is the logical way forward.

Group bath time
Get everyone drunk and suggest a bubble bath. Worth a punt.


Jump right in
This is easier if you're a couple / regular shag pals already. Get everyone in the hot tub and, after a few suggestive comments, just start making out with each other in front of everyone. It'll go one of two ways. Either everyone will be scandalised, make their excuses and leave, in which case you can just have a nice shag in private. Or you'll make them all horny and they'll join in.

Aphrodisiacs
Unless you want to be sneezing gravy and Catherine-wheeling into the china goddess for a good 48 hours post coitus, I wouldn't advise the purchase of oysters in the mountains. However, you can buy chocolate, almonds, avocados, figs, garlic and honey in abundance, which are all, apparently, aphrodisiacs. So cook everyone dinner and slip a few of those into the mix and you never know...

Group stretching
After a hard day's skiing there's nothing sexier than watching someone get down into their sweaty thermals and stretch out those groin muscles.... or is it just me?

Well... I hope this all helps you in your mission to broaden those Alpine sexual horizons this winter.

Don't forget to clean in all the crevices, people.

x


Monday, 6 January 2014

Turning 30 in the Alps

Well gang, in the not too distant future, I shall be 30. Yes.


I can no longer perpetuate the myth of magically remaining somewhere in my mid-twenties, like a character from the Simpsons or Family Guy. It's been three years since I wrote this and I can confirm; in two days I am 30 and I no longer give a fuck. As stated, I have been calling a cunt, 'a cunt' for several years now, and I can confirm, it feels good. It's why I have no guilt about not skiing today and sitting around in my underwear.

Besides, I did a full three-rotating tomahawk yesterday, in some lovely fluffy powder resulting in severe whiplash. Which makes me and everything I do and say from now on in life totally legitimate.


We'll gloss over the fact my mate just sat there laughing and eating a sandwich while I had to climb up a hill in knee deep powder to retrieve my poles.

It also feels good to be a punter, for once. I know. It's blasphemy to say so. But I've been out here in the mountains for about ten days now with a small, but precious crew of fellow ex-seasonnaires and it's just so nice being able to do whatever the fuck we want. The temptation to 'pop in' and take a ganders at last years' chalet is almost too much to ignore. Suffice to say, whoever's running it, while you've been picking up the owner's wife's grundies off the floor and taking their screaming brats to the bowling alley, we've been having over-priced lunches in piste-side restaurants and regular showers and everything.


Posh pit-stop

This trip is also, obviously, a humanitarian mission to bring my words of wisdom in the form of Belle de Neige the book, to the unsuspecting, ignorant youth of the mountains. According to a friend, A, the Ski Resort is crawling with Irksome Blonde 19 Year Olds, this year, ripe for milking like the over-enthusiastic cash cows they are.

A case in point, the leggy blonde working in the chalet I stayed in last week could do with a few stern words. Love, if you're reading, you seriously have one of the cushiest jobs on the mountain I've ever heard of. All you have to do is some accounts and hoovering! Christ! With a job like that I'd have ripped France a new arsehole!

In fact...I have some questions for you:

Why aren't you skiing more? Did you come here for some other obscure reason?
Why don't you loosen up a bit? You're on a season. It's supposed to be fun.
Why are you wearing high heeled boots in a ski resort?
Why are you here if you're supposed to be happily engaged to the love of your life?
On that theme, why did you deny shagging that blonde, Skandi sex god we all nicknamed 'Thor' - he was fit. You should have fucking claimed that one.
Why don't you stop whinging and get involved? Life's too short. You're young. Your twenties are only a dress rehearsal, you really don't have to make any commitments / get it right.

Watching this poor mite dragging her heels around the chalet every morning looking miserable and failing to 'fit in' with the rest of her rambunctious and enthusiastic co-workers made me think. Not to get too philosophical, but, whatever her major malfunction, I just wished she could see what she'd gain if only, please, for the love of God, she'd stop taking herself so seriously.

I lost my Mum and my best friend during my twenties. It completely threw me. I made a lot of mistakes after that and I didn't take the usual twenties career path. But being in a place where I could make mistakes without hurting anyone I loved, or just simply vent my emotions by stretching out my arms and screaming down a hill, got me through a very difficult time- a time when a lot of other people in their twenties were struggling to get jobs and feeling dispossessed.

Who, or what, I have to wonder, would I have turned into if I hadn't had that ski season brain belch on the tube back in 2009? If Shazzer hadn't urged me to do it, in her inimitable way. What kind of a 30 year old would I have been? Would I have written a book?

I doubt it. Despite all the detractors when I made my decision to be a serial snow-bum, I firmly believe ski seasons were the making of me.

Here are just a few pearls of great wisdom I would never have learned, but for ski seasons:

30-minute roast lamb (shove in baking tray, set oven to 'self clean')
How to ski in the dark, pissed or stoned.
The key to success in life is not getting an easy ride.
People despise weaklings and quitters.
There's no sadness fresh air, blue skies and adrenaline cannot mend.
If you 'can't do it' because you're too lazy / feeble, there are ten other people queuing to take your place.
You can make a positive out of all negatives.
Never drink a glass of cold water after eating Raclette.
In all probability you are cleverer, more capable, more attractive and tougher than you think.
Genepi tastes like toilet duck
Every ending is a new beginning
Most people in positions of power are there because they excel at talking out of their arses.
Don't put up with any shit. From anyone.
If you've never conquered the back flip, don't start trying at 25
Some people are friends by proximity, others because they define you.
DIN settings are v important
Everyone has some major malfunction or other.
Never mistake the love of your life for a student-layabout-shag-pal


...Right, that's enough philosophizing for one idle afternoon. I've made myself feel slightly sick. Do feel free to take everything I say above with a generous pique of salt. I fully intend to spend the next two days partying, taking uppers and downers and skiing shitfaced, like any self-respecting seasonnaire current or otherwise.

If you fancy joining me, do. I'll see you at The Folie. We'll be the ones with eyes like saucepan lids and skis like canoes.



x

Monday, 16 December 2013

The blog is now a book!

Belle de Neige is now available on Kindle and in paperback!

"Belle writes an adult tale of the highs, lows and realities of a first year as a Chalet girl. I have followed her online blog for years, this book has among the chapters familiar tales to other readers of the blog, but expanded and with some additional details of life on the other side of the counter. There are new chapters expanding the world with Belle's trademark humour. (Well written, so she did something useful with that degree after all). Tinged with sadness over the loss of her friend, she dives headfirst (usually) into the world of the ski resort. I was in equal measure; fascinated, amused and horrified at the stories that unfold, but reminded of my first ever stay in a ski chalet...Well done Belle, now get writing the next installment, please." 

Paul JR, Blog fan.

Wednesday, 4 December 2013

Essential Seasonnaire Lingo: Part 2

Now that many of you (bastards) have arrived in your respective resorts and are prancing around, full of yourselves, taking revolting pictures of each other doing snow angels and wearing bobble hats, and posting snaps of the view from your 'office' and your 'commute'...I feel it my duty to say this.....



Fuck you!

May you be sucked down into the black hole, abyss of training week and spat out straight into a double-booking of Russian, vegetarian guests. May you drink too many Jager  Bombs and decide to toboggan home on your arse, resulting in severe freeze burn. May your guests shed enough pubic hair for you to weave a coat out of!

Right. I feel better now. Marginally.

...A few posts ago I promised you a continuation of my glossary of useful, nay, essential seasonnaire lingo. Not that you deserve it....but here it is....

Jager Hand Grenade – A Jager Mega Drive with an added shot of Sambuca. Prop the Sambuca and Jager shots up against each other on top of the glass. Pull the pin and down it. What to drink if Jager Mega Drives aren’t working.

Seasonnaire Nightmare – A concoction designed specifically to hospitalise the drinker, usually bought for you on your birthday. A pint glass filled with a measure of pretty much every drink in the bar, plus bodily fluids if your friends are real cunts. If you’re unlucky enough ever to be bought one, down it. There’s no point prolonging the agony. Your fate is already sealed.



Gnar – An abbreviation of the word ‘gnarly’, which is in turn a bastardisation of the word ‘gnarled.’ Meaning: Extreme balls-out danger. For more detailed explanation see the film, G.N.A.R. (A must-see for any self-respecting seasonnaire.)

Steezy РThe art of doing something remarkable, breathtaking and astonishing while looking nonchalant, casual, blas̩, laid back and cool. Stylish, yet easy. This concept has spawned a whole fashion trend.


Shred – To tear the whole mountain to pieces with your skis or board.

Core shot – When you ride over a rock and it scrapes to the core of your ski or board. Result: a write-off.

Huck – To hurl oneself off something without much thought for the consequences or landing protocol.


Hoon – To straight-line down the piste, without turning or swerving to avoid other skiers, children or animals, at a ridiculous, unreasonable and gut-emptying speed. Every run is a race.

Kicker – A large, terrifying man-made launch-pad designed to ‘kick’ you into the air. The landing is your problem.

Timmy –  You will find large numbers of these on the slopes. For a clear explanation, please refer to the TV phenomenon ‘South Park’.

Base grind, edge wax and tune – What your average ski rental shop will do to your skis or board if you’re not careful. Learn how to service your own.

Jib – Fart around doing tricks on the piste and getting in people’s way.

Jellyfish – A high-speed crash where the victim is knocked unconscious and therefore flops down the rest of the incline like a wet invertebrate tossed down a child’s slide. Not ideal.


Yard sale – A high-speed crash where the victim is forcibly relieved of all their accessories. Under usual circumstances, this will include skis, goggles, hat, gloves, poles, and dignity being scattered to the wind in the manner of a front yard auction. Most unfortunate if it happens in deep snow. A full yard sale for a snowboarder would probably result in missing limbs too since snowboard bindings have a pretty serious DIN setting.

Tomahawk – A high-speed crash where the victim is catapulted into a down-hill cartwheel. Can be exceedingly difficult to stop if you’re going fast enough. Extremely amusing to watch.



Attention! Further important instructional information below...

How to do Jager Bombs....proper like....



...and here's some other shit skiers say

Saturday, 23 November 2013

Belle de Neige: The Book

So... I don't know if I mentioned it, but I've written a book.... oh I have mentioned it. Well give me a fucking break. If you'd written a book you probably wouldn't stop wanking on about it either! It takes aaaaages and it's really hard work!

Anyway, the book is going to be out on Kindle and in paperback form very, very soon, so watch this space. Until then, here's a box fresh sneak peek in the way of a wee excerpt....


Belle de Neige?


P44: Spread Eagle in the Hidden Valley

“Where are you?”

“…I’m here…”

“…where’s here?”

“I don’t fucking know, where are you?”

I can hear him mutter something vehement and unintelligible.

“Can you see me?”

“No, but….I’m above you, I think.”

“Can you get up?”

“Yes”

Ooofff.

“No.”

“Ah….bollocks…”

“Um…. Hold on….it’s ok. Just…. give me a minute.”

            I am indeed trying to get up but the tree I’ve just had an altercation with has other ideas. It’s small, not even my height, and prickly with cones. It seems to have enveloped me into its branches in an embrace of Satan. My skis are either side of it, my arse is in the snow and my ski poles are underneath me. Cold fingers are creeping over the waistband of my ski pants most horribly. My goggles are steamed to blindness and the snow is so deep that every time I try to lever myself upright my arms simply sink in up to the elbow. I don’t know where I am, or where he is or the piste for that matter. I would very much like to get out of this. Now please. I’d like to just click my fingers and just be magically out of it and back on the piste. But that is not going to happen. Many people would fall into a panic in this situation. But not I. No... It’s true. I am that cartoon ski person who’s spread eagled a tree. But don’t panic.

I’m only thankful Skater Boy can’t actually see me.

“Gonna have to clip out,” I inform him. Best to keep him in the loop. I hear no reply to this, but the puff of smoke I can see snaking up from behind the drop to the south of me tells me that Skater Boy has hit upon this handy break in proceedings as an excellent opportunity for a blaze.
            In all absolute honesty, I am way out of my depth. At some point, during a perfectly straight forward afternoon’s skiing, he pulled up at the side of a narrow path taking us comfortably down to a bubble lift and peered over the edge of the area between the two pistes at the feathery dunes of fresh powder below. I too squinted down and took in, with mixed emotions, thick, fresh inviting snow decorated liberally with trees, the odd boulder, and the track marks of other idiots who’d thought this was a sensible short cut on a low visibility, high avalanche-risk day. Personally, I was surprised it wasn’t littered with frozen corpses but Skater Boy simply shrugged and said:
“Looks alright to me. Dropping in…” before launching himself over the edge into fresh tracks. This was half an hour ago. Since then each of my skis has deserted me at least once, the first time it took twenty minutes of digging to find because it had somehow got buried vertically. You try finding a white ski tip with the visible surface area of a pencil in a blind, white, three dimensional search area, somewhere inside a tree run, where you can’t even see your hand in front of your face. It would have been a tall order for a professional search and rescue team, let alone someone suffering from disorientation, paranoia and a severe case of the munchies.
The tree run was a lot steeper after we got past the initial gentle entry point and required extremely fast thinking. It was a seemingly endless series of tight, winding turns through this admittedly breathtaking glade laden with snow, dodging branches and making split second directional decisions. Very technical and quite literally terrifying. It was only a matter of time until I made a serious misjudgment.
“You alright bird?” some moments later I hear his voice again. I’m panting a lot, and swearing, trying to get myself upright, get this fucking tree out of my face and my skis back on. He can probably hear all of this.
“Yes, uh, fine. Coming…”      
            Actually I’m knackered and not a little bit humiliated. It’s my own fault for trying to look like a big, clever girl in front of him. The man is a fine skier. In fact, I think he’s possibly sexier on skis than off. He spends most of his time looking for large precipices to fling himself from, usually stoned off his tits. All wrong for me. I am exceedingly earth bound. His inappropriateness for me has been increasingly apparent, thus I have been trying to wean off him, and failing, since the chewing-gum-in-arse-crack incident.
Waking up each morning in the tiny apartment of this absurd, stoned, grubby mountain-bum is like coming round and finding you’ve been handcuffed to a Tasmanian devil, particularly when there is blue sky and powder snow around, when he will dance round chattering and searching for his essential paraphernalia – ski socks, one-piece, t-shirt, 80s headband, goggles, Rizlas, baccie, weed and mobile phone. These are usually either in a crusty heap, underneath something Scruffy-but-Handsome owns, or wedged down the side of the bed, covered in the ash he flicked there the previous evening. He can veer from quiet contemplation to possessed gremlin in a flash. One moment nursing your sore shins with arnica and soothing words, the next prancing round the room holding his nuts in a 'brain' shape, or bursting into the bathroom, leaping on you and pretending to rut you before pulling his pants down, tucking his testicles between his legs and demonstrating what he proudly announces is called 'The No-hander Man-gina Fruit Bowl'. There is no escaping the party. It bounces in the door and comes to you.


....want to read more? Watch this space for more excerpts and the book launch coming very soon!

Belle

x

Friday, 22 November 2013

First season: The Truth behind the Lies!

So basically, Whitelines asked me to do an article for them, and being a lazy bitch I couldn't be arsed to write two seperate blog posts...

So this is all you're getting this week darlings...enjoy



Tuesday, 12 November 2013

How Not to Run a Chalet

I have recently received somewhat of an ear bashing from various quarters (uptight, grumble fairies suffering from a chronic sense of humour failure, if you’re asking) about certain elements of the somewhat questionable advice that I frequently dispense herein. 

I have a hunch one or two of the above mentioned work for tour operators and therefore I’m probably not at the top of their lists of ‘favourite people’ anyway, but still. Sidestepping the many petty quibbles we could get into over the fact that some of these tit gypsies are willfully missing the point of most of what I say, I thought that in fact it was probably about time I used my popularity for a good cause.

By that I mean stop simply telling people to drink their own urine and sprinkle their pubes in people’s ski gloves and provide some useful information that a newbie seasonnaire may take with them on a season, to avoid getting fired / alcoholism / fatal injury / genital warts.



The other day, a very nice lady from Alps2Alps, with a sexy name, invited me to do a guest post on Ski Accommodation Finder to offer some helpful advice the common-or-garden innocent holiday-going punter this coming season of ski-ness. This was a request to which I gladly acquiesced in the most flippant way I could think of. Here, you can read it: How to Have the Worst Ski Holiday of Your Life.

In return, the lady with the sexy name sent me what follows; A narration of a rather irksome-sounding chalet holiday. Most of what the writer experienced is pretty standard stuff and this did much to back up my frequent claim that your average ski holiday is nothing more than a glitter-garnished-pile-of-faeces.

Anyway, I thought this was all rather apt and might act as a poetic counterpoint to most of the other ramblings on here, which generally vilify the hapless punter.

Suffice to say, whoever this Chalet Bitch was, they were taking the chronic piss…

[Alps2Alps, by the way, in case you didn't know is the 'affordable airport transfer provider for all your ski transfer needs.' In other words, call these guys if you don't fancy being driven up the mountain this winter by a half-cut 19-year-old in a clapped out minibus with no wing mirrors...] 

How Not to Run a Chalet



If, like me, you thought that resorts like Megeve were these days finally free from dodgy dwelling and awful apartment owners, allow me to educate you. 
Not even close!

I recently returned from a pre-season break to what’s become my favourite haunt and to be perfectly frank couldn't wait to share my experience…for all the wrongest of reasons. In the five days I resided in a chalet block I shall not name for fear of being strung up before the courts. I experienced what I’d consider a ‘Chalet Management 101’ guide as to how NOT to run an establishment. 
It even got to such a point that I couldn't even begin to remember each and every horror of the days and nights, so I took to taking notes. That’s the first time I’ve ever compiled a fact-file of how hideous a stay in the Alps has been and hope to God it turns out to be the last. 

There aren’t enough pages on this whole site to go into full detail, but just to illustrate the point, here’s a brief look at a few of my personal favourites:

AWOL on Arrival
Ah, there’s nothing like turning up after a delayed flight only to find your ‘helpful’ chalet managed has already buggered off for the day with your keys. Cue a three-hour ordeal of phone calls, taxi rides and plenty of swearing before finally getting the things…only to be made to feel it was your fault! 

Personality Transplant
The above was just the first instance in which it seemed our plucky host has undergone a personality-ectomy. A frown that could ruin any Christmas, body odor strong enough to melt the ice caps and a tendency to only ever grunt a response while clearly too busy on Facebook. 

AWOL on Breakfast
Why bother paying for breakfast if the bloke that’s supposed to put it out doesn’t bother showing up? His excuse was that he was told nobody had paid for breakfast…interesting seeing as he checked up on and confirmed breakfast times just the night before. The downward spiral went on. 



Brits Abroad
Who in God’s name puts a five-room stag party of blokes from Birmingham above a family with two young kids? That’s right – our heroically incompetent chalet owner…sleepless nights a-plenty and I think my youngest picked up a few swear words for free. Marvelous! 

Hygiene Horrors


I won’t get too graphic in case you’re eating, but it seems there was still a good 15% of the prior guests still present in the room in the form of body hair and stainage. Seriously, you could clone a whole family from the DNA left behind…yuck!

Local Knowledge? What’s That Then?
I only asked one question and that was enough to know he wasn’t going to give us any help at all. I needed to know where the nearest shop was, he said he hadn’t a clue and didn’t know if there was one…it was three doors down on the same side of the street. I gave up. Waste of time. 

Twice Your Pain, Twice the Price
And finally, just to add insult to injury and round it all off in style, we got home to find we’d been charged TWICE for our delightful stay. This then resulted in a four-day campaign of trying to convince the chalet owner we weren’t taking them for a ride and demanding a refund. 

We’ve been told we will get one…and it might even be with us before the New Year. 


...Now, I must say in closing that it is, in fact, more than likely that someone you work alongside this season will get a complaints letter that looks an awful lot like the above. You could take this post as something of a cautionary tale. On the other hand, if you take nothing else away from this than a list of ‘possible ways to make your job easier’ that’s fine. But chalet bitches, may I refer you to rule number 18 in the Seasonnaire’s Survival Guide. Take Heed:


Photo sources: feepourvous.com - flickr.com/photos/darkdwarf - flickr.com/photos/marcokalmann

Wednesday, 6 November 2013

Newbie Seasonnaires: Stuff you might not know you'll need

In my travels around the webosphere this week, I see and hear a lot from the newbie seasonnaire who is unsure what to pack / take with them on their first foray into the alpine underbelly.

Bridget Jones' Cunt

Ahhh, my dear newbie seasonnaires, allow me to assist. The fact that you are asking these questions is good. You have foresight. You will do well. I have foreseen it!

The next 6 months is your big chance. If you do this right, you're in for a treat...


Stuff you might not know you'll need:


  • A 4 plug strip socket with at least 2 metres of cable - believe me, you will thank me.
  • A multitool - in case you drunkenly destroy anything in your accommodation and need to fix it.
  • Some extra cash for the avalanche training and beeps you will inevitably want once you get a sniff of going off piste with your insane room mate.
  • Some really loud speakers for accommodation rave ups


  • A shit load of condoms
  • Bondage tape (my personal preference, but you never know who'll you'll want to tie up and spank)
  • Yorkshire teabags (if you value tea as much as I do. The French / Austrians / Swiss do not understand these things)




  • Branston pickle (same reason)
  • Download a shit load of films in case (in the highly likely event) you can't get wifi in your accommodation
  • Hide my Ass VPN - so you can watch BBC stuff on your laptop while hibernating under your duvet on a hangover / whiteout day.
  • Spirits - If you're in France this is particularly important as the only decent shot they have is that revolting shite Genepi which tastes like your Granny's perfume.. Seriously it's the most foul tasting thing you'll ever experience. Also, booze is expensive in ski resorts so it's good to have a stash.
  • A hip flask. Always a good bonding strategy with new chums on a chairlift.
  • Head torch - for lights-out-cunnilingus

So hot right now

  • Fancy dress - I'd suggest a Gorilla costume or something similar. Otherwise you'll end up having to go to every themed seasonnaire evening as some kind of tin-foil-cardboard fuck up. Don't buy a Kigu they are so 5 seasons ago.
  • A full course of antibiotics
  • Swimming stuff ( in case you start shagging someone who works in a private chalet...although come to think of it you probably won't need the swimmers in that case)
  • Flip flops - a must for end of season sun
  • A jacket and a pair of gloves that you don't mind getting covered in shite (stacking wood / partying)
  • Waxing and edging tools - will save you money / buy you street cred (might even earn you some cash if you do your friends' skis)


Stuff you might not know you won't need (are you confused? I am.)


  • Half the clothes you've packed
  • Anything fancy
  • Ugg boots, trainers, ballet flats or doc martins - firstly because you don't want to look like a cunt, secondly because they are totally useless.


Get a pair of these:




Oh yes. Also ....leave behind any ski equipment you bought prior to being a seasonnaire. Remember that Spyder ski jacket and blades you bought? Yeah. They're not cool, I'm afraid. Steeze yourself out.

Also, watch this film

Pay heed to this

...and some words of advice....

Say yes to everything, see everyone as a potential buddy, don't stay in, go out... shag wherever possible... don't whinge....do your job properly...and for Christ's sake...SKI (or snowboard)! Even if you've had 1/2 an hour's sleep and worked a six hour shift and you can only fit an hour in...SKI! Don't be a pussy.

There, consider yourself initiated.

Friday, 25 October 2013

Ski Helmets: How to look like a non-twat


16 October 2013 08:58
Belle I love you! 
Can you do another little post on ski fashion? This may sound really stupid or superficial, but are there any types of ski helmets that are just plain lame? I'm going out for my first season and want to try not to look like a giant nerd with a HUGE helmet. Merci beaucoup.
Anonymous

Sigh...Now that I reside in the stinky smoke, I cycle to work. The tube, as you will know from reading previous posts, makes me want to press hot coals into my eyeballs. It's nice to hop onto two wheels and cruise around, (niftily avoiding being crushed to death by errant bus drivers and cunts in Porches). In fact, I think it's the closest feeling to skiing you can find without snow. My ride takes me through Hyde Park where it has recently become the season of mist and mellow fruitfulness. I get that buzz of approaching-season-excitement. Then I realise - fuck - I appear to have signed up to stay in this shit hole for the entire winter. That rather takes the shine off the Autumn splendiferousness. So today, I am going to console myself with a rant about ski helmets and I have a handy segway, here, in the guise of the ski helmet's geeky cousin. The cycle helmet.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that it is in fact impossible to look good in a cycle helmet. Even Wiggo can't manage it and lord knows that man's got a cool yellow lid and some sinewy sex appeal, (particularly if you're into tall, gangly, Richard E Grant types, which I am.)


Ski helmets on the other hand, are fucking awesomely cool. And therefore, there is no excuse to go out on the slopes looking like a complete goon and / or as if you're about to be fired out of a cannon:


You may not realise it, but it is in fact possible for everyone, yes everyone, to look good in a ski helmet.This is an opportunity open to all mankind. All it requires is a bit of thought and an iota of taste and self respect. 

By way of help, let me just give you some very basic guidelines here.


Not Cool:
Only the very biggest cunts go about on the slopes wearing something like this. Usually in groups with another dickhead sporting one of those novelty raccoon tails off the back of their helmet that makes them look like they are being squeezed out of a rodents' arse. Their friends also wear those ridiculous spiky hats with bells on. Sad. So very sad. It screams desperation. You may as well tow a flag behind you that reads: "I’m a soporific dullard trying very hard to make myself look madcap!" Don’t do it. Just no. Not only that, but novelty headgear is also likely to be cheap. And this is not going to help you when you skid on some ice and your head smacks into a rock. And to add insult to injury you’re going to look like a priapic dolt.


Not Cool:

The set up itself is not bad, but watch it with this look. Unless you can pull some pretty impressive rail tricks in an urban setting, wearing a hat underneath your helmet can just make you look like you are trying a) much too hard b) to imitate a policeman c) to audition for the changing of the guard. Really and truly, there is no good, practical reason not to just use a buff instead of cramming your hat under there. It makes your head look three feet tall and it's not a good look unless you're skiing in Norway in January, in which case you're excused.

Anti Matter

  

These helmets fill me with an overwhelming sense of despair and apathy. Not only because they exist, in the first place, but that there are miserable, dribbling, cretinous lumps of flesh out there who have so little self-respect as to wear them. They reek of tepid, indifference to life and anything invested with any kind of joy or style. They are a black hole of credibility. Mostly sported by the dumpy, the guileless, the harassed frumpy Nanny from New Zealand and your Mum. Steer clear.


Vents are not cool.


 

What are all these vents for? Yes you need a couple…but…but…I don't understand! 
Such headgear is never acceptable unless you are going to a Tron-themed revival party in the Alps.

Actually, now you mention it that's not a bad idea.


Definitely No: 


Weird futuristic, flame-shaped motifs – this is not the sixties and you are not Buck Rogers. We get it…you’re so fucking speedy you might burst into flames at any second. Also, avoid anything shiny unless you are actually called Hugo Zacchini, in which case, fill your boots, irony is the only thing that’s going to get you through life.


No Bling. 
 

What the fuck are you doing? You're not James Fucking Bond. And he couldn't ski anyway and had a shit set up! This is very important. No black (particularly if the rest of your clobber is also black) and no matchy-matchy.

Now, a rule of thumb. Make sure the fucking helmet is the right size. Not too big. Not too small. Take your your goggles with you to the shop when you buy it so that you don't end up with a bare-naked spam like this guy:


Two words: Head. Freeze.

Cool:


 Choosing the right gear can be difficult difficult lemon difficult, so I have designated these helmets cool to give you a helping hand. Take note. And if you're crap at choosing stuff then I recommend heading for a fine establishment like The Boot Lab - a lovely, little boutique ski store where some very talented free skiers have curated some of the trendiest kit out there for you already. 

Now this.... could be the ultimate in cool:


As you can see, this geezer is so cool that he's actually breaking quite a few of the rules  here. Dodgy florid patterns, a peak...and it's the same shape as the horrific one with the green mohawk. He's carrying it off though, and that's mostly because he's fucking awesome. He probably needs this getup because he spends his days doing back flips off the Matterhorn. A warning to everybody else....you should not attempt a peak or anything remotely racy or free-ride-esque unless you've got the skills / balls / cred / insanity to back it up, which, if you're a newbie, you probably don't.

Of course… there’s no point having a cool ski helmet if you wear it with sunglasses like this tit:


…Or if you have purchased some atrocious goggles…like these:

My uncle owns a pair of these. The shame.

…but goggles are a whole 'nother kettle of worms for a whole 'nother day.


A spy you are, James. An expert on ski fashion you are not.

Next: Jeans - how to look like a non-twat part 2.