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

Belle de Neige

Sunday, 31 January 2010

A note to those who asked...

I've been asked how to subscribe to this blog and receive email notifications of new posts... if you scroll to the bottom of the page you should see a link to 'subscribe' to the blog. Sign up to that and you'll get notified of new updates.

Hope that helps darlings - thanks for following!

x

More sex than I know what to do with...

In last 24 hours I have:

Driven to Lyon and back. Oh the horrors of the airport transfer. The grumpy passengers, wanted the heat on so high it would send Taylor Durden to sleep. No matter how many z's I have as soon as I hit that motorway the eyes start to go. The soporific effect of the glare from the road and/or the lights coming at you in thick fog. Everything becomes dreamlike, as if you're in a computer game - with that horrible knowledge that you have at least 2 more hours of battling to keep yourself conscious before you're even at the foot of the mountain. I did actually pass out a little bit at the wheel the other week. But don't panic campers, I have stocked the minibus with red bull for next time. So far, I've hit the curb, backed into a chalet roof, skidded almost into a parked car and had the wing mirror nearly ripped off by some dildo who didn't see me in his blind spot. All with passengers in. Tops.


Had a lot of sex by the fire in a 15 million EURO chalet.
Well...there are no clients in this week, you see. So it would have been, not rude, but absolutely fucking scandalous not to invite SbH round and, in his words, "have more sex than I even know what to do with!" So I lit the fire, cracked open a bottle, made up one of the double beds and we got cosy. Yep - alpine winter wonderland hide away. 3 orgasms later, who says there are no perks to this job? Tick!

Cleaned about 4000 toilets. I really am quite bored of toilet cleaning now.

Had a bit of a moment. I couldn't ski today. Which is a massive arsefuck because it's a bluebird day. Fresh powder is straining the branches of the trees, candyfloss clouds littering a brilliant toothpaste-blue sky. I sat on the windowsill smoking and drinking tea just staring at the mountains, intricate, tree-laced. A huge Vienetta ice cream. When it's cloudy here, it's as if everything is a black and white photo of itself - and on a day like today it reminds me of Dorothy landing in Oz. The colours are just suddenly more beautiful than you can describe. And that was enough to make me smile. Sitting in the window with the sun on my face.

A demain.

Friday, 29 January 2010

Smells

Ski hours: Not enough. Been a bit foggy and am a fair weather skier these days.

Celebs spotted: Beesley is still wafting around. H is practically stalking him. But most random of all - we spotted Rick Astley the other night in a club ....and Brandon Block was on the decks. I doubt these two events are unrelated. Perhaps they are buds. Roughly the same era aren't they? Anyway, Astley was having it. Cutting some serious chunks. He was actually pole dancing at one point. How random is that? Kids born after 1988 (this sadly includes SbH).... I'm talking about this geezer....


Today I'd like to complain about ...

Smells. I think this revolting phenomenon has just overtaken hair and/or the Cupboard of Dispair in my top areas of chalet girl loathing.

One thing I never expected from this job, is that, like a dog, you get to know your clients intimately by scent. Being nostril raped on a daily basis by people you barely know scores fairly low on my chart of desirable activities to be honest. I'm not talking sweat or BO....I'm talking the very individual and personal smell that each of us has. Some of us like to mask it with fragrances, the Linx effect etc. Some of us keep it real. Horribly, horribly real.

Now it's true, many ladies and gents have an incredibly sexy personal smell...(FYI SbH smells excellent. And that's sans aftershave.) Some people fucking stink. Their smells linger in the bathroom and hit you like a cricket bat to the face when you walk in innocently clutching your windowlean and bleach. The smells hang, damply in the air.

One Brazilian guy last week had this nutty, sweet, dusty scent which was interlaced with something else which took me several days to pinpoint. But I finally realised could only be... sweaty ballsack. It literally made me retch. I had to wear a Mickie J style cloth over my nose and mouth when I was cleaning his room. And I got a waft of him once when I was serving dinner and had to retire to a safe distance and recompose myself for fear of throwing up. They say smell is linked strongly to memory. Well that smell will follow me to my grave. If he's in the same room as me randomly in ten years time, I'll know it. And probably throw up. I have no idea how his wife handles it.

Shudder....

Wednesday, 27 January 2010

Some musings on our clients....

There's only two things in life I hate. People who don't tolerate other people's cultures. And Belgians.

No, seriously. I'm sorry to come over all, well, racist, but it has got to be admitted there are some serious native character traits shining through here - some of them unexpected.

Our first clients were Belgians: Fucking wierd. When Mike Myers decided Dr Evil should be from Bruges I can confirm there was a good reason for it. One particular specimen asked L if she would crawl around the dinner table with a Mont D'Or cheese on her back. He thought that was amusing. 'How bout nooooo....? You crazy Belgian bastard'.


A ce moment, we have some Brazilians: The hairiest, messiest and loudest family on earth for sure. They are charming enough socially, however I refuse to believe you can shed that much hair without being a warewolf. I also refuse to believe that you can accidentally stick dental floss to the wall, tread an entire packet of cream crackers into the 4 metres of carpet and not notice, leave poo on the floor of the shower, or allow your teenaged son to puke on the carpet and not even mention it let alone apologise. I refuse to believe you can leave skid marks of that magnitude without suffering one iota of shame or self-loathing. I refuse to believe you can do any of the above without being some sort of cunt.

Monday, 25 January 2010

Scruffy-but-Handsome

BdN has found contentment people. Oh the joy of finding a regular shag pal who doesn't have any ishoos. Things are onto a good rolling boil with Scruffy-but-Handsome. The boy is so laid back he's practically horizontal. Well, he's horizontal quite a lot of the time when I'm around, actually.

His musings are enough to keep any lady entertained for hours...and this is just conversational foreplay. Today after spotting an article about Heather Mills doing that Strictly-Cum-Ice-Twats... or what ever it's called.....he started off on a ten minute rambling stream of consciousness about how if he lost a limb - say an arm - he'd get every possible kind of attachment made for his stump so he was prepped for every occasion. A beer holding attachment, a beer holding while page turning attachment, a hoover arm, a screw in vibrator, a wank attachment, a foot-hand (so he could walk on all threes).... there were lots more.... but I got distracted by him nibbling my ear....

The chance of a good tumble a couple of times a week puts a huge juicy cherry on top of the delectable, creamy chocolate sundae of this little adventure. Yes, you can tell I got laid today can't you? It's fabulous if for no other reason than being able to say, when asked, (in a French, Audrey Tautou style accent) 'Eeeee is not my boyfwend....eeee is my loveur....'

So, here's the thing. It's all very nice having a lover, in theory. But since the major problem for the accommodation-poor seasonaire is privacy, one has to plan, engineer and manufacture situations where one gets the apartment to oneself and the boy. Failing that, one has to shag in all sorts of random places. To this end, SbH and I have come up with a hitlist - AKA the Fuckit list. Destinations of choice include:

Our respective chalets (when we've got no clients in, obviously)
All our roommates' beds. H's and Skater Boy's are already ticked off, much to their chagrin.
The Shelf - This is SbH's bed. A bunk bed which is essentially a plank jutting out from the wall about a foot from the ceiling. Not much maneuverability, or headspace. We will both need to wear helmets.
Off Piste - needs some research, risk of avalanche.
The Chalet Minibus - will have to be in the dead of night, or may get caught/fired/both.
The boss's car - uber risky but uber satisfying.
In the Bubble - a helpful friend yesterday pointed out as we were going up the bubble lift, skis in hand, that 'this particular lift takes 14 minutes'....hmmmn. Interesting.
Chair Lift - I'm a bit dubious but SbH reckons it's doable. Risk of body parts sticking to metal a la Dumb and Dumber....

I'll keep you informed on progress. And I will leave you, my darlings, with this little nugget of hope. I believe that this week I have proved you can actually have your cake and eat it!

A demain....

Sunday, 24 January 2010

Pet hates..... one has many....

Continuing on a theme....I would like to now voice my Chalet Girl pet hates. Au jour d'hui was not a happy experience dans la chalet.... basically if we had a bunch of farmyard animals living with us it would be a less chaotic experience! Pigs I tell you. Pigs!

There are many things which conspire to irk the chalet girl. He are a few of my favourites...

The Cupboard Of DESPAIR
This is essentially a melange of shite. A dumping ground for everything we don't know what to do with. I'm talking bottles, bags, hoovers, mops, cans of drink, dirty laundry, general goip. You can't find anyfuckingthing in it. It's an under-stair cupboard, so you can't walk into it - only lean, precariously and painfully whilst clinging to the door frame, while you rifle through all the crap and become more and more enraged and emotionally scarred by the experience.

There's only one place on earth that's ever been more depressing than this cupboard. And that's Auschwitz. L has laid in it, completely flat on her stomach to try to reach some coke cans at the back, flailing around with the hoover head sticking into her groin and her face in a plastic bag - it was at this moment she said she had a moment of 'what the fuck am I doing? I'm a law student!!' clarity.

Cunts
Chalet girls do a lot of shopping. Therefore another pet hate is clients standing in your way when you're carrying enormous bags of either laundry or food into or out of the building. Both men and women (and children are the worst) have an unbelievable habit of ambling in front of you when you are clearly staggering under a heavy load. They then grind to an oblivious, gormless halt. Because obviously them standing with their fat arse in the doorway is much more important than you not breaking your back with your shopping bag full of cheese. Cheese which, no doubt, they will later stuff their faces with at dinner, rendering their arse even fatter and more difficult to get past next time. Fucking move. I'm not standing here like a frickin manikin you cunt.

Toilet brushes. Just generally pretty unacceptable.

Piss under the toilet. How they manage to do it is beyond me. I can't figure it out.

Vomit
Today I found what can only be described as black goo, on the carpet by the bed in one of the rooms inhabited by a particularly snotty teenager. Innocently and perhaps naively I dipped my finger in it and had a whiff, thinking it was chocolate milk spilt by some charming, yet clumsy child. Alas. It was chunder. Teenage-boy-I've-drunk-too-much-jaeger-or-some-other-disgusting-shit chunder. It was the consistency of tar.I wouldn't mind but said teenager lay on the bed and watched me scrubbing it out of the carpet without so much as an embarrassed flinch. His mother didn't apologise either.

Don't worry. Their toothbrushes have already been defiled.


Rich yet tight clients
May I just relay this conversation between my colleagues/flat mates L and H. L was so excited by some information she had just found out she started shrieking at H, who was in the shower. Open the bathroom door! You must hear this immediately!!

L: OMIGOD. I just found out Client X was worth 428 million!!! Can you believe that? 428 MILLION!
H: ........and he left us that tip?! Fucking cheapskate.

A demain

Friday, 22 January 2010

How to be a Seasonaire - the definitive guide

I'm not gonna lie, being here is basically like being on a five month holiday where instead of paying for shit your just have to clean skid marks of a few toilets. There are some rules to follow though. And here I attempt to boil them down into an essential guide:

Seasonaires must always:

1. Wear a (preferably neon colourful) knitted hat with obligatory huge pom pom at ALL times. Whether out riding, hanging out in the bar or cleaning aforementioned toillettes....possibly sometimes while sleeping.

2. Have 'chalet hands' - these are essentially fooked, with cracks, chapped skin, scabs and perpetually dirty nails. They should ideally always smell of onions.

3. Use window cleaner and tissues to clean absolutely everything. It's all about the corner cutting people and that shit shines everything up lovely.

4. Use words such as 'Sick', 'Badass' and 'Righteous' to describe ski gear, without any hint of irony or embarrassment.

5. Smoke like a bonfire but never ever have a lighter. Or cigarettes.

6. Wear the most clashing combination neon colours you can find, preferably baggy ski pants and goggles. Never sunglasses. 'Punterish' gear - anything by Spider, for example or anything with fur or that is (snow preserve us) shiny is basically social suicide.

7. Never ever use blades. Just not done kiddies. You look like a cunt.

8. Bed hop without shame or remorse.

9. Be from Cornwall, Devon or Manchester. Preferably.

10. Understand and ultimately submit to the truth of the ultimate evolutionary domination of skiers over boarders. It's about self propulsion, shoppers. Poles. The number of times I've seen some helpless creature who's sellotaped themselves to a snow board flailing away on the flat trying desperately to get to a downwards slope. And ending up looking like a twat because they have to ask their skiing companions to tow them with a pole. Survival of the best adapted. That's all I'm saying. Get some poles kiddies. Get some poles.

A demain.

Wednesday, 20 January 2010

Hair

Hair. I'd like to talk about it. The amount some people shed is both intolerable and fascinating. Hairs are like toenail clippings and grandparents. You don't mind your own but other people's are revolting and you don't want them anywhere near you and especially not your food. Some marriages are made in heaven. Smoked salmon and avocado, for example. Strawberries and cream. Chas and Dave. Others are not. Rum and raisin. A hellish idea. Charles and Diana. Hair and food. Wong dot com.

For the above reasons, clearing up after children in a chalet is a dream come true as the little darlings haven't yet sprouted. They do leave the most appalling skid marks though.

However adults are another story. They seem to spend their entire time either shedding like a mangey St Bernard or harvesting crops of body hairs from god knows where. If you're not scraping a film of minute, freshly cropped sproutings from the side of the bath, or untangling long slimy hairs interlaced with goo, secretions and excretions from the plug hole, you're sweeping heaps of unidentified strands from the bathroom floor. Either the nanny staying in our chalet has alopecia or extremely long pubes. I could stuff a mattress with it. Seriously.

So next time you're staying in a hotel / chalet / catered accomodation, spare a thought for the poor mite scrabbling around on her hands and knees in your bathroom in the morning, collecting together your deposits.

I might start some kind of museum.

...à bientôt

Tuesday, 19 January 2010

Ooooops!

Last night it appears I was hammered enough to think it a fabulous idea to go to a club...a notorious den of iniquity in the ski resort. A club so expensive it actually makes your wallet bleed.

For a warm glass (glass! not pint) of Heineken, I paid 9 Euros (yes, shoppers, that's NINE). The fuckers couldn't even be arsed to refrigerate it. And that's with a seasonaire's discount. If you punters fancied a warm beer there you could add another 10 Euros onto that figure.

However, as ridiculous as it sounds that is not what the oooops is for.

Question: Is it ever alright to shag someone... and therefore spend some time in his room thereby getting to know his cute room mate...then decide the room mate is a far superior gent and end up getting intimate with said room mate in the original conquest's bed? Obviously not all on the same night.

Hmm. Oooops.

Well, this is what I may have done with Skater Boy's room mate, who we shall call Scruffy-but-Handsome for the sake of argument. I couldn't resist. He is cute as a button. Unfortunately Skater Boy interrupted our liaison before it really took off by coming home with irksome blonde 19-year-old in tow.

Since my birthday Skater Boy, as beguiling as he is (great aftershave) seems to have only room in his head for skiing and spliffs. And occasionally said intensely irritating blonde 19-year-old who dearest H says looks like a cross between a Bunny Rabbit and Malibu Barbie. Consequently conversation has become rather stilted, and since the spliffs hinder his...erm.... well.... he's just not much use to any excitable lady really.

Scruffy-but-Handsome is far too young for me, but has mussy hair, twinkly eyes and laughs at my jokes. Especially the ones no one else gets. He also knows about the laws of physics, invented the 'space facial' (gravity-free cum shot), came up with the superb ideas of a magic up-hill going snow board and a sledge pulled by 500 chihuahuas, is as appreciative of chair-lift mountain views as I am and got disproportionately excited when I told him about the Blue Moon we had over New Year.

Now how can you resist a chap like that?

A demain.

Monday, 18 January 2010

...may sun shine on your snowy slopes of happiness....

In case you haven't gathered I'm back up the hill. Ice blue sky and sugar lump mountains met me this morning. Indeed the sun does shine on the snowy slopes of happiness. I like to think of this all as a blank canvas, but who am I kidding? My best friend just died. The truth is I'm a mess and will be for sometime. Ladies and gentlemen you are seeing before you a train wreck in slow motion. Enjoy the ride.

Ski hours: 5 blissful hours on the sunny slopes with new friend who I shall dub 'Marks and Sparks' as she is on sabbatical from said highstreet monstrosity.

Celebs spotted: I walk into a bar, fresh back from my flight and am greeted by the sight of Jimbo chatting to a craggy-faced, slightly moist looking chap with blondish hair. I mooch over to request a drink. Said chap turns to me and says 'Hiya. How are you?' .....Ooooh, thinks I. You're Max Beesely. Nice. 'Fine thanks' says I. 'Enjoying the skiing?' ....and so on....

Hot ski instructors spotted: Thin on the frickin ground mate. They are all inbreeds. It's most disappointing.

Anyhoodle.....

Friday, 15 January 2010

Say hello and wave goodbye

And so I've come home. In a grim daze. The ski resort has become my world and being ripped from it feels like being ripped from the womb. As I walked across the tarmac to the plane, I realised that little bubble of rock and snow is a hiding place for me. A snowy white duvet under which to crawl, with my knot of new friends and ignore what's happened. But it seems the unrelenting snow and ice has followed me here. It's like coming back through the wardrobe from Narnia, only to find it's bleak, eternal winter at home as well. In the ski resort though, the winter sparkles and fizzes. It's gilded with adrenaline and money and furs and Russians. Something different happens every day. Here it just sits on you like a cold, wet towel. And there's no Shazzer to chat beside the fire with this time, and make sense of it all. Well if there was I wouldn't be here.


We buried the beautiful Shazzer today. In a wicker coffin all decorated with ivy and wild flowers, in a snowy field (an ecological burial site) overlooked by her beloved South Downs, Jack and Jill windmills, the Sussex countryside she adored.

Wednesday, 13 January 2010

The evils of the studio appartment

This year I have gone from living in my own 3 bedroom home, avec super kingsize bed, tempur mattress, fluffy carpets and dressing room, huge marble and tile bathroom, and a seperate cupboard specifically for my handbags, to living in what is essentially a black hole of doom hovel with two other girls (aforementioned H and L).

The mentality of sharing this space has been much less difficult to deal with than I expected. Specifically because H and L are top roomies and relatively aggro free human beings. Also, deep down I am actually a bit of a grubby urchin at heart, despite Shazzer's protestations at Glastonbury last year that I have a dirt-repelling superpower. No, it's not the mentality of sharing that's the problem.

Because we spend 90% of our time cleaning other people's shit from toilet pans, dishes and floors, said hovel is never cleaned. And it started out fustily filthy anyway. I mean, like, you have to dust off and wipe your feet before getting into bed if you want to avoid crumbs of unidentified mildewed goip all over your sheets. There is crap everywhere. Ski equipment, knickers hanging off curtain rails to dry, crispy ski socks which have been reused far far too many times sitting on radiators, Snickers wrappers, condoms.

Well yes, particuarly condoms. And this is the real issue. There's nowhere private to shag.

Not that this presented much of an obstacle for L last night. I awoke, bleary eyed from my afternoon and evening of heavy drinking, at about 4am and lay there for a few minutes wondering idly why I had been untimely ripped from the womb of sleep. Before it all came into disturbing focus. Those scraping noises, that squeak-squeak, squeak-squeak, the heavy breathing. The fact my bed is being shunted rhythmically by the dresser, because something else in rhythmically shunting the dresser.

Oh. Right. Great. Yeah. My room mate is having the back bashed out of her with H and me in the room. Tops. I can't move or even cough as disturbing them would make this even more excruciating. I can't even reach for my ipod to block out the slapping noises. The fucker's in my coat.

And I really need a pee.

Sunday, 10 January 2010

Bad times, isn't it? When you're sitting on a bin eating out of a baking tray...

...so said H in the kitchen the other day as she was doing just that, and right at this second, I tend to agree...

Well, my pretties. Sorry for the radio silence. Belle has been out of action since the proverbial shit hit the fan of 2009. I write to you now from the wrong side of 26. A year older, I consider my wisdom to be diminishing somehow.

I was expecting a sting in the tail of that mountain of shite year, but the death of my best friend, the aforementioned wonderful Shazzer, has been more unexpected and painful a sting than I could have imagined in my wildest dreams. If only I hadn't let her down so badly. So many chances I missed.

She died between boxing day and new year, and somehow since then it hasn't seemed appropriate to write. I could have told you about how I've been desperately trying to distract myself from focussing on all intoxicating grief via an extremely skinny, wildly inappropriate and wrong-for-me Skater-Boy type. I've been loitering around with him a bit and am perplexed at breaking my own rule of never shagging anyone whose arse is smaller than mine. In fact, let's be honest, he has no arse whatsoever.

The man is a fine skier. In fact I think possibly sexier on skiis than off. He spends most of his time looking for large precipices to fling himself from, usually stoned off his tits. As I said, all wrong for me. I am exceedingly earth bound.

His inappropriateness for me (and fondness for canoodling with irritating blonde 19 year olds on my birthday) has been increasingly apparent, thus I have been trying to wean off him. Unfortunately our chalet chef wears the same aftershave as he does. Every time he wafts past I get a judder. It's both tittilating and irritating.

Since she died, I also could have raved about the fantastic powder, my new free-rider Saloman ski boots, the wonderful birthday I had, which included a tobogganing challenge and a whole pub full of seasonaires singing me happy birthday, twice.

I could have made you laugh with an anecdote about the, frankly, gold plated cunt who's been staying in our chalet avec (charmant) famille. Specifically the giant turd he managed to get wedged in his toilet brush (like a little nugget of gold just waiting for me to find it after breakfast one morning when cleaning the bathroom), and the resulting punishment I administered, by cleaning the toilet with his toothbrush (Shazzer would just burst with pride!).

But somehow it all seemed so heartless. So bland. Knowing Shazzer wouldn't be around to laugh at any of it with her dirty Babs Windsor laugh, or shriek down the phone at me to DUMP THAT ROTTER THIS INSTANT. Or reassure me it's perfectly reasonable to clean a toilet with a toothbrush, if the person's really a cunt. She saved me this year. It's a shame I couldn't save her back. Something dark has taken her away, somewhere I can't follow.

I'm heading home to bury her next week and I'm sure will raise a glass to her fabulousness with the best of you. She really was one in a million you know. And she's the reason I'm up this mountain in the first place.

Love you you silly old tart.

x