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

Belle de Neige

Wednesday, 27 October 2010

We haven't met yet but you're a great fan of mine

'Oh so you're BelledeNeige'

It seems a few of my confessions from the dirty underbelly of ski-bum-ville have reached the ears of the wider public, and therefore my reputation as a bit of a dirty bitch has started to precede me.

This is both titillating and unfortunate...une petite dangerus, even.

Unless one is, say, The Wizard of Oz, one never really expects to hear one's name in a sentence heralded by the words 'Oh so you're...'

But last weekend at the Metro Snow show, I did.

Ah. Yes. This is a new one on me. Coming face to face with complete strangers who know exactly what you get up to on Sundays at 5am. Because you told them. Oops. Didn't think that one through, did we?

There is of course also a risk of my cover being blown: A quick skim through these pages followed by the swift conjoining of the numbers 2 and 2 by the powers that be could shatter my carefully crafted image of mature-responsible-well-balanced-manger-type-person. It could reveal what lies beneath - an unhinged, promiscuous junkie – type-person incapable of managing a fart in the bath -let alone an entire ski resort and six teenagers away from 'Daddeh' on pre-degree 'lash' rampage.

Yet more amusingly the bods at Tribe magazine want me to write an article offering advice to first-time seasonaires – ha! But they have also asked me to ‘tone it down’...

Why? Are the things I say in some way offensive? Could my somewhat dubious counsel lead young, impressionable seasonaires astray? Could the result be catastrophic for the daily operation of ski resorts the length and breadth of the Alps?

Well, if you have a shit ski holiday this year because your fusty, red-eyed chalet host …

1)spent most of the week dribbling onto his shoes with his arse hanging out of his jeans and couldn’t clean the toilets worth a fuck
2)failed to turn up to serve your bacon and egg and was sick in your ski boots during dinner
3)was found dead up the chimney the morning after his day off

...don’t blame me. It would have happened anyway.

In lieu of having to deal with an astonishing level of fuckwittage on behalf of the gap yah seasonahs I’m required to manage this season (and using the antics of Skater Boy and SbH as a reference point) I have been amusing myself in the last few days by harvesting a list of pithy and withering one-line comebacks from film and literature, so I can arm myself against shoddy smart-Alec attacks. I like to think ahead. And why think up your own when there’s a whole archive to rape on the interwebs?

A choice few of my favourites and some situations in which they might be put to use:

Ammo: ‘I am ravaged by the sheer implausibility of that last statement’

For example:
‘This loo has been disinfected you say? Hmmmn. I am ravaged by the sheer implausibility of that last statement’


Ammo: ‘Zero credibility’

For example: ‘You couldn’t serve breakfast because your chalet guests left the key in the door on the inside and you couldn’t get in..... Do you think I was born yesterday? That excuse has zero credibility


Ammo: ‘Thorough but unreliable’

For example: ‘When it comes to handing in his weekly float, Chumley Warner is thorough but unreliable’


Ammo:‘Another fine product from the fuckup/nonsense factory’

For example: ‘You are / That excuse is ....another fine product from the fuckup/nonsense factory
Delete as appropriate.


Ammo: ‘Reformed nice guy’ (plus some bile bastardised from the US Marine Corps ....OooohRaa....)

For example: ‘I may look sweet and innocent, but I am a reformed nice guy. And son, you’d better get your head and your arse wired together or I will take a giant shit on you’


Ammo: 'Shit sandwich'
For example: ‘Ladies, I understand that cleaning toilets is one giant shit sandwich... but you’re all gonna have to take a big bite.’


Ammo: 'Cock flavoured lollipop'

For example: ‘You, sonny jim, are about as useful as a cock-flavored lollipop’


And finally:

‘What you just said is one of the most insanely stupid things I have ever heard. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it’


I am making a definitive collection of these which I intend to pin up on my wall and fire off at will whenever fuckwittage occurs. Suggestions are welcome and appreciated.

E.G.

Gap Yah Seasonah: 'Please can I go skiing even though it's changeover day? It's my birthday you see, and my hamster has just died from lung cancer.'

Moi: 'What you just asked is one of the most insanely stupid things I have ever heard. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. That idea is another fine product from the fuck up factory. You are about as useful as a cock flavoured lollipop. Get to work, you grubby urchin. Or I will take a giant shit on you!'

Freestyle!

Ooooh yes, and not to change the subject but.... on a completely unrelated note, it seems SbH is no longer my student layabout shag pal.

You see, I know he's not really mine but, as he said last night, he's not anybody elses either...

Wednesday, 13 October 2010

Madmoiselle Neige and the call of the dark side

Autumn has well and truly descended on the homestead. Being a bit of an urchin who spent the first fifteen years of her life (before discovering porn and make-up) lolloping around muddy fields in green garden-centre wellies and capacious 80s hand-me-down sweaters I am a shameless middle class country bumpkin. Autumn is a mystical time in the country and I have always had a paradoxical fondness and antipathy for its dark magic.

Miniature villages of mushrooms and toadstools assemble overnight on the lawn. The air is just a little softer and cooler. There’s mysterious, low-hanging fog over the fields; that melancholic damp, earthy scent of rotting leaves. The swarming and chattering of the starlings at dusk. At nightfall yesterday there was a giant, copper moon.

It’s bittersweet. It reminds me of walking the dog with my Mum in remote muddy fields, the eating of roasts and that most odious of depressing puddings… homemade blackberry and apple pie…Don’t argue! It’s the devil’s own gastronomic torture instrument! You spend hours picking those repugnant berries, getting prickled to fuck by brambles...then the whole gooey affair has a shitty whiff of end-of-the-summer-the-nights-are-fair-drawing-in-and-school’s-just–around-the-corner symbolism that inspires in me the most abject depression whenever I eat it! Which I now absolutely refuse to do. Not to mention the dental misery. Blackberries are tasteless little fuckers and the pips get stuck in your teeth. No. It is despair masquerading in the pajamas of a delicious and innocuous desert!

Like I said, autumn is bittersweet.

But autumn takes on a whole new meaning when there are ski seasons to be had. When you’re not staring down the barrel of a six-month stint commuting in rain-soaked darkness (there was a point last year when for about 2 weeks I saw less than one hour of sunlight per day. Unacceptable). Now, suddenly Autumn is full of promise…

I have found a job in the ski resort.

Okay. I know I may have crapped on last month about bar work being the ‘safest bet’ …yada yada yada…in the name of Zeus’ butthole - don’t you have anything better to do than write down everything I say?

Look people. I sometimes make hasty statements in the heat of the moment. And I sometimes also get seduced. By money. And power. And boys…although that’s quite another story…

My pretties. I have gone over to the dark side. I have become the ‘them’ in the ‘them and us’ scenario.. Corrupted by the prospect of privacy (I’ve got my own apartment!) and the legitimacy of a more sensible job befitting a young lady of my years. Christ knows why but someone thinks I’m reliable enough to be saddled with some responsibility.

This is all a roundabout way of saying I have to spend the next six months being an enormous bitch, hypocrite and cantankerous bossy boots (quite looking forward to the last bit) by bollocking hapless teenaged chalet staff for doing what I did last year. It’s a good thing I already know every excuse in the book for missing breakfast service, losing float money and leaving cum-stains on chalet furniture. They won’t be putting anything past me.

Skater Boy is already prancing about with glee at the prospect of an in-resort ally with a bit of leverage. Yes, indeed, there will be a number of unsuspecting young spriglettes under the watchful eye of Madmoiselle Neige this season. Poor wee things. And Skater Boy will be like a pig in shit at the prospect of getting his grubby mitts on a few of them.

He: ‘I’m making a list. I’m calling it 101 ways to abuse BdN's new-found power for pleasure purposes.’
Me: ‘I see. How much will you pay me not to warn them about your wily ways? And that you’ve even shagged me, in fact’
He: ‘Do you want us to fall out?’

God help me.

Wednesday, 6 October 2010

How to really piss your family off

Living at home, it's like teetering on a knife’s edge.

Question: How did I suddenly become the black sheep of the family?

That used to be my Auntie G. Complete mental fuck bucket that she is. Sexually predatory enough to steal her sister’s rather dashing boyfriend and swindle certain other members of the family out of large sums of cash before disappearing off the face of the earth.

I used to be an A student baby. I played the cello, watched Star Trek (actually I still do – the mini lesbian in me would like to filth SevenofNine) and handed my prep in on time.

Now I am the one everyone roles their eyes about at the dinner table.

I got flu at the weekend. Do you know what my 90-year-old grandmother said to me as I was shivering under a mountain of duvets?

“It IS flu isn’t it darling? You’re not going cold turkey?”

What!?

My Dad is a bit of a grumble fairy where I’m concerned these days too. I’m going to have to pull my socks up. Since mangling my knee and crash landing back on planet reality last spring, I haven’t exactly been the model daughter I used to be. When you’re killing time between seasons the devil makes work for idle thumbs. Living at home with your parents at my age is a dangerous game. And I think I am now qualified to write the book on how NOT to do it.

...amongst my crimes of late:

Don’t insist on doing another ski season, despite the fact that you can’t ski and against Daddy’s express advice.

Don’t invite your layabout student shag pal round to the house for protracted periods of time and lie on the couch eating crisps, snogging and watching Top Gear in your knickers while the rest of the world is at work. It riles ‘em up it really does.

Don’t leave your dishes piled up next to the sink as you would do at your gaff, with a view to tackling them later. When you live with your parents this sends a signal. The signal is ‘I can’t be arsed. The punkawalla will do it’.

Don’t turn your childhood bedroom into a soup of unwashed clothes, cigarette butts, wet towels, papers, odds and sods and bottles of whiskey. Open the window when you smoke the weed.

In fact, don’t do drugs…well, don’t get caught…
I may have hosted a small get-together . A reunion for the inhabitants of Room 405 – the ski bum crack den (Skater Boy, SbH and E-the-Yeti-Boy all present and correct). The evening, of course, went slightly the way of the Winehouse. We decided to crush up some Co Codamol and snort it off the oak table, for old times’ sake. Which would have been fine, except we didn’t wake up early enough to stop my Dad’s wrinkly lady-friend from doing the cleaning up…
...We know there was an unidentified pile of white powder on the table when we went to bed.
...She knows there was an unidentified pile of white powder on the table when we went to bed.
...But it wasn’t there when we got up was it?
The irony is it wasn’t even prescription.

Don’t forget to feed the cat occasionally. Even if it is a Judas bastard.

Don’t drive the length of Europe in a car with the fuel consumption of a Sherman tank to get to your job in Ibiza, have a massive drug-addled crisis, become emotionally unstable and directionless, run out of money and require rescuing…then crash land at Glastonbury where you shouldn’t...

...invite your layabout student shag pal to stay in your tipi without asking the other inhabitants first, steal all their nitrus and keep your pregnant sister-in-law awake sucking loudly on balloons just outside the door...

Don’t get caught by BB2.1 shagging said layabout student shag pal …twice. He will take revenge. He caught us once in the garden. Fair enough. The second time, I came scurrying down to the kitchen from a particularly noisy encounter, charged with fetching some ice. I arrived, butt-fuck naked in the kitchen to find BB2.1 calmly reading the paper with a cup of coffee.

‘Alright?’ he said calmly, glancing up from the Daily Mail.
‘Ummm...Where the FUCK did you come from?’
‘I was showing some clients round. Don’t mind me’
‘WHAT!? Go! Go away!’
‘No. No I think I’m going to have a bacon sandwich’

It was a good ten minutes before SbH gave up on me and came down to the kitchen to investigate.

‘It’s a good thing you’ve such a cool brother. Most other brothers would be chasing me across the field with a shot gun by now’ he chimed in merrily.

BB2.1 raised an eyebrow.

‘I AM going to chase you over the field with a shotgun. I’ve been giving you a head start for the last 2 minutes, you’re just too stupid to realise.’