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

Belle de Neige

Friday, 24 December 2010

Merry Fucking Christmas

It's odd how I'm in possibly one of the Christmassiest places on earth and yet I feel completely un-Christmassy.

It's fair chucking it down with snow. Look. Just look how Christmassy it is:


Pretty fucking Christmassy I think you'll agree.


But considering I will be subjecting my staff to a self-inflicted accounts meeting on Christmas day, I can hardly claim to be in the Christmas spirit, can I? What a bitch!
I haven't even got any Christmas decorations up in my flat. Which is odd. Because I usually love the whole affair and used to hang gold stars off the ceiling of my bedroom when I was thirteen and play 'The Christmas Alphabet' on repeat from the beginning of November, until my entire family was driven to foaming at the mouth insanity.

Anyhoo - Here's MY Christmas alphabet:

Capital C - is for Cunt. All you out there on your Christmas ski holiday who wrote a complaints letter to head office on Christmas Eve because you didn't get given enough bog roll in your chalet, or some other equally pathetic quibble. This one's for you. You cunts.

H - is for HELL YEAH! I'm gonna go get off my tits in about 5 hours.

R - is for Rain. We don't want any more. Watching a ski resort get rained on is like watching a kids sandcastle get pissed on by a drunk paedophile. Just wrong.

I - Idiots. Or to put it another way. My staff.

S - sick. May none of your clients chunder on anything in your chalet over the festive season. I pray you are spared the misery of picking chunks out of the carpet when you should be down the pub.

T - is for Turkey. Foisted on chalet-clients by tour operators Alp-wide. Who even likes that mound of dry, uninspiring, tasteless flesh? And it's then further cluster-fucked up by the incompetent teenager (who thinks stuffing is something you do after 20 jager bombs) employed to cook it and served charred on the outside, pink and ripe with salmonella on the inside for a family of confused and alarmed Greek guests who don't celebrate christmas until March anyway.

M - Mass. I'll definitnely be in attendance to repent for my rapid accumulation of sins. Not.

A - Arseholes. Or to put it another way Russian clientelle.

S - Snowshoeing. It ain't skiing but it's all I've got.

And before I totter off to get drunk (after trawling through the next 4 hours of accounts and complaining clients) I must have a little boast: I'm famous! Tribe Magazine have seen fit to give me a double page spread! Personally, I wouldn't take my advice. But enjoy :)

Sunday, 12 December 2010

The worst sex ever

You haven’t heard from me in a while. I know. I’m sorry. Contrary to popular belief Mademoiselle Neige has not disappeared up her own backside, given up writing, moved to Mongolia and married a goat, or lost all her fingers in an unfortunate saw-related incident, rendering her unable to type. No. I am in fact back up the mountain....but have been sucked into the corporate void of that most idiosyncratic of beasts – the Tour Operator’s Management Training Week. Followed by the arduous ‘Staff Training Week’ and the ominous, terrifying shadow of ‘Set Up Week'.

Yes shoppers. That roughly translates as 14 hour-days on accounts spreadsheets and customer services role-play exercises. Shudder. 18-hour days making inventories and digging shit out of a grubby store room (the newly christened ‘Store room of DESPAIR') and delivering it to various chalets.

At 2am on Saturday morning I was standing in a 2 metre square cupboard swigging aggressively from a bottle of rose and ticking things off a clipboard:

‘One wooden spoon to chalet xxxx please!’
‘No more wooden spoons in the store, sorry’
‘Fuck! Any blenders?’
‘Nop’
‘Fuck! Any roasting tins?’
‘Nop’
‘What the fuck are my staff meant to cook with? Ski poles?’

It’s not just me...but SbH too. An opportunity....came up.... shall we say. Just a day before his official ski rep training week with another unmentionable TO, someone waved the words ‘manager’ and ‘staff’, a cheque, an apartment and an extended ski pass under SbH’s nose and he buckled like a Volvo's seat belt. Yes. It’s true. We are managing a ski resort each. I have no idea how this happened. None whatsoever. We must both interview extraordinarily well.

‘No. Just no. Nothing you can ever say will make me believe it,’ said a mutual friend, R – The Man of Leisure – last week after finding out SbH has a job in management.

‘But I’m wearing a company jacket’ protested SbH looking slightly hurt, and waving his company mobile around proudly.

‘I don’t care if you’ve got the corporate logo tattooed to your arse, dude. I don’t believe it.’

Another friend – W – merely sat and laughed hysterically at us both, when we told him. And various cynical comments were made on Facebook such as:

‘How on earth did that one happen?’

‘What’ is going on????? Please explain’

‘I am confused’

‘Beyond stupid but highly highly amusing. I reckon they want their company to go out with a bang this year’

And my own personal favourite:

‘That’s just silly’


There have been various escapades which I will tell you all about. But for now, Mademoiselle Neige would like to personally thank the tour operator for which she works, for:

  1. Giving her two migraines in two weeks
  2. Making her into that twat who is always on their mobile phone. I hate that guy.
  3. The worst sex ever:

‘Can I have a blow job please?’ SbH asks me two mornings ago. We’d both had about four hours’ sleep after an 18-hour day. ‘No’ I said. ‘I can’t be bothered......none of my muscles work. I can’t move. But I’m so horny!’

The resultant semi-conscious (loosely) sexual activity that we managed was closely reminiscent of trying to get (in SbH’s words) a raw frankfurter through a keyhole. Lethargically. ‘That was the worst sex ever’ he said afterwards. ‘I’m going for a shower’.