Seasonaires have an incredible ability to deny, or ignore illness and injury: To medicate tonsillitis with spirits: To ignore that increasingly painful purple whelt developing on the shin: To invoke the practise of keymotherapy (destruction of all cells, both healthy and parasitic in their bodies with the cunning use of booze and fags): To see how far it’s possible to ski on a compound fracture (that’s when the bone is actually sticking through the skin).
SbH boarded down to the pub and had a pint and a burger after he broke his back. It took him a good hour to twig that a visit to the doctor might be in order. I have another friend, A, who skis with no ligaments in either of his knees, and several acquaintances who have had in excess of ten operations, yet still spend most days hurling themselves down icy precipices at speed.
Disease is the other killer. It spreads with the power of an epidemic every season. And it’s not surprising.
Think about it. You’ve got a village’s worth of randy teenagers suddenly set free from the parental nest, banjaxed to the eyeballs every night on toffee vodka, snogging and shagging their way through the equivalent of six months of fresher’s weeks. Word has it that the entire staff body of one tour operator in this resort have managed to plough each other over the course of the season. They may as well all have got together naked in one room and economised on effort.
This doesn’t exactly surprise me to be honest, considering my own staff seem to have spent the entire season taking it in turns to lick or fiddle with each other’s private parts every night with gay abandon ...yes, and then they go to work and cook your dinner without washing their mitts...
Add to this toxic mixture a healthy dollop of your basic cynical serial mountain worker on their 15th season, carrying every STD under the sun and up for poking anything with a hole that breathes (Skater Boy is like a kid in a sweet shop, my dears.) Then there’s the network of sex pest French chefs and waiters to contend with, adding a whole new dimension of potential for lurgie to spread like margarine. A Petri dish of filth.
Around this time of the season it all starts to get a little bit incestuous. Pretty much every one of my minions has come down with the same mysterious ailment this week and this without doubt is because most of them have locked either lips or genitals, or lips with genitals at some point. Calamity, I hear, after a quick dip from the Vagabond, went onto lock lips with The Man of Leisure. Bangers banged Mini SbH, who then had a knee trembler with Brain Damaged Pig who in turn had an interesting evening with her ubiquitous sidekick, The Furtive Ginger, Bill (of Bill and Ted), and Calamity’s older ski-bum brother, involving a lot of giggling and mid-shag man-swap. Their mothers would be so proud.
Seasonaires are uniformly horny. A friend of mine –we shall call her Shower-Shave-Shag, announced to all who would listen in the pub this evening (swaying and grinning, vin chaud in hand), that she was just popping home to have a quick freshen up and shave her faff, and then coming back out to get laid. Nice.
When the Tit-Gypsy asked for time off this week because her face was swollen and her throat and lips had become afflicted with a vile blistering condition I couldn’t help but ask whether she’d been sucking one too many cocks. Or at least sucking The Man of Leisure’s cock once too often. She didn’t look too impressed.
Mini SbH is suffering with flu, The Vagabond has been struck down in his prime with some kind of stomach complaint, and pretty much all of them have some sort of deep, hacking cough to contend with – the result of months of living off vitamin-free table scraps and turbo drinking. Let alone sticking their tongues in every available orifice of every available chalet slag in the vicinity.
Not that SbH and I can criticise. We seem to have been passing ailments back and forth between us for months. Whenever I’m well he’s ill. And vice versa.
If I was a responsible, upstanding individual I would introduce some kind of Shag Box and collect monetary fines for indiscretions lest my entire team develop AIDS and have to be laid off. But since SbH and I are currently working overtime to cultivate a friendship with a really fit couple we quite fancy a foursome with, I don’t really feel I’ve got the moral highground.