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

Belle de Neige

Thursday, 14 April 2011

Why not to fuck with your Chalet Bitch's day off...

The season may be starting to wind down. But the guests never do.

Oh family who were staying with us last week, let me count the ways I loathe you. You basically gave a masterclass in how not to behave on a chalet holiday....

Let this be a lesson to you all...

The Massive Wanker’s Guide to Being a Chalet Bitch’s Nightmare

1. On arrival, prove penis is size of dried apricot by shaking host’s hand with finger-crushing grip that could bend titanium and throw a couple of fifties at him with the words: ‘You’d better make sure we have a good holiday, son’.
2. Bustle into chalet with shouty voice and social etiquette of a giant black rubber dildo, demanding things the minute you arrive. Demand boorishly to be escorted to a restaurant. Complain loudly at Chalet Bitch in accusatory fashion about size, shape, location, colour, smell, aura and planetary alignment of chalet.
3. Snobbishly tell Chalet Bitch he doesn’t look like the ‘type’ who’d know a five star restaurant if he saw one.
4. Introduce bat-shit crazy spouse who requests that cleaning be done using only washing up liquid throughout. Assure host this is nothing to do with allergies - merely personal preference, thereby confirming that indeed you are a prick who likes being a pain in the nuts and not merely someone with sensitive skin.
5. Complain that company didn’t notify guests of radioactive cloud on its way over from Japan and ask why measures to protect them from contamination have not been put in place. (Like what? Standard issue tin foil hats for all guests? Lead jackets?)
6. Lecture Chalet Bitch who has degree in Biomedical Science on the ‘proven scientific fact that cancer is not a disease’
7. Decide that smell of sewage (which is no one’s fault and no one can do anything about despite obvious and repeated efforts) coming from the road outside makes the chalet a bio-hazard. Phone up resort manager and scream down phone at her to ‘Get here now and sort it out – this place stinks of SHIT. It’s pollution. It’s already giving me a sore throat’
8. Fuck with Chalet Bitch’s day off by demanding to be transferred into another chalet, thereby sentencing poor bastard to two consecutive 12 hour days of cleaning, bed making and fetching and carrying.
9. Phone resort manager at least once a day every day with a rudely, condescendingly expressed inane complaint because you are bored and want attention.
10. Pompously tell Chalet Bitch off for pouring water from the mop bucket down the sink. Utterly absurd.
11. Lose the plot and scream at Resort Manager to ‘Fuck off and get over herself’ when she tries to explain it’s unreasonable to expect the chalet staff to clean on their mid-week day off.
12. Phone up CEO of company in a rage and scream at her to ‘Go Fuck Herself’
13. Trash chalet. Steal all light bulbs, pour coffee everywhere, put croissants and orange slices in cupboards, soak towels and throw around rooms, steal door knobs, wine and all the condiments.

‘What a ball ache’ said Bill, looking crestfallen when I told him he was going to have to prepare one of our empty chalets and move the entire family into it on his much coveted, golden fleece of an extra day off.

‘Well,’ I said, patting him on the back and smiling, ‘What better way to start the week than with a rigorous cleaning of several chalet toilets using a certain person’s toothbrush…?’

‘Yeeaaaah’ he said, smiling evilly. ‘Have that, bitches. You fuck with my day off. I fuck with your toothbrush.’

Sunday, 3 April 2011

Email newsletters: Some home truths

Why is it that nowadays every single thing you buy on the web saddles you with a fucking weekly email newsletter? I get thousands. They lurk in my inbox disguised as something interesting and exciting from someone I like, until I read the subject line and my heart sinks.

Delete!

People who send me newsletters: How can I phrase this?

I am soooo not interested. Do I look interested? Does any part of my face look interested?

Companies think that the hallowed e-shot sends out a message to their punters that they are valued customers. ‘We care, as a company, for your needs’ they think it says. ‘We want to build a relationship with you. You are amazing. Here, had, you considered this blue scarf? It’ll look great with your eyes. Ooh, I see you like leather horse whips… would you be interested in buying this lubricant and bridle as an accompaniment? 20% off!’

Really, the message these e-shots send out is ‘MWAAHAHAHAHAHA! You have bought from us. Now you shall never escape our tyranny. You shall never forget us. Forget the others. They are the evil ones. We will remind you of our existence every week on a Thursday, for all eternity (or until you find the ‘unsubscribe’ link we have sneakily concealed amongst the other detritus in our footer.) We will follow you to the ends of the earth in a desperate stalker kind of way just in case you need curtain hooks. We must tend to your curtain hook purchasing needs!! ’

I fucking hate them. And here I come to my point. I used to design, write and send e-shots for a living. I used to spend hours poring over the figures, trying to work out why more people weren’t opening them. Why our instant delete rate was so high. And deep in my brain I knew the truth to be that e-shots are just plain annoying. You didn’t need stats to tell you that. Most people, including myself, are not interested in them – on the contrary in fact, view them as a curse, a nuisance, a blight on their very existence. Go away Marks and Spencers. I will tell you when I want new pants. Not the other way around!

I thank my lucky stars that I no longer have to sit in an office pretending that I care deeply about doing something I knew at the bottom of my heart was utterly futile. I mean, my job now is equally as futile, but no one is debating that. And I get to see the top of the world every day.

Kids, find a job you believe in, if you possibly can. It eases the sting.

Anyhoodle, I thought I’d take this opportunity to write some of my own messages to the pesky botherers that litter my inbox:

Easy Jet: Sending me emails about flights will not make me go on holiday more. I can’t afford holidays. I will tell you when I want a flight. By the way you are thieving crooks.

Tesco and Sainsbury’s: When I need food I’ll buy food from whichever one of you is nearest my house. Carrots is carrots.

Healthspan: OK! I bought some St John’s Wort once because I was having a low. Can you stop reminding me? That is SO insensitive.

Luxury Hair Care: I know when I need shampoo. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.

ASOS and Topshop: Please stop tempting me you bastards. I can’t afford it. You have no souls and no shame.

Curtains Direct: Yes. I bought some curtain hooks five years ago and returned them because they were the wrong shape. Get over it. Losers.

Apollo Premium Sex Toys: I have no need of a butt plug right at this moment. But I have your number.

Hitched.com: I am not getting married any more. Thank dear-non-existent-God. The idea of marriage fills me with horror and nausea. I gave the ring back. It was a lucky escape. And the fact that I was using a wedding planning website to co-ordinate the big day speaks volumes about my tormented and misguided state of mind at the time. Please go away.

O2 : Sod off. Please just sod off.

Ahhhh. That was cathartic.

Saturday, 2 April 2011

How to steal your doppleganger's boyfriend...

Don’t think I’ve been neglecting you, dears. Quite the contrary in fact. I think of you constantly. The truth is I have been a little distracted of late by something which I am indisposed to divulge…no I am not pregnant. I have not discovered the link between Quantum and Newtonian physics…it’s far more exciting than that. I shall keep you posted on ‘The Thing’…

…but until then, yes, there are a few things I really should fill you in on, I mean, it’s practically bloody summer.

First of all -don’t come here. Not if you want to ski anyway. It’s very green, the birds are tweeting, and unless you fancy sweating your tits off in your best North Face jacket on a muddy hillside in eighteen degree heat for a week, having spent 250 Euros on a ski pass you can’t really use, then I can think of better holiday opportunities. Not that it isn’t beautiful…




It is the lot of the resort manager to do a mid-week chalet visit. That’s where you potter around all the chalets asking guests (who are not interested in talking to you whatsoever and wish you’d bugger off and leave them alone) how there holiday has been. (I like to schedule my visits around canapĂ© time, in the hope of a free glass of champagne… but of course.) Anyway I went to visit some guests yesterday evening – a rather miserable bunch of Welsh tossers, to be honest. When I asked if there was anything I could do for them the mother actually turned round in her chair, looked at me accusingly and said:

‘Well, we could do with a bit more snow’

I thought she was joking, but she wasn’t and continued to look at me expectantly while I stood there in my cheap company jacket trying to think of something less rude to say than:

‘Oh here we go…that old chestnut. Do I look like Thor to you? Or Geoff The God of Precipitation? And if I could control the fucking weather, do you think I’d be standing here like a knob talking to you? No love. I’d be a billionaire. I’d be lying on a bed of rose petals in a palace made of chocolate, full of naked Christian Bale look-alikes, while they peel me grapes, and pleasure me on demand with their enormous spam javelins. Now fuck off and if you want snow book your holiday during winter instead of spring. ’

Due to the social unacceptability of sunglasses, most of the seasonaires have a ridiculous tan that stops halfway up their face. They have also all developed season psychosis. All the pistes are closing and hot on their heels are the bars, leaving them with not much to do but work, complain about work and then flit from closing party to closing party wearing ridiculous fancy dress outfits and emergency shagging each other.

There is one bar, the closing of which always seems to produce the most alarming behaviour in everyone – mainly because it is the hub of the resort and signifies the beginning of the end. Invariably it descends into a borderline orgy with a crap DJ, where every last seasonaire in the resort is crammed into a tiny space, rubbing themselves against each other and pouring spirits down their throats straight from the bottle. It is a time to break the glass on your emergency shag candidate, or if you’ve been mooning over someone all winter, take the bull by the horns, so to speak, and ram your tongue down their eighteen-year-old throat.

It could also be because the managers publicise it as a ‘drink the bar dry’ challenge and also because it is preceded during the day time by the Three Valley Rally.

The 3VR is a scavenger hunt and a spectacle to behold. While punters and the French look on in utter horror and disbelief, British seasonaires dress up in things like cow costumes and ski to various checkpoints where other seasonaires make them do hideous things like perform unmentionable sex acts and drink each other’s piss. I was on one of these check points. Our victims were made to strip off and run around in their underpants in the snow while being pelted with snow balls force-fed chartreuse. Fairly tame really. If one wanted to do a decent forfeit one would simply take a silver tray, a rolled up fifty and a large bag of ketamine up the mountain and make them all do a line each. Fifty seasonaires flying around with planks of wood nailed to their feet on horse tranquilizer. That would fuck shit up. But not everyone’s as forward thinking as me…

Anyhoodle. Suffice to say, as we lay, groaning in bed the following morning the events of the evening gradually came back to us. SbH woke up with a mysterious black eye and a bruised sternum, having thrown a kebab across the road, cried, asked my ex boss if we could borrow his Land Rover to drive home and then told him to fuck off when he said no. He also got chased by the police. He was feeling a little jaded.

I, in turn, slowly remembered with shame that I had…

…been girlishly and shamefully impressed by Mini SbH’s ability to pick me up as if I was a dried leaf
…done a pill
…snogged Calamity
…buckaroo’d Bill
…put my hands down the Vagabond's pants
…smooched my doppleganger’s boyfriend
…been chased by the police

In closing, I must say that my doppelganger turned out to be a disappointment. All season people have been telling me that there is some bird wondering around with my face, and when I finally met her at said party I was really quite excited. She was leaning on the bar with her back to me.

‘Look!’ said H, ‘It’s HER! It’s your doppleganger’, and we proceeded to try to get a sneaky snap of her with me behind doing a thumbs up.

I decided to try to chat to her, ‘Hey,’ I said, ‘This is amazing – everyone thinks we look like twins’

She was clearly wankered and looked at my sidelong with acute displeasure, before slurring something about taking a piss and stumbling off through the crowd. What a miserable cow. I am quite insulted that she has had the chutzpah to steal my face and then wander about being a cunt with it and having the personality of a nun’s fart. How dare she give me the brush off? Do you know who I am?

I did however get my own back when I turned to the quite handsome chap next to me afterwards and said, ‘Well, she’s a bit of a cow. Apparently I look like her’.

‘Yes you do,’ he said. ‘She’s my girlfriend’

‘Ah. Ooops’

He put his hands on my waist and planted a drunken, slobbery kiss on my mouth…

‘Actually, you’re much fitter’

He then tried to kiss me again. I politely declined his advances, of course. But couldn’t help feeling smug. Even if he was off his tits.


The smugness was somewhat allayed the next morning when I told SbH the story...

‘Doppleganger!?’ he said,‘Why didn’t you tell me? We could have had a threesome!’

I do actually quite like this idea. I'd essentially be shagging my boyfriend and myself. Which appeals to my narcissistic nature. According to Wikipedia, the font of all bollocks, a doppelganger is ‘a tangible double of a living person … that typically represents evil’ …so question:

Is she my evil twin. Or am I hers?

Hm.