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Disclaimer: I spent much of the time that I wasn’t skiing or eating/drinking watching Deadwood on DVD (inspired in no small part by my own recent blog about it), so this post is likely to be littered with Swearengen-style ‘cocksuckers’ and possibly one or two Tolliver-esque ‘Jesus fucking Christ’s .
Going skiing is a little like being a Timelord, not because you end up looking like Timothy Dalton(though actually, you’re half right) but because its equivalent to travelling back to the 1970s. People in many-coloured jumpers (myself included) sit around a fireplace with paisley curtains, surrounded by a faint aroma of fondue, but not just fondue- fondue, Raclette and Pierrade- literally so many ways to enjoy what is essentially melted cheese. On the slopes, people in garish, pastel-coloured onesies cut you up a treat and slalom their way down a blue (though they should really be on a more challenging slope the way they bloody fly past) and perms are kept hidden below novelty fleece hats. There are even tributes to the toys of the age- children on skis are very much like Weebles (if you don’t know what I mean, then you should have spent your childhood more productively, alternatively, view this) flapping around and teetering agonisingly as they shufty down.
In order to survive this adventure into the past, one must plan extensively. There are two priorities in skiing, make it down the hill without breaking something and try and avoid looking a massive arse. To this extent, it’s best to know your limits and not opt to go off-piste on the first day. The other plan is to hit the pistes at times when there won’t be much traffic- this means up early for breakfast each morning (so early that the only other people at the tables were Germans- yup, that early- presumably they’d already popped down to the ski room to lay their sallopettes on the benches) and wolf down a croissant and some baguette before heaving oneself into the skiing paraphernalia and ascending the mountain in the telecabines.
So, the first obstacle is walking in ski boots. This forces you to develop an awful swagger and makes negotiating stairs a near impossibility, meaning the 2 minute walk to the telecabines becomes an grim march of death, with the hair on your shins being rubbed away by the second. The second obstacle is carrying the blasted technology. Indeed carrying the skis and poles between telecabines is one of the real hardships of skiing, fortunately the very stops that prevent the skis from careering downhill once you have parted company with them (voluntarily or otherwise) are the same that hold them locked together for carrying – unfortunately mine did not fulfil this purpose and consequently my skis held together about as well as a celebrity marriage, meaning that I was forced to adopt a taxing, unorthodox method of carrying (either that or stop every few yards to push them back together).
There’s not much to be said about actual skiing really. It’s very much lean forward, bend ze knees and shift your weight properly if you don’t want to end up in A&E. This is intersected by a stop at one of the restaurants on the slopes for a chocolat chaud and some meat and frite-based meal before carrying on until your legs canna take no more. At which point, you return to the hotel for a hefty glass of après-ski.
The hotel is a confusing place full of different nationalities (most of them German), different ages and different card games (Uno being a prevalent favourite of the aforementioned Teutonics). Different culture too- odd cookery shows fronted by a mysterious, sage-like figure in sunglasses who orders his minions to prepare a soup, an Austrian detective show in which the dog appeared to be the star and no apparent censorship at any time of the day (boobs ahoy in all the dramas despite it being 5 o'clock in the afternoon). Musical tastes are odd – A rotation of Depeche Mode and Frank Sinatra in the hotel, Last Christmas by Wham! (this was on the 1st of February) in the cafe and rap backed by avant-garde jazz (still not sure if this is pure unadulterated genius or the end of western civilisation) in the mountaintop bar.
That is the very heartbeat of the skiing holiday- diversity… well, diversity and trying not to end up with your leg in plaster.
The next part of the blog is a journal kept of the day’s skiing.
Day 1
Excited, but a very strong feeling of trepidation. It’s been a while and the last time wasn’t particularly inspiring. First lesson with a man by the name of Laurent, who reminds me of the basics and by the end of the day I was probably skiing better than I did 3 years ago (doesn’t really say much for my younger self).
Day 2
First day of
Day 3
Made it through a whole day without falling over, terrific. Bit of a lull in terms of finesse though, my parallel turns still leave much to be desired. Never mind, making sure I don’t die first, then technique can come later.
Day 4
Definite improvement, didn’t fall over again though I lost a ski at one point (go figure)- what’s that thing about work, men and tools... oh, that’s right, the tools never bloody work, right men? Still not exactly Didier Cuche... or Chemmy Alcott for that matter, but getting there. Enormous, furry dog at the Chez Gaston, fed on frites, biscuits and those that come a cropper on l’Olympique (a straight but packed black down to Jonction), very friendly and sweet in the mildly stupid way.
Day 5
Great day carving the slopes with aplomb before, as they say in sport, ‘tweaking a hammy’ during a wipeout on the straight bit of a blue that left me looking, as they say in Deadwood, ‘a total fucking cunt’. Seriously, crashed out at some velocity right next to the nursery piste where the tinies are wobbling around. Picked myself up and limped to telecabine, boarding with ignominy and hobbling back to the hotel.
Day 6
Total whiteout today – nope, not Richard Hammond’s latest venture into winter-based public humiliation but rather incredibly heavy snow fall and visibility of less than 100 metres. I thoroughly earned my chocolat chaud after carving my way through sense of hearing alone to the cafe. Nice cushion of powder on the reds today, visibility even worse over the other side, opted to play it safe and take a blue down. Returned the gear in time for a quick après ski and a chinwag with the Belgians in the hotel. One of them had ruptured his knee (on a blue- see, happens to the best of us) and had to be rushed down the mountain on a stretcher pulled by a mountain-rescue skier (what a job that must be).
The next day was the journey home to find that the Northern Line was closed for the weekend, don’t you just bloody love public transport? Managed to make it to my train home in the nick of time and slumped into my armchair to find that my battling Everton side had lost the Merseyside Derby. I should have stayed in the
Vital Statistics
Times fallen over – several, though increasingly less as the week went on and nowhere near as many as I anticipated. I reckon about 7 or 8 in total.
Frenchmen seen in berets – 4
Tramps in the Gare de Lyon – Many more than I expected. One even had the gall to rile a Gendarme and another looked exactly like Seasick Steve.
Injuries – bit of a hamstring pull, bruise on left calf from an aggressive chairlift, severely rubbed shins and Skiers’ Thumb (I’ve made one of these up). Sore shoulder from carrying bags and was hit in the eye on the train back (accidentally). I sustained worse injuries on the journey home than I did skiing. Is that a good thing? (probably not).
Redundant internet question of the day courtesy of Gamefaqs (regarding the PC TPSRPG Mass Effect 2) from Toastmonster – ‘Does anyone have a model patch to fix Miranda’s overbite?’
Suggested answer from yours truly – ‘No, she’s just a videogame character- get a life or a girlfriend, preferably both, but let’s take things one step at a time.’
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