Mr Furious is clearly in a rage! Ranting about the trials and tribulations of his latest task - Transfer driving. The opinions that follow are not necessarily those of the Whitelines' staff.
Being a transfer driver is hard work. We spend hours on end driving thousands of holiday makers between the airport and the Alps each year for not very much money. It takes a special kind of person to do this job. A hardy, tolerant person who can drive in all conditions, laugh in the face of tiredness and sometimes needy, awkward passengers.
Underneath our cheery, unfazed demeanour, there's a person desperate for an interesting conversation...
Underneath our cheery, unfazed demeanour, though there's a person desperate for an interesting conversation, for most holiday makers resort to the same old dismal questions which make the journey seem like a hellish kind of groundhog day.
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How's the snow? / What's the snow like? / Is there any snow? / Snow?
Have some dignity - at least go through the customary greeting of "Hello" first.
This is the first question you will ask as you approach me in arrivals. Have some dignity - at least go through the customary greeting of "Hello" first. You already know how much snow there is - you've been checking every tin pot weather forecast every hour for six months in the vague hope that one of them will utter the magic words: HEAVY SNOW. It's raining, OK and that's not my fault so don't make the whole journey awkward from the off.
2. How long have you been here? Do you live here or...?
You have no interest in the answer to this question.
You have no interest in the answer to this question. I could tell you I live in one of the most beautiful places on earth whilst you scrape a mournful 9 to 5 existence for 50 weeks of the year but in my experience that will just result in you not giving me a tip.
3. Do you do this all the time or do you get to go skiing?
Firstly, I'm a snowboarder. Secondly, why - the fuck - would I live in the French Alps and drive you clueless twats around for the princely sum of €10 an hour if I didn't at some point get to go snowboarding? You're insane.
4. Do you ski or "board"?
Ahhh so you're a skier. And if there's one thing skiers seem to have an irrational hate for it's snowboarders. Look at me. I've got unkempt shaggy locks and a beard. But I'm gonna fill the van with awkward silence for the rest of the journey anyway by telling you the truth - I'm a snowboarder.
I will either politely laugh, or I will drive the bus straight off the next corner
Unless you're a turbo cunt, in which case you will now say:
Yeah I thought so. You look like a "boarder". Why do you guys always scrape all the snow off the hill and make moguls?
At this point one of two things will happen; I will either politely laugh and deny such ludicrous claims, or I will drive the bus straight off the next corner plummeting you and your screaming ugly family into the next available ravine.
Can we stop and get beer / cash / baby food / anal beads?
Unless you're going to give me a massive tip, NO. No we can't. The journey is barely more than an hour long and I have very little of my own time to fuck about playing supermarket sweep. Sort yourself out.
Where are the best bars / restaurants / strip clubs?
I'd be really rather miffed if I bumped into you in town
I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you, because quite frankly I've had enough of your shit over the course of the past hour. I'd be really rather miffed if I bumped into you in town as you drunkenly bawl "DRIIIIVEEEEERRRR!" at me laughing hilariously with your chav mates, so I'll direct you to the most uncoothed piss-hovels in town if that's OK? Which ironically you'll be stoked about. PS There are no strip clubs.
Things I will say to you...
(On the phone) "Oh hi there it's your transfer driver here, I was just wondering how you're getting on?"
Where the fuck are you? I've been waiting for you in arrivals for over an hour now, I've got seven angry passengers forming a sacrificial circle around me and one of them just pulled out a big fucking hunting knife all because you couldn't get your shit together and pack your bag properly. Hurry the shit up or we're leaving without you.
"Would you like me to help you with your bags?"
You look like trouble. If I don't carry your bag it's gonna take us three hours to leave the airport whilst you faff about looking for things you think you might have forgotten.
"If you'd like to drop your bags at the back of the bus you can get in and make yourselves comfortable whilst I load them in."
I know you're only trying to help, but PLEASE, for the love of fuck don't try to load your bags in my van. You will make an absolute state of it and then slam the doors repeatedly until you realise you've shut them the wrong way around, put a huge dent in the door and pulled the windscreen wiper off in the process. You ass clown.
"If anybody feels unwell during the journey, then please let me know in plenty of time so I can pull over. I have receptacles if you need them."
DO NOT under any circumstances try to hide the fact that you are so hungover that you aren't even wearing shoes, and will most likely paint the inside of my van with vomit within fifteen minutes of leaving.
Should I give you a tip?
I would like it if you would ask yourself this inside your own head. I've just carried your copious bags, somehow fit them into the bus with some tetris-like OCD behaviour and delivered you and your annoying family safely to your chalet through driving blizzards on treacherous mountain roads, re-routed to avoid traffic jams and dodged kamikazee French drivers overtaking on every blind corner along the way.
Consider the fact that you tip every ass-hat that serves you overpriced coffee with disdain.
All the while listening to your inane conversation and providing you with valuable inside information to make your holiday better. Considering the fact that you tip every ass hat that serves you overpriced coffee with disdain on the mountain, maybe the least you could do is throw me a couple of Euros as I leave you unscathed at your chosen destination, cry-wanking into a puddle.