Ah, good old January. That famous month of poverty, self-loathing and moody resolutions. As the rest of society back on Planet Drizzle drags its miserable arse through another #BlueMonday of computer screens, caffeine and high vis jackets they shall no doubt be thinking of seasonnaires on the sunny side of a mountain with fondness and benevolence. Wankers.
January for the seasonnaire, you see, is pretty fucking good. A time of flim flippery, tom foolery and light-hearted gadding about. It’s a golden few weeks after the drudgery of a working Christmas ends and before the resort is invaded by millions of jostling, shin-whacking half-termers and their emotionally unstable parents.
You’ve been working your arse purple since November, there’s fresh powder outside, deserted pistes and a you’ve got a whole, entire day off. Make sure you do it right…
Preparation, Preparation, Preparation
Like an insane, psychotic criminal, just released from prison, the night before your day off sees you champing at the bit to hit the bar. If you’re a chalet bitch give your menu plan a nifty tweak.
Why cook roast lamb for two hours when you can cook Spaghetti Carbonara for fifteen minutes? You’ll be out by 9pm latest, with a pint of wine in each hand, puking in the toilets before you can say ‘seasonaire nightmare’.
Fashion yourself a fucked up fancy dress outfit using mainly tin foil, gaffer tape, permanent marker, bed sheets and kitchen utensils. Find an establishment with a good DJ set or band.
Prance around like you own the place. Get naked. Get everyone else naked. Piss the band off by repeatedly chanting ‘TEN MORE SONGS! TEN MORE SONGS!’ every time they play their last ditty. Crowd surf.
Realise with a sudden flash of horror that you’ve missed the last bus home and may therefore have to spend the night on a random doorstep somewhere, freezing your tits off.
Resolve this issue by locating a suitable pissed-up shag candidate whose bed you can commandeer for the night (this shouldn’t be difficult, see my previous article.)
Wake up in state of utmost confusion, in unidentified bed, with mysterious, semi naked, semi-conscious minger next to you. Descend into blind panic because it’s a bluebird powder day and you’re miles from all your gear.
Manage to thumb a lift back to your gaff, then waste a further half an hour cobbling together a mega sandwich, comprising at least three carbohydrates and some extremely suspect, mature leftovers. Swipe bottle of wine from chalet store and stow in backpack with Jäger.
No Friends On A Powder Day
Finally manoeuvre your hungover arse out on to the hill and start making frantic phone calls to locate your buddies.
Spend about forty minutes riding around by yourself feeling dejected and left out before the sound of your name being screeched from a nearby chairlift by a bunch of waving hooligans brings you round.
Rendezvous with said hooligans at bottom of the chairlift and set off to hike something gnarly.
Ride like a motherfucker, gathering more and more of your compadres as you go. Everyone is starting to crawl out of the woodwork and you’re cruising the slopes with a massive and ever-increasing swarm of cackling lunatics, still drunk from the night before.
Skidding around like a pack of hyenas, heckling people from the chairlift (“Do it better!" / “Want some toast with all that butter, buddy?!"), mowing down punters and taking out small children, you suddenly spot a rival gang from the next valley. The race is on.
After exhausting the booze supplies in your backpack, rock up in a piste-side bar with a live band, sweaty and high on endorphins. Stow your goggles on your head for safe keeping and pour a succession of sticky, vile-flavoured shots down your throat followed by a double jug chaser.
Strip to the waist and pin pall around grabbing tits and bums and claiming you’re the ‘Sexual Harassment Panda.’ Lose your t-shirt. At closing time, ski down to the village in the dark and nearly plough into a snow canon.
You’re still up and drinking, tits proud, at midnight when you notice the last bus cruising down the road. You’ve missed it. Oh well. Get another jug in.
Wake up, face down on your bed, still in your ski clothes, with a lump of chewing gum in your bum crack. Wearily recall leaving all of your kit with a ‘friend’ behind the bar, whose name escapes you completely. Wonder why your feet are black and soaking, then remember running the three mile journey home in your socks, because your snowboard boots were hurting.
Vomit bountifully into the bin next to your bed, before rolling over and languidly taking in, to your horror, the time. Haul your vinegary body upright, put some shoes on and drag yourself to work, swearing earnestly never to do it again. Until next week.