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Val-d'Isère: No time for whinging

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Veröffentlicht am 3:11 06.04.2008 von LottieLondon



1 von 1 Benutzern finden diesen Beitrag hilfreich

My previous blogs are testament to the fact that us Brits love to whinge. Granted, there’s a lot about our soggy underdog of a nation that invites a good old moan, but I’m surprised at how so many of us maintain this glass half-empty attitude even when abroad on holiday.

Take the rowdy stag party that my sister had the misfortune of being in charge of this week. Hardly a prude, she humoured the sexist pigs for days despite being made to feel like a porn star passing through a sex offender’s wing whenever she visited their chalet. One of their “hilarious” jokes was to tell her that “Kylie” was arriving, before stripping naked and tucking their shrivelled penises between their legs. Being in a room with eight horny, tanked-up, naked men is bound to make even the most experienced 18-30 rep slightly queasy but my 5’2” sister managed to laugh it off - before getting the hell out of there.

You’d think she deserved a tip after a week of this, but oh no, the bastards marked her down in their feedback form for being “boring” and not joining in their “banter”. The ratings count towards the reps’ end-of-season bonus, so it’s just as well that any negative feedback ends up in the dustbin.

Sometimes it seems the small victories count when it comes to difficult customers. My little sis took great pleasure in telling a baying mob of hooray henries – one of whom went by the name A Gaylord Esquire (yes, really!) - that their Coutts bank cards were no good in Val D’Isere, soz.

The moaning minnies’ current complaint of choice is the weather. Now you’d think that after flying to the Alps in early spring to stay in one of Europe’s biggest ski areas, most people would entertain the possibility of snow fall. However, for many it seems to have come as an almighty shock. “This is hopeless - I’m going back down the chairlift unless the weather improves after lunch,” a huffing Brit whined this morning to her equally put-out partner.

Surrounded by all this negativity, my gang was determined to be stoic. This is how we found ourselves tumbling down the resort’s most challenging black run in the middle of a blizzard. Called La Face, it had become a powdery killing field littered with mangled bodies and assorted ski paraphernalia. Tom and I had strayed onto it after confusing it with a gentle red run of the same name. The others, of course, had failed to point out our mistake until we were at its summit, at which point Colin took great delight in revealing this was “the most feared piste in the entire Savoie region”. Gulp.

A quick google search does indeed come up descriptions such as “famous and formidable” and, less pleasingly, “where skiers of dubious ability leave the bumps studded with the fallen”.

At the bottom, Tom and I could’ve moaned quite legitimately about our broken bodies, being duped by the other two and snow blindness. But the sense of achievement was huge; it was Us 1, Whingers O.

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