Maya Angelou
Audrey Hepburn
Joni Mitchell
Maggie Smith & Judi Dench: PART1 PART2 PART3
Judy Garland
Tuesday, 14 April 2015
Wednesday, 18 March 2015
Ruining Niels' Birthday
I changed my cover photo on facebook to me half way up a mountain standing on a rock looking down into the valley. My sister asked if I was yawning and I told her, as if it wasn't obvious, "At that altitude the only way to get enough oxygen to survive is to yawn." Rory asked where I was and I told him, as if it wasn't obvious, the second highest mountain in the world: "K2". No one questioned it. What nice friends I have.
In reality I'm pretty sure Tryfan isn't even the second highest mountain in Wales. It might not even be a mountain, it might be a hill but according to the US geological survey there is no difference so for the sake of my own ego we will be calling it a mountain. A little research tells me it is in fact 917m tall, which, as way of reference, is barely taller than the world's tallest building. Even that is a very deceptive comparison since even climbing the stairs of the Burj Kalifa would be extremely difficult whereas, for anyone with any mountaineering skill, Tryfan would be a doddle.
However, I don't have any mountaineering skill. I'm unskilled. Completely unskilled and ill prepared for what lay ahead of me as we sat on the car park floor and my very skilled mountaineering friend Niels is asking me if I brought any walking boots with me. No I didn't bring those or anything waterproof or any gloves. No, no, no.
Fortunately for my mental health at that point I had no idea what terror lay in store for me. If I had known me and Luc would undoubtedly have called the whole thing off, jumped back into the nice warm car and caned it around the beautiful roads all day listening to reggae. But Niels, knowing us, didn't explain that we would be entering into a 'Touching the void/Vertical Limit' scenario. He described it as going for a walk.
I did wonder why I needed to borrow a helmet and why there was so much rope everywhere. I just assumed Niels was being his typically Bavarian, over-prepared self and treating the thing as a training exercise. Where Niels, Elli and Jess are fairly experienced with mountains and climbing etc Luc and I have a combined mountaineering knowledge of a beached whale. I would guess that before last weekend Luc would not know the difference between a carabiner and a strawberry ribena but by Saturday afternoon Luc would be confidently calling out commands such as "dyno from the mono to the jug", "pass the ice axe" and "help, help I can't feel my legs"
Jess drove us down the valley to the car park and just as I was feeling relaxed we got out of the car into the swirling wind and Niels pointed up a fucking huge hill and said we're going up there. I thought we'll be back in the car in an hour, whatever. So we started up this thing and i was basically knackered after about 5 minutes but no one else seemed to be bothered so I just pretended I was fine even though my calves and legs were killing me. I thought to myself next time I go to Wales to go walking I won't do an intense legs workout the day before.
Now, to be fair, Niels was frequently using words such as "perilous", "danger" and "lethal" but I honestly thought he was just overplaying everything to make it seem exciting. I didn't really realise that the point of mountaineering is to do things that are kind of dangerous just for fun. Most of my hobbies involve some element of danger but usually I at least have half a clue what I'm doing and I'm not completely at the mercy of the violent Welsh weather.
It was relaxed at first and there were other people about suggesting that what we were doing was kind of a normal thing to do. I don't know what the correct terminology is but in effect we went round the back of the mountain and round to what I believe is referred to as the East Face.
This is the point where the horrible whistling wind noise started. I tried to ignore it because the only times I've heard it before are in Vertical Limit and when we got stuck in the bog on Duke of Edinburgh when Alex Johnstone broke his ankle. If you somehow read this Alex; You know when we all kept saying, "watch out for the uneven ground" that meant not just to watch out for it but also to adjust your behaviour in accordance with it such that you don't break your ankle and leave us all fucked in a bog.
It got a lot colder all of sudden and the presence of snow everywhere became much more of a concern. This concern paled in insignificance compared to the overwhelming anxiety when Niels pointed up a vertical crack in the mountain face and gestured towards it as if we were going to climb it. We realised he must be joking because it was obviously impossible for a pair of novices one of which who had a bad back. To make matters worse two other climbers who looked pretty legit were on their way down and when Niels spoke to them they were very clear that they had bailed out of their attempt because it was obviously such a terrible idea and the weather was too bad. This seemed to only spur Niels on. This is exactly what happens in Touching the Void I thought, the only difference is we're not going to miraculously survive, we're going to get cold, give up and die.
The first bit was hard. I don't think Luc has ever had to pick his own foot up to put in position before and it's a very unnerving thing to have to do when if you fall you're probably going to smash your already injured back into some razor sharp protruding rock or maybe twist your ankle and end up like Alex fucking Johnstone. Because there was five of us we could only climb twenty metres at a time and then would have to untangle a clusterfuck of rope and huddle together for warmth. Little did anyone know I wasn't cuddling them for warmth, it was for comfort. I was scared. Scared like a kid in a supermarket who can't find his Mummy.
It only got harder but fortunately our lives were not in my hands since at the only point where I had any responsibility and had to gather up some equipment as I was going up last, I accidentally threw a vital, life saving piece of equipment off the side of the mountain into the swirling wind. Luckily Niels just went and got it like it was nothing because If I'd had to leave my precarious little perch I would have surely perished.
As we looked across to the neighbouring mountains we could see clouds coming in and that it was snowing quite heavily further up the mountain. This, coupled with the weather forecast, which had predicted exactly that, didn't fill me with pleasure. In fact it filled me with a horrible dread feeling previously reserved for visits to the barber. Our fearless leader seemed pretty relaxed about it but to me the idea of it snowing or having to go back down the way we came seemed, in both instances, to lead to certain death. It was already so cold and the wind was picking up. How was everyone so relaxed? Hadn't they seen Vertical Limit. I felt certain we were approaching the point where one of us was going to have to jump across a ravine and catch our full body weight on two ice axes. But we had only one ice axe. How much dex did we have? Was I contracting pulmonary aedema? All these thoughts swirled around my head in manic, terrified confusion.
Soon it became clear that we had gone up the wrong way and had climbed ourselves into a trap. A dead end. This was it I thought. Ok, brilliant. I've come to Wales for the weekend and now we're all going to die. At least in this trap we were sheltered from the wind and still below the level where it was snowing. Where previously there had been water, there was now ice and I was getting cold despite wearing all the clothes I had with me. I started to think that maybe instead of bringing a can of kronenbourg I should have brought a jacket.
Niels manned up and climbed up and out of our trap. There is literally no way in hell I would have climbed out of there. From where we were it looked like scaling this rock would lead to a 100 foot vertical drop and any slip would lead to certain death. In fact that was pretty much the case but when the rest of us did it we had the safety of being secure. This is what I was eagerly referring to as the crux and I had been saying, but not necessarily meaning, all day, that I wanted that feeling of. oh um err i don't really fancy this and then having to do it. That's what we had at this point and it was great that after this nervewracking move we had done all the rope climbing and it was a much more relaxing rope-free climb to the summit. Exhausted, cold and hungry I was hoping to plant a flag and feel like I was on top of the world and there was some feeling of accomplishment but it was somewhat tempered by the fact that there was a huge group of seventeen year old hippies up there looking relaxed as anything and jumping about on the rocks.
In reality I'm pretty sure Tryfan isn't even the second highest mountain in Wales. It might not even be a mountain, it might be a hill but according to the US geological survey there is no difference so for the sake of my own ego we will be calling it a mountain. A little research tells me it is in fact 917m tall, which, as way of reference, is barely taller than the world's tallest building. Even that is a very deceptive comparison since even climbing the stairs of the Burj Kalifa would be extremely difficult whereas, for anyone with any mountaineering skill, Tryfan would be a doddle.
However, I don't have any mountaineering skill. I'm unskilled. Completely unskilled and ill prepared for what lay ahead of me as we sat on the car park floor and my very skilled mountaineering friend Niels is asking me if I brought any walking boots with me. No I didn't bring those or anything waterproof or any gloves. No, no, no.
Fortunately for my mental health at that point I had no idea what terror lay in store for me. If I had known me and Luc would undoubtedly have called the whole thing off, jumped back into the nice warm car and caned it around the beautiful roads all day listening to reggae. But Niels, knowing us, didn't explain that we would be entering into a 'Touching the void/Vertical Limit' scenario. He described it as going for a walk.
I did wonder why I needed to borrow a helmet and why there was so much rope everywhere. I just assumed Niels was being his typically Bavarian, over-prepared self and treating the thing as a training exercise. Where Niels, Elli and Jess are fairly experienced with mountains and climbing etc Luc and I have a combined mountaineering knowledge of a beached whale. I would guess that before last weekend Luc would not know the difference between a carabiner and a strawberry ribena but by Saturday afternoon Luc would be confidently calling out commands such as "dyno from the mono to the jug", "pass the ice axe" and "help, help I can't feel my legs"
Jess drove us down the valley to the car park and just as I was feeling relaxed we got out of the car into the swirling wind and Niels pointed up a fucking huge hill and said we're going up there. I thought we'll be back in the car in an hour, whatever. So we started up this thing and i was basically knackered after about 5 minutes but no one else seemed to be bothered so I just pretended I was fine even though my calves and legs were killing me. I thought to myself next time I go to Wales to go walking I won't do an intense legs workout the day before.
Now, to be fair, Niels was frequently using words such as "perilous", "danger" and "lethal" but I honestly thought he was just overplaying everything to make it seem exciting. I didn't really realise that the point of mountaineering is to do things that are kind of dangerous just for fun. Most of my hobbies involve some element of danger but usually I at least have half a clue what I'm doing and I'm not completely at the mercy of the violent Welsh weather.
It was relaxed at first and there were other people about suggesting that what we were doing was kind of a normal thing to do. I don't know what the correct terminology is but in effect we went round the back of the mountain and round to what I believe is referred to as the East Face.
This is the point where the horrible whistling wind noise started. I tried to ignore it because the only times I've heard it before are in Vertical Limit and when we got stuck in the bog on Duke of Edinburgh when Alex Johnstone broke his ankle. If you somehow read this Alex; You know when we all kept saying, "watch out for the uneven ground" that meant not just to watch out for it but also to adjust your behaviour in accordance with it such that you don't break your ankle and leave us all fucked in a bog.
It got a lot colder all of sudden and the presence of snow everywhere became much more of a concern. This concern paled in insignificance compared to the overwhelming anxiety when Niels pointed up a vertical crack in the mountain face and gestured towards it as if we were going to climb it. We realised he must be joking because it was obviously impossible for a pair of novices one of which who had a bad back. To make matters worse two other climbers who looked pretty legit were on their way down and when Niels spoke to them they were very clear that they had bailed out of their attempt because it was obviously such a terrible idea and the weather was too bad. This seemed to only spur Niels on. This is exactly what happens in Touching the Void I thought, the only difference is we're not going to miraculously survive, we're going to get cold, give up and die.
The first bit was hard. I don't think Luc has ever had to pick his own foot up to put in position before and it's a very unnerving thing to have to do when if you fall you're probably going to smash your already injured back into some razor sharp protruding rock or maybe twist your ankle and end up like Alex fucking Johnstone. Because there was five of us we could only climb twenty metres at a time and then would have to untangle a clusterfuck of rope and huddle together for warmth. Little did anyone know I wasn't cuddling them for warmth, it was for comfort. I was scared. Scared like a kid in a supermarket who can't find his Mummy.
It only got harder but fortunately our lives were not in my hands since at the only point where I had any responsibility and had to gather up some equipment as I was going up last, I accidentally threw a vital, life saving piece of equipment off the side of the mountain into the swirling wind. Luckily Niels just went and got it like it was nothing because If I'd had to leave my precarious little perch I would have surely perished.
As we looked across to the neighbouring mountains we could see clouds coming in and that it was snowing quite heavily further up the mountain. This, coupled with the weather forecast, which had predicted exactly that, didn't fill me with pleasure. In fact it filled me with a horrible dread feeling previously reserved for visits to the barber. Our fearless leader seemed pretty relaxed about it but to me the idea of it snowing or having to go back down the way we came seemed, in both instances, to lead to certain death. It was already so cold and the wind was picking up. How was everyone so relaxed? Hadn't they seen Vertical Limit. I felt certain we were approaching the point where one of us was going to have to jump across a ravine and catch our full body weight on two ice axes. But we had only one ice axe. How much dex did we have? Was I contracting pulmonary aedema? All these thoughts swirled around my head in manic, terrified confusion.
Soon it became clear that we had gone up the wrong way and had climbed ourselves into a trap. A dead end. This was it I thought. Ok, brilliant. I've come to Wales for the weekend and now we're all going to die. At least in this trap we were sheltered from the wind and still below the level where it was snowing. Where previously there had been water, there was now ice and I was getting cold despite wearing all the clothes I had with me. I started to think that maybe instead of bringing a can of kronenbourg I should have brought a jacket.
Niels manned up and climbed up and out of our trap. There is literally no way in hell I would have climbed out of there. From where we were it looked like scaling this rock would lead to a 100 foot vertical drop and any slip would lead to certain death. In fact that was pretty much the case but when the rest of us did it we had the safety of being secure. This is what I was eagerly referring to as the crux and I had been saying, but not necessarily meaning, all day, that I wanted that feeling of. oh um err i don't really fancy this and then having to do it. That's what we had at this point and it was great that after this nervewracking move we had done all the rope climbing and it was a much more relaxing rope-free climb to the summit. Exhausted, cold and hungry I was hoping to plant a flag and feel like I was on top of the world and there was some feeling of accomplishment but it was somewhat tempered by the fact that there was a huge group of seventeen year old hippies up there looking relaxed as anything and jumping about on the rocks.
Tuesday, 17 March 2015
Documentaries
Since I posted one the other day I might as well list my top 10. Anything in my top 10 I would consider absolute must-watch. To the extent where if I showed one of these to someone I considered a friend and they didn't like it or at least couldn't even understand why i liked it, then they would be unceremoniously replaced in my myspace Top 8 by Tom.
1. Style Wars - 1982, New York Graffiti
2. Word Wars - Competitive scrabble playing
3. Pumping Iron - Arnie returns to bodybuilding for one last Mr Olympia
4. Searching for Sugar Man - Story of a humble musician not appreciated in his home country.
5. King of Kong - Competitive Donkey Kong
6. Dogtown and the Z boys - The birth of backyard pool skateboarding
7. Riding Giants - The birth of big-wave surfing.
Nope, actually I'm just going to give a top 7 because after those I can't honestly put them in a meaningful order. These are the ones that I can watch over and over again. However honourable mention must also go to 'Mission to Lars' which I watched last night and brought a tear to my eye. Very moving film about a brother and sister doing all they could to make their disabled brother happy. Also, Grey Gardens which explores the relationship between a very unusual mother and daughter living in a dilapidated mansion and 'Grizzly Man' mainly because i feel like a novice for not including a Herzog documentary and this is probably my favourite, and also the best known. It's about a dude who goes to live with bears.
Just to be clear, this list isn't about which is the best made documentary. It's about documentaries i happen to like. If it was about the best made ones I would put King of Kong much higher since, to me, a good documentary makes anyone care about the subject matter and the relationships and personalities within it even if it's of no interest to the viewer whatsoever. King of Kong is amazing in that respect because I, and most people, could not give a shit about competitive Donkey Kong and yet by the end of it, every fibre of your being is willing Steve Weibe to win. In fact I would argue that a synopsis of a truly good documentary should make you think 'Nah that sounds boring' and then after you've watched it you're thinking about it a week later.
If I've not included your favourite documentary or you think I'm a moron for including Pumping Iron then let me know and I'll ridicule you over the internet and then go and watch whatever you've suggested.
1. Style Wars - 1982, New York Graffiti
2. Word Wars - Competitive scrabble playing
3. Pumping Iron - Arnie returns to bodybuilding for one last Mr Olympia
4. Searching for Sugar Man - Story of a humble musician not appreciated in his home country.
5. King of Kong - Competitive Donkey Kong
6. Dogtown and the Z boys - The birth of backyard pool skateboarding
7. Riding Giants - The birth of big-wave surfing.
Nope, actually I'm just going to give a top 7 because after those I can't honestly put them in a meaningful order. These are the ones that I can watch over and over again. However honourable mention must also go to 'Mission to Lars' which I watched last night and brought a tear to my eye. Very moving film about a brother and sister doing all they could to make their disabled brother happy. Also, Grey Gardens which explores the relationship between a very unusual mother and daughter living in a dilapidated mansion and 'Grizzly Man' mainly because i feel like a novice for not including a Herzog documentary and this is probably my favourite, and also the best known. It's about a dude who goes to live with bears.
Just to be clear, this list isn't about which is the best made documentary. It's about documentaries i happen to like. If it was about the best made ones I would put King of Kong much higher since, to me, a good documentary makes anyone care about the subject matter and the relationships and personalities within it even if it's of no interest to the viewer whatsoever. King of Kong is amazing in that respect because I, and most people, could not give a shit about competitive Donkey Kong and yet by the end of it, every fibre of your being is willing Steve Weibe to win. In fact I would argue that a synopsis of a truly good documentary should make you think 'Nah that sounds boring' and then after you've watched it you're thinking about it a week later.
If I've not included your favourite documentary or you think I'm a moron for including Pumping Iron then let me know and I'll ridicule you over the internet and then go and watch whatever you've suggested.
Thursday, 5 March 2015
Addis Pablo - In My Father's House
This documentary has the iriest of all vibes to it and made me realise that I haven't seen any rasta or reggae documentaries at all. Unless you count 'Rockers' which, by the way, if you haven't seen, should be right at the top of your to do list.
Here's the link to the short documentary about the son of the late, great Augustus Pablo who among other things popularised use of the melodica in reggae and dub and created the seminal album: King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown. The documentary focuses around people who knew Augustus and now his son Addis.
Here's the link to the short documentary about the son of the late, great Augustus Pablo who among other things popularised use of the melodica in reggae and dub and created the seminal album: King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown. The documentary focuses around people who knew Augustus and now his son Addis.
Monday, 16 February 2015
Ischgl
I could see she was shouting even though we couldn't hear her yet. Her mouth was opening too much to be talking at a normal volume. When she got to the driver side window and started yelling into the car it was as if she thought we were at the other end of an enormous cave. We weren't, we were inches away and she was being way too loud:
"This counts as an emergency you'll have to wait until the emergency services arrive to clear this broken down truck before you can leave."
Ok cool, just stop shouting- that's the only emergency here. We all got out to assess the situation and to test our ears hadn’t been irreparably damaged. There was a broken down truck blocking the slip road into the petrol station and a queue of cars behind us. Apparently stuck but no. Jonny started yanking the barriers up the slip road and up past the Mazda 3 Luc had been leant by work clearing a way for cars to pass the truck on the curb to the side. We steamed through and everyone followed. This was our first success among many failures on our way to Ischgl to go snowboarding via St-Die-Des-Vosges for Luc to take photos of an ice-race. Can't say no to a free road trip!
Everything really kicked off nicely when, on arriving at the euro tunnel, we were told that our tickets permitted us access to the dreamy sounding 'flexiplus lounge'. However, when we pulled up in the waiting area next to a coach full of kids on a school trip and got to the one security guard in the place, he told us Luc's Mazda with the roof rack containing our snowboards made the car too high to be allowed access to the area home to the elite flexiplus lounge facility we'd heard so much about. Devestating news.
Undeterred, Jonny and I hopped out of the car to 'stretch our legs'. We walked over to the pitiful food option we had on the poor man’s side of the fence which was a burger van run by two friendly ladies. They pointed over an enormous fence which they told us was used previously at Wagwantanamo bay. Anyway, we explained that the mean spirited security guard wouldn't let us go there and she said she'd feed us if we didn't make it back alive.
We waited for the perfect moment to pounce and when he turned, no doubt tell someone else that all their hopes and dreams were nothing but piss and ash, we started sprinting. Childlike grins plastered across our faces, we belted towards the fence and disappeared behind it out of view.
Into our view came the most glorious site: a squat, prefabricated building not dissimilar to a storage container with the words 'flexiplus lounge' above a very electronic, automated door the likes of which we'd only seen in lots of other places such as shopping malls and inner city youth clubs. The inside, on the other hand was another matter entirely. Gorgeous, poundshop purple wall paper adorned the thin walls and one hundred percent genuine synthetic leather chairs sat atop beautiful wood-effect laminate flooring. Though we didn't have time to use the facilities they included a 22 inch poly colour television set and probably at least one other thing.
We were pleasantly surprised to find that our tickets, which we hadn't brought with us in our world-war-one-esque rush over the top, granted us each one of a few awesome packages. With so much choice Jonny and I were as excitable as two twenty six year olds in a flexiplus lounge and we pored over the options before going for two sets of ham and cheese sandwiches and one wine selection box.
While Jonny and I were having the time of our lives salivating over our selections, Luc was being interrogated by the security. Knocking on the window and asking 'Where are your mates?' to which Luc shrugged and half answered 'I dunno'. This pretty much ruined his day and the despair rang through his voice as the severity of his situation started to sink in. 'Don't tell me they're in the flexiplus lounge'
As we walked back to the car we noticed Luc was much further forward than when we'd left him and apparently we'd been told to board 5 minutes previously. We sprinted to the car hoping to get in before the guard noticed our gleeful joy and brought down the hammer of justice crashing down upon our sinful skulls. He must have sensed the unwelcome presence of laughter and wheeled round reaching for his taser (probably) as we jumped into the already moving car shouting "Go, go, go!"
The sandwiches, dissapointingly for Luc, were in reality one ham and one cheese rather than a combination of the both. Rather than 'ham and cheese'' this selection box would have been more accurately named "Ham then cheese" 4/10. Had to rearrange contents.
Contrarywise, I was very satisfied with my wine which I believe was what is known in the trade as a ‘white’ wine. The label informed me of this and also that it would have expired in 2016 had I not finished it before we got on the train. I honestly was impressed that it came with a bottle opener and a packet of biscotti and would recommend anyone without dignity to try and get in the flexiplus lounge because entry guarantees free wine and they're lax with ticket inspections so you could, in theory, say you were a bus of forty and get forty bottles of ‘wine’.
Once we were on the train I started to get a bit anxious because we were in the tall vehicles section which meant we were in with all the school buses. All the kids immediately got off their buses and started looking for things to break and the most irresponsible places to piss. The car was surrounded so we decided if we couldn't beat them to join them. In hindsight, I suppose, between the three of us, we could have beaten all of them to death if we were really on form but it didn't seem the done thing and in any case joining in with what the children were doing seemed like much more fun. They were all laughing and traipsing up and down between the narrow gaps between the coaches and the sides of the train.
Luc and I, fearing for our safety, let Jonny take the lead and he began down the side of a coach towards a huge group of gossiping preteen girls at the end of the carriage. As Jonny started down the side of the coach I pulled Luc back and let Jonny go halfway down the coach before screeching 'EXCUUUSE ME!' past him at the girls and ducking back behind the coach with Luc. They all looked round and started laughing at the weirdo guy walking towards them looking over his shoulder for his 'friends'.
He took it pretty graciously. I suppose he realised it could have been worse. At least I didn't go with: 'I'm a paedo!' or 'Miley Cyrus sucked my shit!' The response from which would surely have left him with permanent hearing damage from the inevitable ultrasonic-screeches that are the natural preteen defence to unwelcome information.
We got back to the car and all the windscreen wipers were still attached and there was no piss on the door handles, or at least no more than we started with, so we considered ourselves pretty lucky and carried on into France which was pretty much the same as England but cars drive on the other side of the road and everyone’s pissed off all the time.
It was OK but the elevated spirits and adrenaline from the flexiplus buzz, wine and fear of children was starting to wane on the French motorway so we decided to try as find a backwater French village and try to get some food from a hostile, militantly French speaking Anglophobe. We couldn't quite find what I imagined. I wanted dinginess and only one thing on a stained old menu. What we did find was that although there are villages off the motorway, no one lives in them. All the curtains are closed and there's nothing but dust. We stopped to pump an old water pump but this didn't satiate our thirst for hostility. We eventually found it in a village named Jizy. Relenting and going into a fairly plastic looking, modern restaurant called terribeau or something to that effect. Bare in mind this was 1 o'clock on a Friday afternoon when I say she looked at us like we were fucking retarded for asking for a 'table pour trois' right in the middle of lunch time. There were maybe 30 empty tables in there and she told us we were too late for lunch and we should try the next nearest town.
Although we wanted the uncomfortable atmosphere we also wanted food, which we never got. Even in Riems, the 'town', all the restaurants were closed and the girl we asked for a 'restaurant ouvre' looked at us like we'd told her 'miley Cyrus sucked our shit' and walked off so we gave up and at ate some old bread and meat Luc had in his bag.
While we were eating a woman took her dog out to shit in the park in front of us. Overall Riems wasn't kind to us and I was happy to get back on the road.
I think I fell asleep at this point because I don't remember any other things in France except you have to pay to use the motorway and every once in a while you have to chuck euros into a machine and get a 'recu' Since we were in a right hand drive car the passenger had to deal with this transaction so it meant Luc would pull up to the machine just far enough away so that Jonny had to lean his whole body out of the car and stretch to press the buttons which he didn't understand while me and Luc kept shouting contradictory instructions and telling him to hurry up or just yelling the word 'recu' over and over until Jonny was flustered, in pain and we couldn't breath from laughing.
Luc must have been driving for 9 hours by the time we got to the mountains and it started to show as he is a talented, professional photographer but he kept taking shit cameraphone photos of all the identical tunnels in Europe saying he was going to 'make a collage.' if you think that sounds good get in touch with Luc at luclacey.com or, alternatively, get in touch with the Samaritans directly because you need help and a shitty collage of tunnels is not going to help. It's going to send you over the edge.
Jonny must have sensed Luc was close to the edge too because he took over the wheel for the last hour and took us in to Die-St-Des-Vosges where Mazda had kindly provided us all with hotel rooms despite me and Jonny having nothing to do with anything. We all received our press passes which it later turned out to be essentially 'free-whatever-you-ask-for-pass'. It didn't leave my neck until we left the country.
That night, Luc had to have a meal with the Mazda people so naturally we accompanied him. After a few pre-dinner brandies the awkwardness of sitting with these Mazda people,who must have been wondering what the fuck I was doing there pretending I knew why a longer wheelbase would be beneficial for ice drifting, was a distant memory. There was so much cutlery and rich French food and wine on the table if I hadn't been having such a great time with Guillaume and the like I could have just kept my mouth full the whole time to avoid talking and giving myself away as not knowing an axle from a pretzel.
After dinner the press passes got put to the test as we headed out into the town. The first bar we went into we asked for the manager. He looked annoyed to be pulled away from his conversation with the only two good looking girls in the place but we explained how we were writing an article on 'the town (since we couldn't pronounce it) and that we would put a good word in the magazine for his bar. He didn't even feign interest; just looked us up and down and said 'how much have you drunk?' 'How much are you going to drink?' 'Is it going to cost me a lot?!' 'No.' We assured him. He nodded to the bar maid and that was that.
I woke to the sound of knocking on my door. It was so musical that it implied that whoever was knocking had been there long enough to get into a rhythm. I was late, all my stuff was scattered around the room and there was an apple under my bed. As has become habit in this situation after hearing too many horror stories I checked my butt to see if I'd been molested. I hadn't. At least not with any menace. After ten minutes, I stumbled out as Jonny was coming back to start knocking again.
We had a great buffet breakfast with these piles of bacon and French hash browns. I asked for a ginger tea, lemon and honey because my throat was fucked for some reason. The guy said yes and came back with earl grey. Whatever, it's all free And I don't deserve any of it. 'What a lucky cunt I am' I thought.
Considering I couldn't give two shits about racing cars, I really enjoyed the ice racing. All these cars bunting it round the ice-track sliding out the whole way and fucking it into the walls and each other reminded me of my 12th birthday and going to the stock car racing with my step dad. Except no one was putting on bets with rolls of grubby fifties today and everyone was drinking champagne rather than cans of Carling.
Well, everyone was drinking champagne except us. Our press passes and wristbands only got us as far as free food and tea. After we'd seen enough racing and broken the coffee machine, me and Jonny decided we were going to need access to the VIP tent. The bouncer politely declined and pointed to a list of 4 levels of VIP wristband that we didn't have. We weakly protested: 'press passé' before saying "ok, no worries" to him, walking away and then in unison "let's go round the back." As luck would have it they were loading in trays of canapés so we offered to help. When they declined we walked in behind them smiling at everyone. Boom! Free champagne and weird little tuna burgers. For some reason everyone in there was wearing blue scarves but they were all too drunk to notice us loading up on all their weird, miniature food.
I wondered if these VIPs get a kick out of miniature food because it makes them feel massive; like they're giants eating normal sized food. I believe I have gone some way to confirming this theory because I hear rich and famous people often have dwarves serving them at parties, who would also make them feel bigger. If anyone can confirm or deny this theory or has any more evidence either way I would be interested to hear it.
While Luc was taking photos of the racing, me and Jonny went back to the hotel to check out since we'd forgotten in the morning. This didn't go too smoothly but we didn't bother telling Luc that we'd taken a twenty mile de tour up and down the motorway missing exit after exit and almost running out of fuel.
Luc got all the photos of the race he needed and of the Mazda that won. Later we went onto the track so Luc could take a photo of the racing Mazda with the Mazda 3 he'd been loaned by work. I went on to help but all I could think about was not falling over in front of all the hundreds of people watching and taking photos. It was a proud moment seeing my friend doing what he's good at in a situation which could be stressful since the last thing the drivers wanted to do was stand around while Luc did a light reading and asked Jonny to move the car a bit for the perfect shot.
At this point the work aspect of the trip was over for Luc and we were going snowboarding for 5 days. Jonny said if the trip had ended there we would have had a nice holiday and he was right. I was already injured from laughing and I hadn't stepped on my snowboard, which, incidentally, I had got for a steal on gumtree the night we left.
We headed straight for Ischgl after checking out and having one last tea on Mazda. First we had to get through Germany then Switzerland.
We stopped off for pizza, thankfully, just over the border in Austria. For reasons which will become clearer later I hate Switzerland with a passion, It should be impossible to hate a country that seems as bland as it's cheese. It's not though; it's bland and soulless with a helping of humourless, self righteousness ( I was going to put: like Ed Sheeran here but it would be too kind on the Swiss and to harsh on him)
The pizzas were pretty good and despite our tiredness we managed to use pi to figure out the best deal. Unfortunately this was after we'd ordered. When we'd nearly finished our 4 medium pizzas the owner who'd been watching us eat for 15 minutes told us we couldn't eat in there and made us leave. We started to feel pretty unwelcome in Europe but with our resolute British spirit undampened we battled on.
Because of all our sightseeing in France we were going to arrive at the hotel seven hours too late to check in. I rang the owner who understood what I was saying about as well as I understand why I keep using the phrase 'Miley Cyrus sucked my shit'. I tried to ring her back twelve times but it was no good. Having got used to the idea we'd have to sleep in the car it was an awesome surprise that she answered the door so quickly she must have been standing next to it. Later we would discover that, as a pre-programmed cyborg, phone calls and conversation would be obsolete. The only language was action and all our actions would be 'verboten'.
The first thing Jonny said after getting into the room was "I've left all my clothes as home." Just didn't bring them. Left them all on the driveway 900 kilometres away. If you know Jonny you'll know he's more of a TKmaxx bargain underwear kind of guy so, when we went into 'Sport and Mode Zangerl' in Ischgl where a a long-sleeved T shirt was 80 euros, I knew we'd have to be on form to walk out with anything. Andrea and Erika drove a hard bargain. The press pass, our full on slime-charm and a promise of named praise in an international magazine could only get us a 5% discount on €40 purchase after twenty minutes. Meaning, we can extrapolate, that we value our time at €6 an hour for the pair of us. Well I hope you're happy with your praise Erika and Andrea: If someone I know gets kidnapped and I have to pay the ransom I want you two to negotiate the price.
-10 degrees C in howling wind and snow, it turns out, is enough to near enough tear the skin from your face when you start trying to snowboard through it at pace. One run into the holiday it was back in the shop and the press pass was back out. This time- no luck. 25 euros each on micro snoods to warm us but also make us look like Mexican gangsters with goggles on. Prada lookbook AW16 here we come.
Of course, the warmer face came with a trade off, now the big fly goggles were steaming up all the time and combined with the clouds and snow and steam I couldn't see a fucking thing and kept falling on my fucking arse and knees all the fucking time. I was swearing like Malcolm Tucker in a traffic jam and moaning like Karl Pilkington in a Chinese toilet. Fortunately for me and everyone else this didn't last long and we were having fun before I could say "fuck this I'd rather shit in me fucking hands and wipe me arse with a bastard file"
In the evening we went to a restaurant called Kitzloch for steaks. Jonny had braised beef cheeks with "old school mashed potatoes" I really regret not asking what the significant developments in mashed potato technology have been and how we, in England, have been so callously left in the dark like... a bag of potatoes?
With the question still ringing in my ears, we went over the bridge to a bar, empty except for some Belgians playing a game called Noggin which in English translates as 'Worst possible idea for a bar game'. If they had it in England there would be casualties every night. First of all there is a hammer involved. Not a comedy hammer or even just a normal hammer but a hammer with one side which is like a pick axe. Secondly there are nails everywhere. The idea is you have to smack your nail into the tree stump, which serves as the surface for the game, with the pickaxe end of the hammer. If that doesn't seem ridiculous enough add in the fact that everyone's been drinking since 4 and people keep stumbling past, putting their drinks and hands on the stump. I was genuinely surprised there was still only one stump at the end of the night.
The second time we played noggin was on the last night with some Swiss guys. First Phil bought us all Jagers. Then he started smashing glasses, at first with the hammer, then just by hurling them in our general direction. Very mixed signals Phil. I'd describe Jonny as a tolerant guy but eventually when the fourth glass landed near our feet but didn't break he nonchalantly booted it back at Phil, smashing it against the wall next to him. Phil didn't break any more glasses. Props to the barman who didn't bat an eyelid.
Since Luc had the car it meant we didn't have to get the Schibus every day which was a blessing. However, as with all these things there is a trade off. We had to deal with some militant parking situations. Take the first day; as Luc's getting ready to reverse into a space, a big fuck off ML with Polish plates steams straight into the spot while his dickhead mate waves him in. I'd love to say we let his tires down and drew a big 'fuck you' on his windscreen but we didn't. We did the English thing and just found another spot opposite them. In fact I drew a big cock on Luc's bonnet and wrote SWANK under it. Then rubbed off the S. That'll teach 'em.
The parking situation did have a good side though. At the other car park they had 2 parking attendants whose job it is to point you to the spot. You might think it's obvious, just park next to the last car, but you'd be wrong. No wait, sorry, you'd be right. One of the attendants was the sage, old master. The other was just a wannabe novice with no game. When the novice would point us to a spot we'd just blank him and drive over to the master because, like Jonny pointed out, you can't just go straight in at the top, you have to work your way up in this game. Not just any old dickhead can point at a parking space you know. One day, when we got to the car park, wise old parking yoda wasn't there so Luc pretended he'd forgotten his boots so we could come back 20 minutes later. Thank the sweet lord he was there or do you think we would have been able to find a space in a half empty car park? No, no way. More likely we would have driven straight through the fence into the tennis courts or maybe all the way out the back into the river and drowned. We should has tipped him really even if only for having to mop up the idiotic mistakes his apprentice was surely making all day.
The mornings in general were quite tense after pissing off our cyborg/human hosts by arriving for breakfast 7 minutes late on the first morning. She came up to our room after we'd finished eating and jabbed a pointed finger to the laminated page where it said 8.30-9.30. "Oh yes" i said. "Sorry" i said."hmmf" she said shaking her head. All the while Luc was trying to get up the images on her website where it said we'd have a kitchen so he could do his own "hmmf". Alas the wifi (weefee) wasn't working. You win this round, bitch.
From that day onwards each morning we would arrive at exactly 0830 and then proceed to take ALL the food at breakfast. Every last bread roll would be stuffed with butter, meat and cheese wrapped in cling film and hidden in every pocket before she spotted us. If she wasn't a bionic computoborg she would have clocked something wasn't right. How could we eat 8000 calories for breakfast each? But that was how much she put out so that was how much was permitted. 1-1.
Then came the petty rearrangements. Me and Luc started swapping ornaments around just in small enough ways so that they'd wonder, for example, if the chair and the vase had always been that way round. However, at this point we hadn't realised that they did a 6am predator-esque laser scan that searched for anomalies. After we re-velcroed her flip flops up slightly wrong, we found the next day, after she'd come up to clean (read: reorganise) our room, that the fingers of our gloves which, had been on the radiator all night to dry, had been dipped in water, the window was open and the radiators were all off so we were freezing. 2-1 to her.
Our room's big window and balcony door faced towards the Schibus stop. In the morning it was a bit if a rush to get everyone showered in time for our rigid 0830 breakfeast. I would sometimes change behind the curtain, so as to not take up the bathroom for too long. If any of the 20 people at the bus stop had looked over they could easily have seen me naked but why would they look this way when the bus was coming from the other direction? Well, one reason would be because as soon as I dropped my towel Jonny leapt across the room and started banging on the window before yanking it open and yelling "EXCUUUYYSEE MEEE" at the top of his voice then running away while I just stood there literally with my dick in my hands with all these skiers trying to work out what the fuck I was shouting about. 1-1
With this battle on both fronts I was in serious trouble. The next morning I tried to keep out of harm’s way and let Jonny ride shotgun while I took a back seat. Bad move. Luc drove up to a pair of girls so my window was level with them. He started lowering it and I saw what was coming and tried to put it back up but no. Child lock. "EXCUUUUSE MEEE." I just closed my eyes and kept my head forward laughing. I don't know what they said, it was in German, but it sounded like "What a retard, who does that?"
Alongside the pair of cherries above the door, Pacha claimed to be "the best club in the alps" I was very skeptical but it wouldn't make much difference to me and Luc after sharing a bottle of rum before we left the hotel. First we went for a meal at a hotel Jonny had found on trip advisor. Perhaps the rum gave me too much confidence because I was adamant from entering the hotel that we were having a 50 percent discount on everything. With my press pass too close to his face and my wild rum-eyes spinning in my head he refused the discount. We stormed out. Two minutes later, we returned after finding the next nearest restaurant was empty. The warm glow and delicious smells of quality wafting from the kitchen lured us back in with our tails between our legs.
I'd never had venison before and in our weakened mental state we succumbed to ordering the 800g sharing plate. The waitress came back with our beers and very apologetically explained that what we had ordered takes 24 hours to prepare. She must have believed our line about writing a review since she reappeared in an instant with an enormous portion of the next best venison dish. It was amazing and at least enough food for 2 people each. By this point, Luc was trying to fist bump the camera and high five the waitress. This was turning out just how we wanted.
A short, freezing stumble through the town took us to 'The best club in the alps' Jonny told us to let him do the talking since we were slurring. Maybe we could have clocked it wasn't so great when there was no queue, we didn't. Still no one when we got to the cloak room. Except the attendant; leaning back on his chair with his feet up watching something on his iPhone. He wasn't just surprised to have to sit up he was visibly irritated and so unhelpful he almost flat out refused to take our coats. After some gentle persuasion he took them and we went upstairs, which was an incredible hotel lobby, not a club. Nice though, really beautifully decorated; high ceilings, marble, grand piano probably. I have no idea to be honest but the impression I got was that we shouldn't be up there. We went back downstairs where we felt more comfortable; in the dark.
The club was so big and nicely designed that surely the only way it could stay open with only four people in there was if it was funded by the Russian gangsters that are almost advertised on Ischgl's own website as a selling point.
Maybe I'm gay because there is no way I can enjoy strip clubs before I'm blackout drunk. Where are you supposed to look? I'm not exactly a Jane Austen gentleman but I find it awkward to stare straight at a girl's snatch unless I know she's attracted to me. If anyone can explain how that isn't awkward without saying: "she's getting paid" or "she enjoys the attention," which are possibly true but irrelevant to the awkwardness, then I'd like to know.
However, I was blackout drunk and I very much enjoyed Pacha; from inventing a back story as a stuntman for our new friend Charlie so he could chirpse an ageing hooker and her (daughter?!) to spending a solid hour talking feminism with Karla the Czech stripper while she waited for her friend to finish on stage, the night was every bit as unusual as I could have hoped.
Midway through the night we took a break from Pacha to go to another club in the basement of Hotel Post. This was a pretty nice club too with a raised, ornately carved wooden balcony level along one side and a 360 degree bar taking up most of the space in the club allowing just enough room for a dance floor full of giant, old, toad men smoking cigars and rancid grandcougars looking to prey on banter-hunting-unilads (BHUs) desperate to use the condom in their wallets before they expired.
It gets hazy at this point but I know the cloakroom attendant didn't like us any more than he had at the beginning of the night and it wasn't helped by Luc repeating a nonsense phrase over and over to no one in particular, Jonny losing his ticket and me telling him he didn't have to enjoy his job but he did have to be courteous. Whatever, we made it out without being taken into a stairwell and kicked in the chest with steel toe boots so it’s an improvement on my experience of Zoo bar. 8/10 for Pacha.
It was the third day when we began to speak exclusively in Irish accents. We were somewhere around lift B2 when the accent began to take hold and once you get locked into a serious accent the tendency is to push it as far as you can. We ended up with what is undoubtedly the most Irish phrase conceivable. It goes like this: "Joe Flannagan and his brothers both, they drank the bar dry so they did and may God so help them if they didn't." Say it out loud; there is literally no way to say it in any other accent. Incidentally I have never heard an Irish accent in a ski resort before so I'm going to see this as our first significant contribution to snow sport culture.
Somehow I've managed to get five thousand six hundred words into this story about our snowboarding trip without mentioning any snowboarding so I suppose it must be time. Ischgl really is a good resort for snowboarders, there’s a fair amount of really good off-piste slopes. Having said that, we shared a lift with a 60 year old Israeli guy, who’d come to Ischgl with his then fiancé, 30 years ago, told us that France is way better for off-piste. Though, this tidbit was probably the least interesting thing he told us. In the four hundred metre ascension we shared he managed to succinctly get through the history of Israel 1917-present and analyse modern day Syria before disappearing off the other way and leaving us to one of the three so-called ‘extreme’ runs. I’m not really sure how this rating system works because half of these supposedly, piss easy blue runs invariably end up with me either getting caught behind a skier and trying to stop so quickly I end up sliding out and near enough splitting my coccyx in half on the cold, hard ice or going so slowly on the flat parts that I have to get out of my back binding and do the awkward half hopping sliding walk of shame. It seems that these are the really taxing runs whereas the blacks and certainly these ‘extreme’ runs are nice untouched snow with no one around to get in your way making the whole experience much more relaxing and enjoyable. Nothing about ‘*Hazard* EXTREME RUN 9 *Hazard*’ says relaxing to me, but it absolutely was. It was pretty steep and the first time we went over to it, it was mid snowstorm, visibility was about five metres and the skier who went before us told us to ‘say a little prayer’ before we started. Luckily, or perhaps thanks to our show of faith in God, we survived and this run would lead to one of three decent snow parks.
Whereas Luc and I have essentially become massive pussies the older we've got, Jonny seems to have taken the alternative route and is now a gnarly bastard. He kept smashing it over these kickers so fast he’d almost miss the landing and when we went to use the kicker to airbag set up they had. Jonny bypassed the 360s Luc and I were trying and went straight in for the backflip, followed pretty soon after by the misty flip which he landed so perfectly he was standing up right on the airbag until it deflated.
I was happy to complete my aim of the holiday, which was to land a 360. Beaming I proudly asked the taboo question: “Did you see that?” “Yeah, sick!” He said and I was proud all the way up until the point later in the evening when Luc informed me that I looked more like a ballerina doing a pirouette. Great, where I’d thought I was on my way to laying down hammers on Art of Flight 2 I actually looked like Dick van Dyke prancing about in Mary Poppins. Never mind.
On the last day, while Luc waited in the bar getting a cold arse after nearly breaking his back earlier in the day, Jonny really took the piss. I turned around after thinking I’d just caught some half decent air to see Jonny flying through the air, his board flapping up and down like a wing four or five times in the air before he landed just short of the end of the landing ramp, at least ten metres from where he’d taken off, leaning back, sliding out and coming to a stop and staring at the sky reflecting on what he’d just done. We rode down the last bit of the way to the bar in the sunset listening to the reggae blasting out of the soundsystem of the guys who ran the snowpark who were sitting atop their hut smoking a joint watching the last of the people leaving the piste, before, I guess, having the snow park to themselves. I want to do that, I thought. Next year.
The piste map was pretty confusing and the lift names could be easier to differentiate if they weren't, in typical Austrian fashion, just numbers and letters. Given this and the fact that they are both more experienced in the snow than me, Jonny or Luc would normally lead the way. After gathering a bit of confidence after the first few days I decided to take the lead on a long off piste route which would take us round the back side of the mountain, far, far away from any lifts and then join up with the outermost run of the resort. We had the comfort at least, I reasoned, that if we went too far down the mountain before we reached the piste, we wouldn't be stranded, we would end up on a road and could get a taxi or bus back to the nearest lift. It was a pretty tough ride traversing all the way. We got entangled in trees at parts and Jonny had to jump a ravine after misjudging a high speed corner but we made it, fortunately, without having to resort to the road. Very fortunately, in fact, because the road I’d seen on the map wasn't a road. It was a river.
Retaking my rightful place lagging behind at the back turned out alright for me when Luc and Jonny somehow managed to, rather than use the whole mountain range of space they had to work with, smash into each other at 30 mph as Jonny tried to rejoin the run at exactly the moment Luc tried to air out of the side of it. When I arrived on the scene a minute later neither of them were moving but Luc was making a noise not dissimilar to mating foxes, which, if you’re not familiar, is basically the sound of a crying child. There were two massive craters in the snow where Luc had caught a back edge and flipped through the air, bouncing twice before finding his resting place where he crouched on his knees trying to breathe. Jonny was just sitting up looking dazed trying to work out what happened. If it hadn't been so worrying it would have been pretty funny, luckily they both managed to walk away from it with no major injuries. Pretty impressive if you think how it would feel to jump out of a car into snow, then imagine doing that with a big cumbersome piece of plastic and steel strapping your feet together. Not ideal.
"This counts as an emergency you'll have to wait until the emergency services arrive to clear this broken down truck before you can leave."
Ok cool, just stop shouting- that's the only emergency here. We all got out to assess the situation and to test our ears hadn’t been irreparably damaged. There was a broken down truck blocking the slip road into the petrol station and a queue of cars behind us. Apparently stuck but no. Jonny started yanking the barriers up the slip road and up past the Mazda 3 Luc had been leant by work clearing a way for cars to pass the truck on the curb to the side. We steamed through and everyone followed. This was our first success among many failures on our way to Ischgl to go snowboarding via St-Die-Des-Vosges for Luc to take photos of an ice-race. Can't say no to a free road trip!
Everything really kicked off nicely when, on arriving at the euro tunnel, we were told that our tickets permitted us access to the dreamy sounding 'flexiplus lounge'. However, when we pulled up in the waiting area next to a coach full of kids on a school trip and got to the one security guard in the place, he told us Luc's Mazda with the roof rack containing our snowboards made the car too high to be allowed access to the area home to the elite flexiplus lounge facility we'd heard so much about. Devestating news.
Undeterred, Jonny and I hopped out of the car to 'stretch our legs'. We walked over to the pitiful food option we had on the poor man’s side of the fence which was a burger van run by two friendly ladies. They pointed over an enormous fence which they told us was used previously at Wagwantanamo bay. Anyway, we explained that the mean spirited security guard wouldn't let us go there and she said she'd feed us if we didn't make it back alive.
We waited for the perfect moment to pounce and when he turned, no doubt tell someone else that all their hopes and dreams were nothing but piss and ash, we started sprinting. Childlike grins plastered across our faces, we belted towards the fence and disappeared behind it out of view.
Into our view came the most glorious site: a squat, prefabricated building not dissimilar to a storage container with the words 'flexiplus lounge' above a very electronic, automated door the likes of which we'd only seen in lots of other places such as shopping malls and inner city youth clubs. The inside, on the other hand was another matter entirely. Gorgeous, poundshop purple wall paper adorned the thin walls and one hundred percent genuine synthetic leather chairs sat atop beautiful wood-effect laminate flooring. Though we didn't have time to use the facilities they included a 22 inch poly colour television set and probably at least one other thing.
We were pleasantly surprised to find that our tickets, which we hadn't brought with us in our world-war-one-esque rush over the top, granted us each one of a few awesome packages. With so much choice Jonny and I were as excitable as two twenty six year olds in a flexiplus lounge and we pored over the options before going for two sets of ham and cheese sandwiches and one wine selection box.
While Jonny and I were having the time of our lives salivating over our selections, Luc was being interrogated by the security. Knocking on the window and asking 'Where are your mates?' to which Luc shrugged and half answered 'I dunno'. This pretty much ruined his day and the despair rang through his voice as the severity of his situation started to sink in. 'Don't tell me they're in the flexiplus lounge'
As we walked back to the car we noticed Luc was much further forward than when we'd left him and apparently we'd been told to board 5 minutes previously. We sprinted to the car hoping to get in before the guard noticed our gleeful joy and brought down the hammer of justice crashing down upon our sinful skulls. He must have sensed the unwelcome presence of laughter and wheeled round reaching for his taser (probably) as we jumped into the already moving car shouting "Go, go, go!"
The sandwiches, dissapointingly for Luc, were in reality one ham and one cheese rather than a combination of the both. Rather than 'ham and cheese'' this selection box would have been more accurately named "Ham then cheese" 4/10. Had to rearrange contents.
Contrarywise, I was very satisfied with my wine which I believe was what is known in the trade as a ‘white’ wine. The label informed me of this and also that it would have expired in 2016 had I not finished it before we got on the train. I honestly was impressed that it came with a bottle opener and a packet of biscotti and would recommend anyone without dignity to try and get in the flexiplus lounge because entry guarantees free wine and they're lax with ticket inspections so you could, in theory, say you were a bus of forty and get forty bottles of ‘wine’.
Once we were on the train I started to get a bit anxious because we were in the tall vehicles section which meant we were in with all the school buses. All the kids immediately got off their buses and started looking for things to break and the most irresponsible places to piss. The car was surrounded so we decided if we couldn't beat them to join them. In hindsight, I suppose, between the three of us, we could have beaten all of them to death if we were really on form but it didn't seem the done thing and in any case joining in with what the children were doing seemed like much more fun. They were all laughing and traipsing up and down between the narrow gaps between the coaches and the sides of the train.
Luc and I, fearing for our safety, let Jonny take the lead and he began down the side of a coach towards a huge group of gossiping preteen girls at the end of the carriage. As Jonny started down the side of the coach I pulled Luc back and let Jonny go halfway down the coach before screeching 'EXCUUUSE ME!' past him at the girls and ducking back behind the coach with Luc. They all looked round and started laughing at the weirdo guy walking towards them looking over his shoulder for his 'friends'.
He took it pretty graciously. I suppose he realised it could have been worse. At least I didn't go with: 'I'm a paedo!' or 'Miley Cyrus sucked my shit!' The response from which would surely have left him with permanent hearing damage from the inevitable ultrasonic-screeches that are the natural preteen defence to unwelcome information.
We got back to the car and all the windscreen wipers were still attached and there was no piss on the door handles, or at least no more than we started with, so we considered ourselves pretty lucky and carried on into France which was pretty much the same as England but cars drive on the other side of the road and everyone’s pissed off all the time.
It was OK but the elevated spirits and adrenaline from the flexiplus buzz, wine and fear of children was starting to wane on the French motorway so we decided to try as find a backwater French village and try to get some food from a hostile, militantly French speaking Anglophobe. We couldn't quite find what I imagined. I wanted dinginess and only one thing on a stained old menu. What we did find was that although there are villages off the motorway, no one lives in them. All the curtains are closed and there's nothing but dust. We stopped to pump an old water pump but this didn't satiate our thirst for hostility. We eventually found it in a village named Jizy. Relenting and going into a fairly plastic looking, modern restaurant called terribeau or something to that effect. Bare in mind this was 1 o'clock on a Friday afternoon when I say she looked at us like we were fucking retarded for asking for a 'table pour trois' right in the middle of lunch time. There were maybe 30 empty tables in there and she told us we were too late for lunch and we should try the next nearest town.
Although we wanted the uncomfortable atmosphere we also wanted food, which we never got. Even in Riems, the 'town', all the restaurants were closed and the girl we asked for a 'restaurant ouvre' looked at us like we'd told her 'miley Cyrus sucked our shit' and walked off so we gave up and at ate some old bread and meat Luc had in his bag.
While we were eating a woman took her dog out to shit in the park in front of us. Overall Riems wasn't kind to us and I was happy to get back on the road.
I think I fell asleep at this point because I don't remember any other things in France except you have to pay to use the motorway and every once in a while you have to chuck euros into a machine and get a 'recu' Since we were in a right hand drive car the passenger had to deal with this transaction so it meant Luc would pull up to the machine just far enough away so that Jonny had to lean his whole body out of the car and stretch to press the buttons which he didn't understand while me and Luc kept shouting contradictory instructions and telling him to hurry up or just yelling the word 'recu' over and over until Jonny was flustered, in pain and we couldn't breath from laughing.
Luc must have been driving for 9 hours by the time we got to the mountains and it started to show as he is a talented, professional photographer but he kept taking shit cameraphone photos of all the identical tunnels in Europe saying he was going to 'make a collage.' if you think that sounds good get in touch with Luc at luclacey.com or, alternatively, get in touch with the Samaritans directly because you need help and a shitty collage of tunnels is not going to help. It's going to send you over the edge.
Jonny must have sensed Luc was close to the edge too because he took over the wheel for the last hour and took us in to Die-St-Des-Vosges where Mazda had kindly provided us all with hotel rooms despite me and Jonny having nothing to do with anything. We all received our press passes which it later turned out to be essentially 'free-whatever-you-ask-for-pass'. It didn't leave my neck until we left the country.
That night, Luc had to have a meal with the Mazda people so naturally we accompanied him. After a few pre-dinner brandies the awkwardness of sitting with these Mazda people,who must have been wondering what the fuck I was doing there pretending I knew why a longer wheelbase would be beneficial for ice drifting, was a distant memory. There was so much cutlery and rich French food and wine on the table if I hadn't been having such a great time with Guillaume and the like I could have just kept my mouth full the whole time to avoid talking and giving myself away as not knowing an axle from a pretzel.
After dinner the press passes got put to the test as we headed out into the town. The first bar we went into we asked for the manager. He looked annoyed to be pulled away from his conversation with the only two good looking girls in the place but we explained how we were writing an article on 'the town (since we couldn't pronounce it) and that we would put a good word in the magazine for his bar. He didn't even feign interest; just looked us up and down and said 'how much have you drunk?' 'How much are you going to drink?' 'Is it going to cost me a lot?!' 'No.' We assured him. He nodded to the bar maid and that was that.
I woke to the sound of knocking on my door. It was so musical that it implied that whoever was knocking had been there long enough to get into a rhythm. I was late, all my stuff was scattered around the room and there was an apple under my bed. As has become habit in this situation after hearing too many horror stories I checked my butt to see if I'd been molested. I hadn't. At least not with any menace. After ten minutes, I stumbled out as Jonny was coming back to start knocking again.
We had a great buffet breakfast with these piles of bacon and French hash browns. I asked for a ginger tea, lemon and honey because my throat was fucked for some reason. The guy said yes and came back with earl grey. Whatever, it's all free And I don't deserve any of it. 'What a lucky cunt I am' I thought.
Considering I couldn't give two shits about racing cars, I really enjoyed the ice racing. All these cars bunting it round the ice-track sliding out the whole way and fucking it into the walls and each other reminded me of my 12th birthday and going to the stock car racing with my step dad. Except no one was putting on bets with rolls of grubby fifties today and everyone was drinking champagne rather than cans of Carling.
Well, everyone was drinking champagne except us. Our press passes and wristbands only got us as far as free food and tea. After we'd seen enough racing and broken the coffee machine, me and Jonny decided we were going to need access to the VIP tent. The bouncer politely declined and pointed to a list of 4 levels of VIP wristband that we didn't have. We weakly protested: 'press passé' before saying "ok, no worries" to him, walking away and then in unison "let's go round the back." As luck would have it they were loading in trays of canapés so we offered to help. When they declined we walked in behind them smiling at everyone. Boom! Free champagne and weird little tuna burgers. For some reason everyone in there was wearing blue scarves but they were all too drunk to notice us loading up on all their weird, miniature food.
I wondered if these VIPs get a kick out of miniature food because it makes them feel massive; like they're giants eating normal sized food. I believe I have gone some way to confirming this theory because I hear rich and famous people often have dwarves serving them at parties, who would also make them feel bigger. If anyone can confirm or deny this theory or has any more evidence either way I would be interested to hear it.
While Luc was taking photos of the racing, me and Jonny went back to the hotel to check out since we'd forgotten in the morning. This didn't go too smoothly but we didn't bother telling Luc that we'd taken a twenty mile de tour up and down the motorway missing exit after exit and almost running out of fuel.
Luc got all the photos of the race he needed and of the Mazda that won. Later we went onto the track so Luc could take a photo of the racing Mazda with the Mazda 3 he'd been loaned by work. I went on to help but all I could think about was not falling over in front of all the hundreds of people watching and taking photos. It was a proud moment seeing my friend doing what he's good at in a situation which could be stressful since the last thing the drivers wanted to do was stand around while Luc did a light reading and asked Jonny to move the car a bit for the perfect shot.
At this point the work aspect of the trip was over for Luc and we were going snowboarding for 5 days. Jonny said if the trip had ended there we would have had a nice holiday and he was right. I was already injured from laughing and I hadn't stepped on my snowboard, which, incidentally, I had got for a steal on gumtree the night we left.
We headed straight for Ischgl after checking out and having one last tea on Mazda. First we had to get through Germany then Switzerland.
We stopped off for pizza, thankfully, just over the border in Austria. For reasons which will become clearer later I hate Switzerland with a passion, It should be impossible to hate a country that seems as bland as it's cheese. It's not though; it's bland and soulless with a helping of humourless, self righteousness ( I was going to put: like Ed Sheeran here but it would be too kind on the Swiss and to harsh on him)
The pizzas were pretty good and despite our tiredness we managed to use pi to figure out the best deal. Unfortunately this was after we'd ordered. When we'd nearly finished our 4 medium pizzas the owner who'd been watching us eat for 15 minutes told us we couldn't eat in there and made us leave. We started to feel pretty unwelcome in Europe but with our resolute British spirit undampened we battled on.
Because of all our sightseeing in France we were going to arrive at the hotel seven hours too late to check in. I rang the owner who understood what I was saying about as well as I understand why I keep using the phrase 'Miley Cyrus sucked my shit'. I tried to ring her back twelve times but it was no good. Having got used to the idea we'd have to sleep in the car it was an awesome surprise that she answered the door so quickly she must have been standing next to it. Later we would discover that, as a pre-programmed cyborg, phone calls and conversation would be obsolete. The only language was action and all our actions would be 'verboten'.
The first thing Jonny said after getting into the room was "I've left all my clothes as home." Just didn't bring them. Left them all on the driveway 900 kilometres away. If you know Jonny you'll know he's more of a TKmaxx bargain underwear kind of guy so, when we went into 'Sport and Mode Zangerl' in Ischgl where a a long-sleeved T shirt was 80 euros, I knew we'd have to be on form to walk out with anything. Andrea and Erika drove a hard bargain. The press pass, our full on slime-charm and a promise of named praise in an international magazine could only get us a 5% discount on €40 purchase after twenty minutes. Meaning, we can extrapolate, that we value our time at €6 an hour for the pair of us. Well I hope you're happy with your praise Erika and Andrea: If someone I know gets kidnapped and I have to pay the ransom I want you two to negotiate the price.
-10 degrees C in howling wind and snow, it turns out, is enough to near enough tear the skin from your face when you start trying to snowboard through it at pace. One run into the holiday it was back in the shop and the press pass was back out. This time- no luck. 25 euros each on micro snoods to warm us but also make us look like Mexican gangsters with goggles on. Prada lookbook AW16 here we come.
Of course, the warmer face came with a trade off, now the big fly goggles were steaming up all the time and combined with the clouds and snow and steam I couldn't see a fucking thing and kept falling on my fucking arse and knees all the fucking time. I was swearing like Malcolm Tucker in a traffic jam and moaning like Karl Pilkington in a Chinese toilet. Fortunately for me and everyone else this didn't last long and we were having fun before I could say "fuck this I'd rather shit in me fucking hands and wipe me arse with a bastard file"
In the evening we went to a restaurant called Kitzloch for steaks. Jonny had braised beef cheeks with "old school mashed potatoes" I really regret not asking what the significant developments in mashed potato technology have been and how we, in England, have been so callously left in the dark like... a bag of potatoes?
With the question still ringing in my ears, we went over the bridge to a bar, empty except for some Belgians playing a game called Noggin which in English translates as 'Worst possible idea for a bar game'. If they had it in England there would be casualties every night. First of all there is a hammer involved. Not a comedy hammer or even just a normal hammer but a hammer with one side which is like a pick axe. Secondly there are nails everywhere. The idea is you have to smack your nail into the tree stump, which serves as the surface for the game, with the pickaxe end of the hammer. If that doesn't seem ridiculous enough add in the fact that everyone's been drinking since 4 and people keep stumbling past, putting their drinks and hands on the stump. I was genuinely surprised there was still only one stump at the end of the night.
The second time we played noggin was on the last night with some Swiss guys. First Phil bought us all Jagers. Then he started smashing glasses, at first with the hammer, then just by hurling them in our general direction. Very mixed signals Phil. I'd describe Jonny as a tolerant guy but eventually when the fourth glass landed near our feet but didn't break he nonchalantly booted it back at Phil, smashing it against the wall next to him. Phil didn't break any more glasses. Props to the barman who didn't bat an eyelid.
Since Luc had the car it meant we didn't have to get the Schibus every day which was a blessing. However, as with all these things there is a trade off. We had to deal with some militant parking situations. Take the first day; as Luc's getting ready to reverse into a space, a big fuck off ML with Polish plates steams straight into the spot while his dickhead mate waves him in. I'd love to say we let his tires down and drew a big 'fuck you' on his windscreen but we didn't. We did the English thing and just found another spot opposite them. In fact I drew a big cock on Luc's bonnet and wrote SWANK under it. Then rubbed off the S. That'll teach 'em.
The parking situation did have a good side though. At the other car park they had 2 parking attendants whose job it is to point you to the spot. You might think it's obvious, just park next to the last car, but you'd be wrong. No wait, sorry, you'd be right. One of the attendants was the sage, old master. The other was just a wannabe novice with no game. When the novice would point us to a spot we'd just blank him and drive over to the master because, like Jonny pointed out, you can't just go straight in at the top, you have to work your way up in this game. Not just any old dickhead can point at a parking space you know. One day, when we got to the car park, wise old parking yoda wasn't there so Luc pretended he'd forgotten his boots so we could come back 20 minutes later. Thank the sweet lord he was there or do you think we would have been able to find a space in a half empty car park? No, no way. More likely we would have driven straight through the fence into the tennis courts or maybe all the way out the back into the river and drowned. We should has tipped him really even if only for having to mop up the idiotic mistakes his apprentice was surely making all day.
The mornings in general were quite tense after pissing off our cyborg/human hosts by arriving for breakfast 7 minutes late on the first morning. She came up to our room after we'd finished eating and jabbed a pointed finger to the laminated page where it said 8.30-9.30. "Oh yes" i said. "Sorry" i said."hmmf" she said shaking her head. All the while Luc was trying to get up the images on her website where it said we'd have a kitchen so he could do his own "hmmf". Alas the wifi (weefee) wasn't working. You win this round, bitch.
From that day onwards each morning we would arrive at exactly 0830 and then proceed to take ALL the food at breakfast. Every last bread roll would be stuffed with butter, meat and cheese wrapped in cling film and hidden in every pocket before she spotted us. If she wasn't a bionic computoborg she would have clocked something wasn't right. How could we eat 8000 calories for breakfast each? But that was how much she put out so that was how much was permitted. 1-1.
Then came the petty rearrangements. Me and Luc started swapping ornaments around just in small enough ways so that they'd wonder, for example, if the chair and the vase had always been that way round. However, at this point we hadn't realised that they did a 6am predator-esque laser scan that searched for anomalies. After we re-velcroed her flip flops up slightly wrong, we found the next day, after she'd come up to clean (read: reorganise) our room, that the fingers of our gloves which, had been on the radiator all night to dry, had been dipped in water, the window was open and the radiators were all off so we were freezing. 2-1 to her.
Our room's big window and balcony door faced towards the Schibus stop. In the morning it was a bit if a rush to get everyone showered in time for our rigid 0830 breakfeast. I would sometimes change behind the curtain, so as to not take up the bathroom for too long. If any of the 20 people at the bus stop had looked over they could easily have seen me naked but why would they look this way when the bus was coming from the other direction? Well, one reason would be because as soon as I dropped my towel Jonny leapt across the room and started banging on the window before yanking it open and yelling "EXCUUUYYSEE MEEE" at the top of his voice then running away while I just stood there literally with my dick in my hands with all these skiers trying to work out what the fuck I was shouting about. 1-1
With this battle on both fronts I was in serious trouble. The next morning I tried to keep out of harm’s way and let Jonny ride shotgun while I took a back seat. Bad move. Luc drove up to a pair of girls so my window was level with them. He started lowering it and I saw what was coming and tried to put it back up but no. Child lock. "EXCUUUUSE MEEE." I just closed my eyes and kept my head forward laughing. I don't know what they said, it was in German, but it sounded like "What a retard, who does that?"
Alongside the pair of cherries above the door, Pacha claimed to be "the best club in the alps" I was very skeptical but it wouldn't make much difference to me and Luc after sharing a bottle of rum before we left the hotel. First we went for a meal at a hotel Jonny had found on trip advisor. Perhaps the rum gave me too much confidence because I was adamant from entering the hotel that we were having a 50 percent discount on everything. With my press pass too close to his face and my wild rum-eyes spinning in my head he refused the discount. We stormed out. Two minutes later, we returned after finding the next nearest restaurant was empty. The warm glow and delicious smells of quality wafting from the kitchen lured us back in with our tails between our legs.
I'd never had venison before and in our weakened mental state we succumbed to ordering the 800g sharing plate. The waitress came back with our beers and very apologetically explained that what we had ordered takes 24 hours to prepare. She must have believed our line about writing a review since she reappeared in an instant with an enormous portion of the next best venison dish. It was amazing and at least enough food for 2 people each. By this point, Luc was trying to fist bump the camera and high five the waitress. This was turning out just how we wanted.
A short, freezing stumble through the town took us to 'The best club in the alps' Jonny told us to let him do the talking since we were slurring. Maybe we could have clocked it wasn't so great when there was no queue, we didn't. Still no one when we got to the cloak room. Except the attendant; leaning back on his chair with his feet up watching something on his iPhone. He wasn't just surprised to have to sit up he was visibly irritated and so unhelpful he almost flat out refused to take our coats. After some gentle persuasion he took them and we went upstairs, which was an incredible hotel lobby, not a club. Nice though, really beautifully decorated; high ceilings, marble, grand piano probably. I have no idea to be honest but the impression I got was that we shouldn't be up there. We went back downstairs where we felt more comfortable; in the dark.
The club was so big and nicely designed that surely the only way it could stay open with only four people in there was if it was funded by the Russian gangsters that are almost advertised on Ischgl's own website as a selling point.
Maybe I'm gay because there is no way I can enjoy strip clubs before I'm blackout drunk. Where are you supposed to look? I'm not exactly a Jane Austen gentleman but I find it awkward to stare straight at a girl's snatch unless I know she's attracted to me. If anyone can explain how that isn't awkward without saying: "she's getting paid" or "she enjoys the attention," which are possibly true but irrelevant to the awkwardness, then I'd like to know.
However, I was blackout drunk and I very much enjoyed Pacha; from inventing a back story as a stuntman for our new friend Charlie so he could chirpse an ageing hooker and her (daughter?!) to spending a solid hour talking feminism with Karla the Czech stripper while she waited for her friend to finish on stage, the night was every bit as unusual as I could have hoped.
Midway through the night we took a break from Pacha to go to another club in the basement of Hotel Post. This was a pretty nice club too with a raised, ornately carved wooden balcony level along one side and a 360 degree bar taking up most of the space in the club allowing just enough room for a dance floor full of giant, old, toad men smoking cigars and rancid grandcougars looking to prey on banter-hunting-unilads (BHUs) desperate to use the condom in their wallets before they expired.
It gets hazy at this point but I know the cloakroom attendant didn't like us any more than he had at the beginning of the night and it wasn't helped by Luc repeating a nonsense phrase over and over to no one in particular, Jonny losing his ticket and me telling him he didn't have to enjoy his job but he did have to be courteous. Whatever, we made it out without being taken into a stairwell and kicked in the chest with steel toe boots so it’s an improvement on my experience of Zoo bar. 8/10 for Pacha.
It was the third day when we began to speak exclusively in Irish accents. We were somewhere around lift B2 when the accent began to take hold and once you get locked into a serious accent the tendency is to push it as far as you can. We ended up with what is undoubtedly the most Irish phrase conceivable. It goes like this: "Joe Flannagan and his brothers both, they drank the bar dry so they did and may God so help them if they didn't." Say it out loud; there is literally no way to say it in any other accent. Incidentally I have never heard an Irish accent in a ski resort before so I'm going to see this as our first significant contribution to snow sport culture.
Somehow I've managed to get five thousand six hundred words into this story about our snowboarding trip without mentioning any snowboarding so I suppose it must be time. Ischgl really is a good resort for snowboarders, there’s a fair amount of really good off-piste slopes. Having said that, we shared a lift with a 60 year old Israeli guy, who’d come to Ischgl with his then fiancé, 30 years ago, told us that France is way better for off-piste. Though, this tidbit was probably the least interesting thing he told us. In the four hundred metre ascension we shared he managed to succinctly get through the history of Israel 1917-present and analyse modern day Syria before disappearing off the other way and leaving us to one of the three so-called ‘extreme’ runs. I’m not really sure how this rating system works because half of these supposedly, piss easy blue runs invariably end up with me either getting caught behind a skier and trying to stop so quickly I end up sliding out and near enough splitting my coccyx in half on the cold, hard ice or going so slowly on the flat parts that I have to get out of my back binding and do the awkward half hopping sliding walk of shame. It seems that these are the really taxing runs whereas the blacks and certainly these ‘extreme’ runs are nice untouched snow with no one around to get in your way making the whole experience much more relaxing and enjoyable. Nothing about ‘*Hazard* EXTREME RUN 9 *Hazard*’ says relaxing to me, but it absolutely was. It was pretty steep and the first time we went over to it, it was mid snowstorm, visibility was about five metres and the skier who went before us told us to ‘say a little prayer’ before we started. Luckily, or perhaps thanks to our show of faith in God, we survived and this run would lead to one of three decent snow parks.
Whereas Luc and I have essentially become massive pussies the older we've got, Jonny seems to have taken the alternative route and is now a gnarly bastard. He kept smashing it over these kickers so fast he’d almost miss the landing and when we went to use the kicker to airbag set up they had. Jonny bypassed the 360s Luc and I were trying and went straight in for the backflip, followed pretty soon after by the misty flip which he landed so perfectly he was standing up right on the airbag until it deflated.
I was happy to complete my aim of the holiday, which was to land a 360. Beaming I proudly asked the taboo question: “Did you see that?” “Yeah, sick!” He said and I was proud all the way up until the point later in the evening when Luc informed me that I looked more like a ballerina doing a pirouette. Great, where I’d thought I was on my way to laying down hammers on Art of Flight 2 I actually looked like Dick van Dyke prancing about in Mary Poppins. Never mind.
On the last day, while Luc waited in the bar getting a cold arse after nearly breaking his back earlier in the day, Jonny really took the piss. I turned around after thinking I’d just caught some half decent air to see Jonny flying through the air, his board flapping up and down like a wing four or five times in the air before he landed just short of the end of the landing ramp, at least ten metres from where he’d taken off, leaning back, sliding out and coming to a stop and staring at the sky reflecting on what he’d just done. We rode down the last bit of the way to the bar in the sunset listening to the reggae blasting out of the soundsystem of the guys who ran the snowpark who were sitting atop their hut smoking a joint watching the last of the people leaving the piste, before, I guess, having the snow park to themselves. I want to do that, I thought. Next year.
The piste map was pretty confusing and the lift names could be easier to differentiate if they weren't, in typical Austrian fashion, just numbers and letters. Given this and the fact that they are both more experienced in the snow than me, Jonny or Luc would normally lead the way. After gathering a bit of confidence after the first few days I decided to take the lead on a long off piste route which would take us round the back side of the mountain, far, far away from any lifts and then join up with the outermost run of the resort. We had the comfort at least, I reasoned, that if we went too far down the mountain before we reached the piste, we wouldn't be stranded, we would end up on a road and could get a taxi or bus back to the nearest lift. It was a pretty tough ride traversing all the way. We got entangled in trees at parts and Jonny had to jump a ravine after misjudging a high speed corner but we made it, fortunately, without having to resort to the road. Very fortunately, in fact, because the road I’d seen on the map wasn't a road. It was a river.
Retaking my rightful place lagging behind at the back turned out alright for me when Luc and Jonny somehow managed to, rather than use the whole mountain range of space they had to work with, smash into each other at 30 mph as Jonny tried to rejoin the run at exactly the moment Luc tried to air out of the side of it. When I arrived on the scene a minute later neither of them were moving but Luc was making a noise not dissimilar to mating foxes, which, if you’re not familiar, is basically the sound of a crying child. There were two massive craters in the snow where Luc had caught a back edge and flipped through the air, bouncing twice before finding his resting place where he crouched on his knees trying to breathe. Jonny was just sitting up looking dazed trying to work out what happened. If it hadn't been so worrying it would have been pretty funny, luckily they both managed to walk away from it with no major injuries. Pretty impressive if you think how it would feel to jump out of a car into snow, then imagine doing that with a big cumbersome piece of plastic and steel strapping your feet together. Not ideal.
Wednesday, 7 May 2014
The Best Milkshake in Queens
Certain people just know best about certain things. Maybe you wouldn't ask him for his daily workout routine or for a recommendation on a beard trimmer but if it's advice on vapourisers or the best place to get a delicious milkshake in Queens then Action Bronson is really the man for the job.
He's been going since he was a kid and now he's old and he has wrinkles on his balls the malted milkshakes at Eddie's sweetshop takes him back to innocent days of dreaming of doing cannonballs into the vats of fudge and elbow drops into the whipped cream.
Episode 1 of Bronson's "Fuck, That's Tasty" from 'Munchies' channel:
Wednesday, 4 September 2013
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