The 'sexy' sport of skiing

Skiing has a reputation for being a ‘sexy’ sport and where all the beautiful people meet. I agree with this statement, certainly with regard to Female Old Git (FOG) as the picture shows she could be a princess from the Romanov dynasty:

Male Old Git (MOG) may not, however, be classified in quite the same bracket. First there is the process of donning the layers of ski gear. A glance at the mirror this morning in my full length ‘long john’ thermals, made me ponder why my grandfather and old man Steptoe had never been sex icons… There is then the morning visit to the bathroom to insert the dreaded contact lenses. Why I have to gape at the mirror with my mouth wide open is a mystery…
Then there is the most excruciating event of the day… pushing your feet into ski boots that plainly have shrunk in the night. The person who invents a really comfortable boot will be wealthy; that is a guarantee. Everyone who has just undertaken the task then proceeds to walk around as if performing in an audition for next Frankenstein movie.

Finally there are the gloves, the now infamous pom-pom, neck warmer, goggles, walkie-talkie, camera, sandwiches, chocolate bar, bottle of water, handkerchiefs, suntan lotion, keys, piste maps and wallet, all stuffed in the pockets of my already over sized jacket; it makes Michelin man look positively athletic. Meanwhile FOG looks rather peeved as she has to fit her lipstick into her figure hugging attire.

You enter the slopes to see an array of skiing styles. There is the “mincing” French style, which looks graceful but actually is technically out of date. There are carvers, racers, ploughers and then the two year olds, who only learnt how to walk last week, passing you at 200 kph almost lying on their backs…a cardinal sin for any adult. I haven’t mentioned the MOG style.



Despite the superb attempts by our excellent ski instructor, he’s done a wonderful job with FOG and everyone else, (and actually me: I’m only joking).

Graham Simpson of Easy2Ride looking relaxed on the slopes...

I start at the top of the slope looking reasonably competent. However gravity takes over and the 16 stone frame plunges down the hillside where only a desperate parallel stop can prevent an accident: this does tend to leave rather large ridges of snow scattered all the way down the nicely pisted slopes. (I’m still blaming the snow boarders for these abnormalities!) The chocolat chaud respites are actually a reason for the females to take a nature break, but the men soldier on in a manly fashion. More attempts at skiing ensue with FOG, and most passers-by, giving me advice on how to stop wrecking the pistes. Then the blessed relief of lunchtime.
You enter the restaurant to find hundreds of people waiting for a table and staff running around looking startled and bemused muttering, “Why does it always get so busy every lunchtime?” After half an hour you are shown to a table so crammed into a corner that Twiggy in a bikini couldn’t squeeze into, never mind the Alps’ version of Billy Bunter and his coat... You are now sweating profusely and after two well deserved pints of beer realise you can not hold nature back any longer. All the toilets are down long flights of steps with tiles and metal edges…excellent conditions for a wet, smooth ski boot to grip to! They of course only have one hand rail, which always seems to be on the wrong side of the stairs, but I now know why there are so many injuries on the mountains…it’s not being challenged by near vertical black moguls, but people just simply going for a ‘leak’. Nearly all restaurants have the men’s urinal in the corridor where the ladies are waiting for their cubical. You then have to fight through five layers of clothing to…well, all I am prepared to say on this subject is; it is very cold outside. You then stomp up the stairs feeling and looking like Herman Munster only to be greeted with the ‘l’addition’: I now know how Gordon Brown will feel when he goes to the IMF cap in hand.
The afternoon skiing always seems better as the pistes are empty; anyone with any sense is still wedged back in the restaurant. The last run of the day is down to the village where the après-ski is the highlight of this sport. You take off your skies and although the Old Gits would much prefer to go and change first; this is simply not done. You must shoulder the skis and walk in the middle of the road; ensuring traffic comes to a standstill and attempt to clout at least three people on the back of the head before you clomp, as nosily as you can, into the bar. Once again all the best bars are buried deep under ground and the potentially lethal stairs have to be encountered once more. The bars have one major advantage; they are so packed if you fall over, or faint from the heat, you’ll never hit the floor. Finally rubbing shoulders with the beautiful people has to end and MOG turns and, grabbing his beloved, stomps heavily and painfully back to the chalet.
The moans and sighs of relief of Old Gits unbuckling their boots is more akin to a blue movie, and, as usual FOG grabs the first bath: MOG sits and fidgets patiently concerned by the loud creaking noise from his joints. Finally she surfaces and the layers of MOG’s thermals and undies are quickly discarded on to bedroom floor as he plunges effortlessly into the soapy paradise. I didn’t see FOG’s disdainful look at the steaming pile of garments on the bedroom floor but I did hear her mutter something totally unprintable. As I said, ‘Skiing is a really sexy sport…’

For more information visit:

www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com

A Typical OGGY day

Since our arrival here over 5 weeks ago the old gits haven’t taken that many days off skiing and the tendons, ligaments and muscles are now creaking with the strain. (I am not expecting any sympathy!). We have also been blessed with some fabulous weather and stunning views.
We had decided to take a rest day but then our friend, who owns a chalet nearby, asked if we would like to join her in exploring a new ski area a few miles away. In usual OGGY style we had collected her in a matter of minutes and headed for the Grande Terche, St-Jean d’Aulps. It was a little disappointing with a long and very uncomfortable button lift and quite stony pistes. Our friend would normally have sought out a good restaurant but she hadn’t reckoned with the budget obsessed Old Gits… we ended up perched on a deck chair munching very cold and squashed sandwiches. Lunch was over in a blink of an eye and we hit the slopes again before finally retiring to a welcoming bar at the bottom of the mountain for a chocolat chaud. It shows how used you become to the costs out here when FOG (Female Old Git) comments on how reasonably priced the hot chocolate was... €4.50 for a small cup!
A benevolent mood hit MOG and I volunteered to take our friend to the garage to collect her car, also to undertake the food shopping and wash my own vehicle; it was so caked in salt the paintwork hadn’t been visible in weeks. Collecting our friend we found the garage on the side of the busiest road in the area, naturally, there wasn’t anywhere to pull in or park: that would have meant a sense of customer service. I finally managed to edge into a large doorway and my passenger hurried off to see if her car was ready. The large doors were suddenly flung open and I was faced with four Frenchmen pushing a car towards me. Reversing rapidly back into the main road, all hell broke loose. The road was now completely blocked with my car and our four Frenchmen with their unmanned vehicle careering down the road. The traffic was virtually backing all the way to Paris by this time and I did manage to edge over a little, accompanied by a multitude of horns; I could just about understand what the other drivers thought of me. Well, they do say the best way to learn a language is to live in the country. Her car, of course, wasn’t ready so we returned to the chalet and turning into her road (it was now dark) was greeted by the sight of an old Renault hurtling towards me with no lights on. A rapid acceleration meant I just avoided the oncoming car, only to collide with another coming up from the side road, also with no lights on: it must be a French way of saving energy. My friend, whose French is infinitely better than mine, jumped out and took the hapless driver to task. We agreed on knock for knock and he limped into the road, still with no lights, his rear bumper dragging along behind him. My German tank had only had a few layers of salt scrapped off. I dropped off my ashen faced friend, who I suspect headed straight to the drinks cabinet…
I returned to the supermarket and now, adept at shopping, had scooted round in no time at all and stood in the ever present check out queue. Suddenly I realised, as I started to empty the goods onto the conveyor belt, I must have inadvertently swapped trolleys half way round. Reversing out of the queue I caused yet more chaos and spied a very angry looking lady in the distance checking every trolley that passed her. Keeping well out of her way I discovered my trolley and, hauling both of them into a quiet alleyway, exchanged the goods just in time as the irate woman rounded the corner. I ambled off, nonchalantly studying the shelves, only to realise I was in the female hygiene section…
My final chore was to wash the car. I entered the booth and clambered out and slid several yards away. A huge slab of ice covered the entire area, which was made more treacherous by a layer of soapy water. Slipping over to the high pressure washer I pushed in my €2 coin, whereupon the ‘gun’ activated itself (there was no trigger to operate it) and grabbing the cleaner like a rifle, advanced towards the car only for the pressure to force me backwards and out of the booth… All attempts to clean the car failed miserably…
Frustrated, and now a touch angry, I did resist the urge to stop at the local bar but righteously made my way home. As I entered, laden with shopping, I was greeted by the sight of FOG trying to iron with the ‘family heirloom’. My mother had bequeathed her travel iron to us, which was about the size of a credit card and well over forty years old. A pang of guilt and concern stung me. When we had rented out our home everything electrical had been tested and checked to unbelievable lengths.
There was my nearest and dearest trying to iron my shirts with an old machine that I wasn’t sure was even earthed. I squeezed passed her, tripped on the flex and the iron did find earth but, unfortunately, via the FOG’s foot.

My benevolence wearing thin and dumping the bags made straight for the local bar, but it’s not quite the same as the Dysart…!

Now let’s discuss, the French… vive la difference

Ok, so I said I wasn’t going to write about the French, but I can’t resist the urge; it’s just too a perfect subject to leave untouched.

It may be better to focus on a few subjects (10 to be precise) between the old rivals:

1) Bread: France takes a very early lead 1-0.
Male Old Git (MOG) still rises early and takes himself off to the local patisserie just to stand there inhaling the wonderful aroma of ‘real’ bread… however don’t tell the Female Old Git (FOG) that the reason he only returns with one loaf is one has already been consumed… that’s why I don’t eat breakfast… (She thinks I’m dieting…!)

2) Cheese: France looking dominant and score again 2-0.
Sorry guys (especially to my cheese producing friends from Cheshire) they have the upper hand. Their pre-packed section would knock the socks off (pardon the analogy) most of our cheeses. There are, however, 2 exceptions: Stilton and, of course, Appleby’s Cheshire…

3) Roads: France take a huge 3-0 lead… Their roads are superb, despite the fact they are highway robbing b******s! (€60 from Calais to Les Gets, an equivalent of £600 road tax p.a., but hey you travel well).

4) Service: A convincing return to form for England, 3-1. The spotty, rude check-out lad in W H Smith (who has just graduated from Accrington University, reading Enid Blyton) could show the French a thing or two on service.
Even the snow melts slowly here…



5) Meat: A close call but England claw backs another goal, 3-2. The main reason for England’s goal is the Sirloin Joint and of course a leg of Spring Lamb. Some of the stuff they offer is… well positively…AGH!

6) Press & Media: Goal disallowed. Both nations are fixed on the principal that bad news sells newspapers and TV time. A Western disease… A business opportunity for one of our two UK Media moguls to report actual facts and not just the editor’s morbid view on the world.

7) Drivers: England scores an easy equaliser, 3-3. All the pensioners in my nearest town must have come out here to teach the French to drive. No concept of where they are, how to operate the car and, of course, do not show any respect to any other road users on foot or in a vehicle.

8) Cars: Beckham picks up the ball outside the French penalty area, turns and takes it all the way to the England goal and shoots into his own net. An incredible and unbelievable own goal. It is equivalent as our own successive governments destroying our manufacturing base, we don’t produce any cars, or for that matter precious little else, and then relying on the greedy City who finally showed their true colours…opps politics again. France takes the lead 4-3.

9) Hospitality: England bounce back strongly, 4-4. I have visited a lot of European countries: The Dutch, Germans and Italians, to name just a few, receive us with a smile and a touch of friendship. Driving in France with British number plates is a nightmare: I am not alone in this comment. When you finally break the ice the French are a very gracious and friendly people, but my heavens you really have to work at it. Walk into any bar around here frequented by the locals and you know how the Yorkshire Ripper would have felt if he had ever been released.

10) Quality of Life: Hell and damnation… France score a dramatic winner in the dying seconds…, let’s put it this way, buy a place in Provence and be one and half hours away from both the Med and the Alps with a ruck of French bread, French cheese and , oh I forgot, not bad French wine either… (I’m not totally biased…I didn’t put queuing, or real beer on the list!).


MOG relaxing French Alpine style…



For more information visit:

www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com

Je suis un grand pom pom noir

Yes, its official…, I have been called a large black pom pom, by a Frenchman, not in malice, in fact quite the reverse. Sliding down the piste clutching perilously onto the belief that I have any sort of control, out from the woods appears one of the mountain rescue team pulling a stretcher-sledge. A brief glance confirmed the sledge was empty and nodding at him I enquired if I could ‘cadge a lift!’ The man had one of those fabulously gnarled weather beaten faces that ooze with character: unlike mine where after a day’s skiing I can stop the traffic when back in town (no it has absolutely nothing to do with the occasional beer on the slopes; I just have a ruddy complexion).

His broad smile made his teeth gleam and that was when he nodded back to me acknowledging my headwear. I know he skied off at break-neck speed thinking that only an Englishman would wear such an apparition… well he’s wrong. What our mountain friend failed to realise was “grand pom pom noir” is a navigational beacon. Female old git has skied this area for nearly 5 weeks plus a further 2 weeks last year. She must have missed the queue for the navigation gene or, more likely; she grabbed a pair of jeans instead. There is however one exception and that is when her intuition tells her that a toilet is in the vicinity; she can be absolutely on the mark then… I once took off the said head garment, when it was hot, and she sailed right past me anxiously scanning the piste below for her “grand pom pom noir” like a lookout desperately searching for a lighthouse in a Force 10. So I may look like a complete jerk but it is all for a good cause…

And then there were two…

The apartment seems so quiet. The siblings and their friends have gone, while our friends, who are "potential old gits", left after a long weekend’s of great skiing. Bright blue skies and near perfect snow was only marred, well on Saturday anyway, by hordes of French day trippers…anybody would think they own the place. The newly arrived “potential old gits” did enjoy the empty pistes on Thursday and Friday and we found a quiet restaurant hidden away on a piste that had been recommended. Outside, ‘poulets’ were being spit-roasted and the good intentions of a hard day’s skiing evaporated as our mouths watered at the sizzling sight roast chicken; the aroma was heavenly. A glass of wine and the sun beating down on us meant all urgency had left us, only to be told when we asked for ‘l'addition’ we had to ski ‘off-piste’ to the nearest chair lift. No wonder the place was quiet! Actually the wine had once again bolstered our resolve and the short run through the trees had us wondering what all the fuss was about in “off-piste” skiing…, piece of cake. ( I have a feeling I am going to regret this remark).
It is important to listen to locals and glean their knowledge. “Saturday and Sunday are the best days to ski,” we were told; well I have never skied with so many people last Saturday. We made the mistake of visiting Avoriaz and it was shoulder to shoulder skiing in quite narrow and lumpy pistes. In the areas where pistes merged it was a life threatening task to cross them to your chair lift, actually it’s wasn't too bad, a bit like crossing the road here… The après-ski was a real necessity that evening.
On Sunday we visited the small self contained ski area near Les Gets called Mont Chery. It turned out to be a good move as it was relatively quiet while we could see Morzine and Les Gets were absolutely packed. Later we drove our friends back to the airport via Lac Leman and a small French equivalent of Portmeirion called Yvoire. If we thought drinks on the mountains were expensive then this place made them look positively economic. However it was the most charming walled ‘fort’ style village with a view straight to Geneva itself. I don’t think property prices are dropping here. Driving back to our empty apartment, we encountered 20-30 kilometres (notice I am going native) of traffic; fortunately coming the other way. How the two small towns of Morzine & Les Gets could take all these visitors is a mystery.
I was going to write a little blurb on my experience with the French, and before you think it would be typical English tirade at, you would be wrong. I have found one positive aspect to living in France, the bread: do they know how to cook bread… However I won’t follow in Price Harry’s footsteps and allow a bit of friendly banter be used against me. (Oops a little political…sorry).
After four weeks of tireless but very enjoyable “holiday”, the task in hand to seek out and find places“interesting and good value” begins in earnest. Several trips are being planned and in order not to clutter up this BLOG I will set up a sister site, linked of course, with more details and information on the places we have visited; watch this space…

New Year’s Resolutions and costs of skiing…

The youngest of the siblings has left but two friends of the oldest one have replaced him. Provisions are continuing to be demolished at an alarming rate…time to bring out the low loader and forklift truck again. New Year’s Eve started with an attempt at skiing but the snow and thick cloud made it very slow progress and we refrained from any visits to the mountain hostelries as a long night lay ahead. We were sitting on a balcony over looking Morzine and Avoriaz, watching the firework displays, when 2009 arrived, well it did in France, actually it was still 11.00 pm in the real world..., haven’t they heard of Greenwich Mean Time? Our ever tolerant friends had a full chalet and the evening had whiled away with excellent wine and food. Eventually as the cold bit into us we wandered back into the warm chalet, the log burner ensuring that global warming continued…

As with every New Year we discussed our resolutions, plans, hopes and fears for 2009. (This year the fear element seemed higher than norm). The usual resolutions were evident: must lose some weight, sort out the garden, try and get fit plus my annual joke: “I’m not drinking any more…, I’m not drinking any less…, but I’m not drinking anymore.” Then the two old gits looked at each other; we are homeless, jobless and if the £ continues to drop, penniless! (I should say centless but it is too close to senseless for my liking). So we didn’t make any resolutions except we will endeavour to undertake our travels to find interesting places which are good value; come what may and blow the consequences. {If my bank manager happens to be reading this…I’m only joking}.

This brings me onto the sport of skiing. Without doubt, for an old git anyway, it is one of the finest past times that one could enjoy. Strangely enough I’m not talking about the après ski but the sport itself. If you ignore the snow boarders, (one day they will be banned…it’s only a matter of time!), the whole experience is exhilarating, especially queuing with the French for the lifts. The views are quite frankly unbelievable and the bowl of soup, (when it eventually arrives), tastes about the best thing that has ever passed your lips; mind you it should do at the price you’ve probably had to pay for it. The old gits acknowledge it is an expensive past time but it is still excellent value for the money and that is the issue. It can however be done on a reasonably tight budget. You can find yourself sliding into a hot bath with the ice clinking in your Gin & Tonic. The sound of creaking joints are interrupted by a long moan of utter satisfaction as the bubbles surround your neck and the glass rim caresses your lips as your favourite music soothes your troubled brow. Yes, you can go down to the bars and spend €5 on a small beer and be jostled for your troubles, but old gits have found a better solution. Go self catering and you can buy all your food and drink for the entire evening for the equivalent of a round of drinks in the village centre. Oh my Lord, I really have become a very, very old git…

For more facts and information visit:

www.facts-oldgitsgapyear.blogspot.com