Condescending to Snowboard

Holla to my homeboys.

It’s possible that during your life, inbetween snorting paprika off the bellies of eastern europeans and deflowering 50-year old welsh women you may be called upon to perform a service for a friend without payment (or, ‘favour’ as it may be classed). In my case, despite being adored throughout Europe as a doyen of the slope on skis, I have been asked to travel to El Mundo Nuevo and teach some poor benighted peasants how to descend a slope on a plank of wood in ways that can only be described as ‘not backwards’.

This duty is solemn to me. I know the task is arduous and fraught with danger (or Pease’s ass falling on one’s face as it is commonly described). But I’m dedicated to it and I swear to each and every one of you, my dedicated readers, that I shall make snowboarders of them, however rotund, right wing or ruhginger that they are.

The Merry Band

L to R: Ant, Dave, Dec & Aggles

Four go forth

Real men go on real holidays. Real men spend their winters hurtling down mountains strapped to flimsy, laminated layers of fibreglass and wood with a steel edge. Real men fly half way around the world in search of mountains with the perfect snow. Real men get up at dawn and trek up the mountains to ride virgin slopes before the lifts open. Real men spend après-ski drinking neat whiskey while chewing on K-rations. Real men, however, are not the kind of men you are going to find amidst the posts on this blog. Actually we’re not even sure if the following are even men:

Ant (aka Mushy) (aka The Doctor)
Well known in chemistry circles as a complete and utter charlatan, Dr Ant is perhaps best known for his 1665 treatise on the origins of the mythical Guinea Pig Man. Having being sent down for undisclosed charges in a Dutch criminal court, he promptly escaped to the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by The Institute of Chemistry of Great Britain and Ireland. Proceedings, 1919. Part I, he survives as purveyor of herbal remedies to HRH the Duke of Edinburgh. Never destined for great things, Ant will spend the forthcoming holiday being extricated from snow drifts and teenage girls.

Aggles (aka Bingo) (aka Flo) (aka Dickie “The Dick” Dickinson)
The bastard son of a Danish social democrat and TV’s Cheech Marin, Aggles was, from his conception in a Volkswagen camper van in 1960’s northern California, doomed to be a left-leaning, bleeding-heart, overly-hyphenated liberal. Having spent his formative years propping up socialist regimes in South and Central America, Bingo has since settled down to a life of quiet contemplation in his beloved Putney where he likes to work on his Inigo Montoya impersonations. Usually one to bolt for the hills at the first whiff of a faceplant, Aggles will doubtless resort to skis about 17 minutes into this trip.

Dave (aka Ginger) (aka Ladykiller)
With a personality coming in on the colour spectrum somewhere between beige and taupe, Dave is perhaps best remembered for butchering his entire house at Harrow with little more than a soft bristled toothbrush and the sharpened edge of his wit. Always the bridesmaid and never the bride, Ginger’s dressing-up wardrobe has never been able to stretch to the full matrimonial outfit. When not xxxxxx xxxx-xxxx in xxx xxxxxxxxx Aggles, Dave is generally to be found stalking the public schools of England brandishing his Oral-B. Depressingly adept on a snowboard, one of his erstwhile travelling companions is bound to do him in sometime around Day 4.

Dec (aka Oddball) (aka Accident Prone)
With a background more inbred and right-wing than that of the Swiss Family Robinson, Dec is never more than three sentences from a full-blown international incident. While probably more at home in his spiritual home of the Alps, this child of empire will doubtless feel at his ease in the Queen’s Dominion of Canada. Always one to shy away from a fight, this Irish-born, girlie man will doubtless have severely injured himself by the time our motley crew reaches baggage claim. Look out for him on the slopes because he sure as hell won’t be looking out for you.

The difficult second trip

Yohimbe!

The Godfather had The Godfather: Part II.
Alien had Aliens.
Blacula had Scream Blacula Scream.
And lo, it came to pass that sevendaysofgaysontrays is to have SHOUTYboughtaringinstead.

We’re doing it again, and this time, we’re doing it bigger and better than before. Where the last trip lasted a week, this time, we’re off for 10 days. Where last time we stayed in Europe, this time we’re off to Canada. Where the weather last time was positively balmy—in an alpine sense of the word—this time it’s going to be sodding freezing. Where last time we went as novice snowboarders, this time we’re going as novice snowboarders who can turn in both directions. Except those of us who can’t; you know who you are.

As things stand now, we’re all booked up, and counting down the few weeks which remain. Having ridden my luck somewhat last time round, featuring one wipeout in which I swear I tasted my collarbone, I’ll be padding up somewhat more for the big trip. The gloves from last time served me well, however I feel that my natural arsepadding might be in need of some unnatural augmentation. Having seen the comfort and panache afforded to Dec whilst enjoying an Aasgaard-enhanced Mexican meal, I fear that my life may not be complete without one. Having seen the weather forecast, some kind of thermal underpantery may well be in order too

So, short of some posterial padding and some lovely clingy leggings, all the kit that I bought for last time should still be valid. All I have to concentrate on now is not knackering my knees, back, or face in any of my three remaining rugby matches—a tall task after a 100-minute extra time cup tie yesterday—and everything should be good. I’m sure that there’s absolutely nothing else at all which could go wrong.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zip.

Oh dear. We’re all going to die. Again.