Work

Work sucks, doesn’t it?

6 inches of fresh snow here overnight. It’s a tough job but someone has to do it.

I’ve got crazymadwicked skillz

Day 3 approaches after a surprisingly successful Day 2. The revelation is that I’m not actually shit at this snowboarding lark.

It’s my solemn duty at this stage to announce (or reconfirm, depending on your viewpoint) that I’m a natural left-footer. Going in a straight line is starting to feel quite easy, although much better when facing down the mountain. When I’m facing the slope, though, I tend to disregard Burton’s First Law, and put too much weight on my back foot, thus handily divesting myself both of control, and of the ability to stop sans faceplant.

Turning is starting to come to me, too. From toe-side to heel (sorry Xtreme – I don’t really know much of the terminology, and one feels that one will never be rad enough to use it in a proper sentence) is starting to become quite a manageable transition. Back from heel to toe, though, still seems to get me. Maybe it’s because I’m conscious that once I complete the turn, I’ll have to do one whole traverse on my toe side, thus opening the door to Mr Faceplant.

This morning, we’re going up a chairlift, which is good in one way because I don’t have to walk any more up that sodding hill, but bad in that I’ll have to get on and off of a chairlift without bumping into Señor Faceplanto.

Today, I shall be concentrating on even weight distribution when my toes are facing the mountain, thus starting to spend less time with my toes facing the sky. There’s been a 15 cm snowfall overnight, and visibility is picking up from an early morning mist, so there’ll never be a better time.

I shall report back tonight.

After Action Report (Day 2)

A quiet calm has descended on the picturesque spa town of Bad Gastein. After a hard day on the board, and a surprising amount of it vertical, we have retired to our hotel rooms to count our losses and regroup.

After 4+ hours sur la piste, there are few injuries to report. In fact there are none whatsoever meaning our numerous wives, sweethearts and graduates will have to wait at least another day for the telegram and Death In Service payout. In true Gays on Trays style, lets do this boarder by boarder.

Dave
The ladies’ favourite is also a dab hand with the ski instructor – Gunther. When not sweetly carving his way down the slopes, Ginger can be found garnering some extra tips from our Ski Lehrer. But it appears to be paying off because after Day 1, Dave has made the most progress, switching sides like an opportunistic Italian at the first whiff of defeat.

Dec
At the other end of the spectrum we have our plucky Irishman. His footwork is so fucked-up that no one knows whether he’s a natural, a goofy or just inept. Having shown him how to ride goofy all afternoon, the instructor realised that Dec’s board was set for natural. Having sorted that out, Oddball shot down the mountain, pulled off a turn, shouted “Look at me Ma, I’m king of the world” and promptly did a face plant. On the plus side, he does walk up a hill like a demon. Well that’s something, isn’t it?

Mushy
The good doctor is a revelation. Despite his considerable girth, he’s been been turning like a pint of milk in a thunderstorm. He quickly clocked that standing up was a good way of not falling down and it’s been downhill from there. But it’s not all been sweetness and light from Ant. The day kicked of with him grabbing two handfuls of female ski instructor bosom despite the fact that she was profering her arms to a wildly flailing Ant. He was swiftly transferred to another group and is now on the Austrian sex offenders’ register.

Bingo
Last and by all means least, we come to Aggles. Not in the same league as Dave and Ant, but better than Dec, Bingo has been cutting a mediocre dash through the field. Resplendent in his blue elf hat as he face plants his way down the mountain, he’s nothing if not a good slider. One of the day’s highlights was Bingo sliding down the hill on his arse in a slow tragic pirouette. The first 100 metres were funny, the second slide-splitting, the third the stuff from which legends are made.

Off into town now where Dec has promised to glass the first under 5 he sees. The little brats are pretty impressive on the mountain. Ah the mountain…

Day one – a synopsis

After over 5 hours in the beautiful hamlet of Bad Gastein, all is well. I say well, but could be mistaken. Ginger is back on the sauce. No major contraindications as of yet, but time is the cruellest of mistresses. Although saying that, there is one who works out of a basement in Hamburg. In light of this revelation, it’s probably safer to say that time is amongst the crueller of mistresses.

The major ramifications from the day seem to be that Declan is homicidal after last night’s snore-a-thon.

In light of our sombre, responsible roles at work, Dec and I decided to play Dressing Up once we got back to our room. My East-side gangster is second only to my fireman, although saying that, Dec’s Interpretive Dancer is also pretty special.

In the air

This seems like as good a time as any for a moment of quiet introspection after what can only really be described as a rather hectic night of booze-sodden silliness. Ginger tried to stop a train using his shoulder, and has already fallen backwards down a flight of stairs. Odds are shortening on him picking up the first major injury of the trip. Osty O’Porosis (Dec) of course remains a firm favourite. I (Mushy) have already picked up the first minor prang, nearly braining myself on the car boot as I tried to get Dec’s bag out of the boot of the Taxi. Blood has been drawn, so I suppose that it’s fair to say that the holiday has started.

As I write this, we’re 35,000 feet over Strasbourg. With Stuttgart straight ahead of us, Salzburg seems a short hop on the in-flight map. From there, it’s a coach journey to Bad Gastein, and our impending doom.

The trip has so far been quite educational for all of us. Dec has learned that I really do snore like a train, and that my olive branch gift to him of a pack of earplugs was not an overreaction. Ginger has (hopefully) learned that writing blog posts when hammered results in utter utter gibberish. Bingo seems to have cottoned on to the fact that to check a blog using a Blackberry the second that his friend saved it on an MDA makes the pair of them look like gits. For me, the real revelation is that if I want to work for St. Margaret’s Taxis, all I have to do, is follow these general rules.
1 When arranging to pick up four men with big bags, send as small a car as possible.
2 If facing a long journey, filling the car up beforehand with petrol is entirely optional.
3 Circuitous routes are always best; “as the crow flies” is for pussies.
4 Wiper blades are to be replaced with oily rags. That squeak.
5 Stick rigidly to the middle lane. Especially if you’re on a two lane road.
6 There’s a fan built in to the car, which can demist your windscreen, so that you can actually see where you’re going. Don’t ever use it.
7 Sharpen the edges of your boot lid so that smart-arsed fatsos have something to occupy their thoughts which isn’t their impending doom.

Righty ho – Stuttgart is now a distant, yet fond memory. Our descent – in so many ways – has begun. I’ll write more if I live that long. Adieu, mes amis.

Snowboarders der Massenvernichtung

Fan feckin’ tastic. Ridiculed, I have now found WordPress. I doubt I’ll live this down in a hurry. At least I’ll make it back in one piece. Mountain savvy me. Hours before snowballing dec and mushy are making light of their destiny and playing psp. Giggle giggle. Ant is wearing heart patterned boxers. What the bollocks. Fuck. Help.

Con te partiro

Farty O’Breakshisbones (dec) has begun the holiday safely, rather than risk himself on the danger of the pizza, he’s gone for chips. So potatoes then. National stereotype’s truly safe. Ant’s consideration for all mankind has extended to small yellow things to shove in one’s aural canal. Dave is dumbstruck with a mixture of horror for what he’s in for and bliss for being on holiday.

I’m tingling to the jingling of Ant’s thighs.

Stop the holiday…

…Dec wants to get off.

Bingo is talking about meta-schadenfreude and whether or not it’s W3C compliant, Ant is discussing the various merits of being a VP (which he is) and Dave wants to know what a Word-The-Press is.

South of the river

This is not good. only 3 hours into notres vacances, things have taken something of a rum twist. We’re south of the river, Ginger is pissed, Bingo is singing Diana Ross songs (specifically “I Hear A Symphony”), and Dec is wearing a bodywarmer. Luckily, I am still flying the flag of urban chic and savoir fair. This is going to be a long week. On the up side, we’re only ever one packet of KP Nuts away from Dec’s doppelganger, and the concommitant major international incident. More on that subject to follow…

The only ass that matters

Mushy may have his Norwegian striker and Bingo may have his home of the Norse gods but when it comes to protecting one’s posterior, I’m not taking any chances. The Irishman in me has no choice but to go with the 44-foot yacht used to smuggle guns from Imperial Germany to Irish rebels back in 1914*.

When it comes to gear for your rear there really can be no compromises which is why the serious novice has no choice but to go with the Impact Shorts from Dainese. Not only are they snug and protective but once I flash this baby in one of the local tavernas, those mountainy Austrian women will be putty in my hands.

*Asgard