Quotes of the week

You’re a horrible boyfriend.
Dec lays it out to Bingo.

What I need is a montage.
Dec couldn’t be arsed actually learning to board.

I’m terribly sorry, I’m a gentleman.
Ant, sliding slowly downhill, apologises after grabbing two handfuls of Austrian instructor funbag.

The next time I see a 5-year old I’m going to glass the fucker.
The talented wee bairns on the slopes upset an inept Dec.

I smell like a donkey sanctuary.
Après-ski, Ant gets a whiff of his socks.

A – I’m going to be the big spoon.
D – Then I’m going to be the teaspoon.
A – Cool. Fine by me.
D – Can Teddy be the egg spoon?
Ant and Dec discussing the night’s sleeping arrangements.

I don’t care who you’re talking to – hang up. It’s bang-bang time.
Ant emerges from the shower clad only in a towel and insists that Dec curtail his conversation with The Girlfriend.

I’m so glad SHOUTY’s not here.
Declan sees the bright side in the midst of a long-winded conversation about semantics.

Dec: There hasn’t been enough homosexuality on this trip.
A: Suck this and say that again.
Ant brings Dec up on a point of order.

I’m still obsessed with Ant’s wanking spanner.
A qoute by Bingo. Genuinely, I have no idea of any context in which this is acceptable.

L – Who sings this song?
A – Aaron Neville.
Dave – Gary Neville?
Dave refuses to hide his knowledge of soul music under the bushel of silence.

So is she all about the Lego and the bacon, then?
Dec questions a complete stranger about his Danish wife.

I’m having a problem with the snow.
Dave puts his finger on the problem with snowboarding.

L – Oh Christ, we’re bad. What’s snowboard speak for “Less than rad”?
A – DEG?
Ant earns mad respect from his boarding homies by breaking out jokes about scientific calculators.

I think I’m ready to go now.
Dec’s “Captain Oates moment” before sliding backward down an Alp.

But then I forgot I had a maglev installed in my arse.
Lawrence tries to explain away another of his sliding-down-the-hill-leaving-an-arsefurrow moments.

Dec – I was contemplating a serious blog post about family, friends, and syphilis.
A – I’ve got all three of those.
L – Piss off – you’ve got no mates.
Dec – And your family did all die of syphilis.
Stark reality is gently unveiled to Mushy in the kind, caring way that his colleagues know best.

Dec – Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Parlez vous Fraincais? Do you speak English?
Girl – Nederlands.
Dec tries to engage the 6 year old girl with whom he’s sharing a chair lift in conversation. Dec failed.

He’s young, dumb and full of cum.
Ant appraises the new boarding instructor.

I’ll pop a lid in your ass.
Dec gets street on the slopes.

I think it’s because you’re old and you suck.
A precocious 16 year old Dutch girl appraises Ant’s snowboarding malaises.

Ist Kapitalismus nicht wunderbar?
(Is capitalism not wonderful?)
Dec, while walking through a crowded outdoor bar brandishing an empty bottle of Champagne.

You never vote for us in Eurovision.
Enraged, a visibly shaking Dave pulls out the campest insult of the holiday, directed toward a random Maltese bloke.

Perl strikes me as a particularly effete language.
Ant plumbs the depths of his boundless knowledge of IT, to serve up some more wisdom to the admiring masses.

I know that one of them is clubs, and the other spades.
Amarillo Dec shows his poker face during a game of Cards.

And was the holy lamb of [thud]
Ant sings hymns down the side of an Alp while faceplanting the holy living shit out of himself.

A – You’re the most middle-class looking person I’ve ever seen.
Dec – If I were any more middle class, I’d be outside gunning down migrants.
Dec puts forward his candidacy for UKIP.

Work

Work sucks, doesn’t it?

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

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.

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

Lost for words

It’s not very often that your author (Dec) is lost for words. In fact the last time, save today, he can recall being in such a predicament was when watching his Imperial Guard routed by the 52nd Light Infantry. This afternoon, after a late luncheon, Dec ventured forth to get his right-wing haircut reduced to a more controllable centre-right affair.

Strolling into a local coiffeur, he was confronted by the tallest woman it has ever been his grave misfortune to encounter. She could best be described as a chav version of Allison Janney – well over 6 foot and with hoop earings that wouldn’t look out of place on Saturn. The ensuing conversation went something like this:

CJ Chav: What would you like done?
Dec: Blade 3 on the back and sides and quite a lot off the top please
CJ Chav: About that much?
Dec: Sure
CJ Chav: You’re taking quite a lot off
Dec: Yes, I’m off snowboarding next week and will be wearing headgear a lot of the time
CJ Chav: Ohhh, that sound nice. Isn’t it dangerous though?
Dec: Not really, am only learning so won’t be into anything serious
CJ Chav: So do you like danger and thrill seeking?
Dec: Eh, not particularly. It’s really not that dangerous, we’re only learning
CJ Chav: Hmmm, sounds dangerous to me. My friend Sharon is just back from skiing and her face got very tanned. Don’t fancy it myself.
Dec: ….ok
CJ Chav: I reckon that if you’re that much into thrill seeking you should try something else..
Dec: Like what?
CJ Chav: Well you could pull a fat chick and not use a condom
Dec: Eh…mmm…eh
CJ Chav: I do like your Irish accent
Dec:
CJ Chav: Is that enough off your fringe?
Dec:

Once again your author has met his Waterloo.

Recycling old junk

Preparation continues apace for this epic voyage of discovery, pain and general humbling of our pride and masculinity. Well. I (flo) say ‘our’ masculinity.

Anyway, so far my purchases have been been limited to gloves with wristguards and kneepads. I’m recycling an old jacket and sewing up my old salopettes. In addition, a slight American twang picked up as a reprobate in deepest darkest Westchester County, NY has rendered my Norwegian Striker into the Home of the Norse Gods*, which will manifest itself as a fleece shoved down the back of my trousers.

Now if only someone sould sell me a sense of balance…

* An Asgard

Going mobile

Vorsprung durch technik! Replete with a mobile communications device – on which I’m writing this ever-so-witty post – we’re now set to go.

I think pretty much everything we need is bought, although I still need a Norwegian striker*, and dec needs a titanium hip on standby.

Having seen dec’s preliminary photos, he looks like any other run-of-the-mill Irishman dressed all in black and wearing a balaclava; namely entirely innocent, and not at all worth pulling down to the station to help the police with their left jabs. I (mushy), however, look like a sweaty fat ponce in a cheap coat and padded trousers.

I still fear that something appalling is going to happen while we’re away. Dread is spread all over my psyche like so much fake tan over a Romford slapper’s thighs.

Time will tell. I just hope that natty mobile communications devices aren’t banned on the ward on which I end up.

*An Aasgaard