One Chaotic Week In The Alps

So there I was, invited on a ski holiday by a mate I’d only just met, because that’s the kind of questionable decision-making that keeps life interesting. She promised a "big fun group", which is always code for “you won’t know a soul but you might end up sharing a room with a bunch of weirdos.”

It was cheap — suspiciously cheap — because the boys and girls were each shoved into two big rooms like some sort of adult scout camp. I landed in the girls’ room, and let me tell you, there were six of us. Six women, one room, and zero secrets.

On the very first night, just as we were settling down, one of the girls — let’s call her Wig Girl (you’ll understand why shortly) — decided she had an announcement. Now, when someone says they have an announcement at bedtime, you assume maybe it’s something like, “I snore” or “I’m an aggressive sleep-talker” or “Please don’t steal my charger.”

Nope. Out of absolutely nowhere, she says, “Just so you know, I wear a wig because I’ve got alopecia, so don’t be alarmed if you see hair without a head on a chair.” Sorry, what now?

Look, I’m all for being upfront. Power to her. But that? That was a curveball delivered with the confidence of a woman who knows she’s about to rock your entire worldview. I was not prepared for floating hairpieces before lights out.

But we soldiered on.

The next morning, quack quack. Not a dream. Not a joke. Actual duck sounds shattered our sleep. Turns out, Wig Girl had forgotten to turn off her 7am work alarm — which, for some reason, was set to the sound of waterfowl in distress. And no, she didn’t turn it off. Not that day. Not any day. Every morning of our holiday began with the frantic squawk of ducks and a chorus of groans. I once yelled, “For crying out loud!” like an actual sitcom dad. She ignored me. Or maybe the ducks were louder.

Just when I thought I’d hit my limit of surreal events, we met The Grenade. Not a person (although frankly, that wouldn’t have surprised me at this point), but a drink. Picture this: a tequila shot balanced on a Jäger shot balanced on a glass of Red Bull. You yank the tequila, down it, and the Jäger drops into the Red Bull like a caffeinated bomb from hell.

It was the kind of drink that says, “You may not survive, but you will have stories.” Naturally, I had three. And naturally, I got wrecked.

So wrecked, in fact, that I hit on one of the girls in our group — bold, uncharacteristic, and frankly a bit bisexual of me. The tequila whispered sweet chaos into my ear, and next thing I knew, we were snogging in the loo. I wish I could say it was romantic, but let’s be honest, we were two drunk strangers bumping noses in a ski-resort bathroom. Still, it wasn’t awful. Not sure she’d say the same, though — I think I scared her a bit. Can’t imagine why.

The next day, I was done. Fully KO’d. No snowboarding. No will to live. Just a hangover so violent it could’ve been reported to the authorities. And I never miss a day on the slopes, so that tells you everything.

By our final day, I was determined to redeem myself. The plan was simple: green run to start, then a cheeky detour onto a black run via a little jump off an incline. Me and another guy — both decent riders — went for it. It was glorious. Until we looked back and saw... Wig Girl. Mid-crash. Down the hill. In a heap. Wig still attached, miraculously.

My mate shouted, “Should we go back?”

I, in a moment of pure selfishness and desperation to catch the last lift, yelled, “No, we’ll miss it!” I know. I KNOW. Not my proudest moment. Guilt followed me all the way down the mountain. I pictured ski patrol, helicopters, her obituary in the Daily Mail.

But lo and behold, we get back to the chalet — and there she is. Safe. Smiling. Possibly indestructible.

Moral of the story? Never go on a ski holiday with strangers. Or maybe always go on a ski holiday with strangers, because what else gives you duck alarms, tequila-induced bisexuality, and a girl who survives both the slopes and your bad decisions?

Until next time, dear reader. I need a nap — and a new group of friends.