Skiing, Scandals & Scabies

Picture this: I grabbed a ragtag bunch of semi-new friends, flung ourselves to Bulgaria on a ski trip, and by God, I was on a mission. A mission to... well, who really knows. Drink Jägermeister like it’s a contact sport? Pull a Bridget Jones meets The Hangover in snow boots? Either way, I was committed. Bought a bottle of Jäger at the airport — classy start — and, true to form, finished the entire thing by the end of the first night. Don’t judge me. Or do. I probably deserve it.

We were staying in this charming little chalet — very budget après-ski meets Big Brother house. There were three groups under one snowy roof: us (the fun-but-chaotic), a mysterious foursome (two lads, two girls, giving Love Island-in-the-Alps energy), and… drumroll... a father with his two sons, there to celebrate one of them being freshly released from prison. Yes. Prison. Nothing says ski holiday like post-penitentiary bonding.

Naturally, we gravitated to the group that didn’t have parole conditions.

Now, these lads — the two single ones — were objectively attractive, in that “we went to uni in Leeds and love a vest in winter” kind of way. One was tall, blonde, and gave off Greg-from-Love-Actually-but-if-he-didn't-eat vibes. Not really my flavour — too lank, too pale, the kind who burns under a naked light bulb. The other was shorter, darker, had these lips my gay best friend became OBSESSED with. Like, next-level commentary. “Those lips could solve global warming,” he said. Repeatedly. Eventually, he wore me down. I started seeing what he saw. Peer pressure is real, folks.

One night, we all tumbled into town for some shots, shots, mild debauchery and, obviously, more shots. Somewhere between screaming along to “Mr Brightside” and trying not to die in a Bulgarian nightclub toilet, I got off with Lip Boy. Fully leaned in. Full-on snog. 10/10 commitment.

We left early. Things escalated. There we were, mid-naked moment in his chalet room when the door flies open. IN WALKS LANKY BLONDE. I. DIED.

I flew off the bed like a startled squirrel, covered myself with whatever fleecey ski gear I could grab, and legged it back to my room. Scarlett O’Hara had nothing on my dramatic retreat. Next morning? Full hangxiety. I was sure everyone knew. And guess what? They did. Blonde lad even came up to me and went, “Yeah, I saw you naked.” Iconic delivery. Zero remorse. Maximum cringe.

Anyway, turned out I wasn’t that into Lip Boy after all (shocking, I know), so naturally I handled it maturely — by avoiding him entirely. Ghosted him in a shared chalet. Peak adulting.

My friend, being the nosy gem she is, took it upon herself to ask Lip Boy what was going on. His reply? "She’s not really marriage material."

Let that one marinate.

You know when something hits a bit too close to home? Like, you’ve heard it before and suddenly it’s not just one offhand comment — it’s a bloody theme? That. Triggered.com. I iced him out hard after that. Even when he tried to apologise and gave me a teddy bear for my birthday (bit serial killer, bit sweet, who’s to say?), I was already halfway into my emotionally unavailable era.

Fast forward to post-holiday crash: my body gave up on me. Red dots everywhere. I was CONVINCED I’d contracted scabies from him — proper walk-of-shame remorse in physical form. Turns out, no. Just five straight days of drinking, drama, and ski-induced chaos had broken my immune system. Doctor said: “You need sleep.” I said: “Fair.”

Oh — and I nearly forgot the side plot. Mid-trip, I caught one of my good-but-new mates majorly flirting with another mate (neither of whom were single, might I add). He was even playing with her shoelaces under the dinner table. What is this, a Year 9 disco? I told him straight: “Cut it out or I’ll tell your girlfriend.” To his credit, he stopped.

Plot twist: both he and the girl are now happily married — to their original partners. Yep. You’re welcome. That’s two marriages I take credit for. I should really start charging.

So, there you have it: one trip, one half-hearted hook-up, one naked escape scene, a potential case of prison-acquainted flatmates, an STD scare (false alarm), and a dabble in relationship counselling.

Moral of the story? Don’t drink an entire bottle of Jäger on night one. Don’t shag lads with devastating lips and even worse chat. And if you do, maybe lock the bloody door.

Right. Who’s up for next year?

Still curious? Stay tuned ...