A Special Edition of The Tartlets' From The Mountains of Val Thorens

Ok so we feel that trips of this kind are some sort of right of passage that ought to be participated in with full enthusiasm and no self-respect. Val Thoren is like Vegas, only what happens there we have brought back to you for your reading pleasure.

All dignity was mislaid on the first evening when we found ourselves making the most of people’s bus journey induced delirious and fatigued generosity in Gringo’s. We asked ourselves: is it so wrong to make someone who clearly got hit by the ugly stick feel popular by providing our company in return for Jagerbombs and Desperados? It seemed like a fair deal so on we pressed with our new fail-safe conversation starter

‘Oh my God you ski! Me Too!! [Akward pause filled with dazzling smiles] Im thirsty. Shall we get a drink?’
‘Can I get you one?’
‘No no that’s fine… well if you insist’
[At this point Patsy pretends to offer a reimbursmant that shockingly never follows!]

However, we later experienced the consequences of our actions on the dance floor when we found ourselves the subjects of a ‘European grind’. For those who are not familiar, this is when our friends from the continent like to spot a girl they like and gyrate up behind them instead of starting a conversation in the vain hope we females will succumb to the movement of their crotches on our arses and fall at their feet. Unfortunately for them, much as Eddie and Patsy are partial to an anonymous penis, when we turned around to see a 40 year old grease monkey who hates English people, we were disappointed to say the least. As we also were when we turned around to see our ‘Drinks Daddy’ swaying his awkward hips. You know when you’ve milked your unattractive Drinks Daddy for all you can when you experience the slow, tender backstroke, easily avoided by a trip to the loo that you never return from. Failing that, a blank look and the immortal words “Have we met?” usually does the trick.

Much as we love holidays, they do come with the uncomfortable condition that there is no opportunity to hide in a bed for a week after your cringeworthy antics. Therefore the next day, after waiting for Patsy to find her way back to the room following an extended walk of shame which left her circling the hotel twice only to end up passing her gentleman caller (or should it be gentleman-who-she-called-on?) on the stairs, we headed for the ski slopes. A long day of hangover and exercise related whinging followed, only made possible by the promise of a 6 euro beer at the folie deuce come three o’clock.

As a big fan of things alcohol and apres related, (we are THE inventors of the post-pash fag and the apres-lash burger debrief), the Folie Deuce – the Hob half way up the mountain - is right up our street. Table dancing is obligatory, as well as the perfect opportunity to use your PIG skills, and mirrored sunglasses are vital in order to spy on future and past pashes below you in the crowd.

Even though we are firm believers that the people not the place make the party, we were still disappointed to find our second evening tinged by the people on stage making up the words to Chelsea Dagger and asking the crowd

‘Does anyone here like GERMAN ROCK!!’
Unfortunatley, they did.

We then departed the club known as Malaysia and headed for Summit. Here Eddie met a well-known committee member who we shall know as Pro Skiier. After much flirtation and drunken leering at one another a slower dance led to a pash of the most violent character. Her lip actually bled! This was followed by a post pash fag and a swift escape from further deforming of the mouth.

The subsequent evening we decided to mix things up. After heading to a near by bar and receiving futher insults from the local unattractive and fragrant female populas, we perchanced some Aussi chaps. After being told off by Rude Rep for golf balling some people who were non-Brookes goers, we were easily persuaded by the boys from down under to join them back in their room for a herbal cigarette or two.

Back in the hotel our ears were delighted by the smooth sounds of jazz and Russian Gipsy folk music, until Rude Rep with her sophisticated nose and dislike of all things out of the ‘organised fun’ busted our sweet smoke nest sending the dizzy tartlets back out into the night.

We returned to the bosom of our friendship group only to find Fallacia Foundation, our dear comrade, attached at the mouth to a widely known closeted shirt lifter. The proof being in the opening lines of their conversation.

F.F. ‘So you came as a sailor too’
S.L. ‘Erm no. I’m Jean Paul Gaultier’

Ahem! Ok. As if this was not akward enough, in a bid to prove his heterosexuality he later announced to a darkened room of male audience that he was only receiving a blowjob as Foundation was on the blob.

Later in the week we attended an exclusive soiree on the mountain, a treacherous affair where people returned home with fondue oil burns and in some cases, broken collarbones. However, most frighteningly of all – Eddie and Patsy saw a PENIS. Now, we know what you’re thinking, these girls surely have seen more than their fair sha re of the male member, however this was an experience which will remain forever etched in the memory of our minds.

Two lucky girls, unfortunately not us, were treated to a birthday gyrate.  It wasn’t a tease, more of a biology lesson, as a boy we shall know as “the Turtleneck” (for clothing reasons, readers, not penis aesthetics) proceeded to strip in a miniscule amount of seconds – with no music – to his multicoloured glitter thong. However, it did not stop there. Two hundred Brookes students took out their cameras and flashed away as the thong came off and the Turtleneck’s hairless womb ferret flapped away to the well know chant…

“OH OXFORD BROOKES”
*flap flap flap*
“IS WONDERFUL”
*flap flap flap*

If there is a better end to a holiday than exposed genitals swinging in a pendulous fashion then Eddie and Patsy don’t want to know, and frankly, don’t care. For all you non-skiiers, non-holidayers and general non-funtimers, take some advice from the experts. Go on these trips.  Leave your morals at home and lose your dignity in a dark and sweaty corner of an overcrowded European nightclub. Meet people you would have never met before, love and leave people you’d never want to see again, and most of all, abuse your body to its limits while you’re young because, lets be honest, act like this at 50 and you’ll be travelling home in a wooden box.

Until next time darrrrlings
xx