Brave New World Part III

Last time I left you, muscles burning and brain fizzing with excitement, I promised you a refreshing glass of something après-flavoured to round off our little glossary. Well, true to my word, here it is.

APRÈS SKI – whatever about the refined intricacies of the sport of skiing (and to some extent snowboarding… yes, boarders, bring on the wrath), most people can guess pretty quickly what après is all about. It obeys the simple law of the universe that any activity which is the post-activity of another more physically demanding activity consists of one task: get slosherooed.

The ethanol-based lubricants to this activity are many and varied but some deserve special mention:

1. Glühwein (of course) and all its variants.

2. Mutzig, the stuff of utter legend.

3. Good old Jägey, served ice cold or with any/all of its best friends.

4. Risoul's Rum Bar's own-blend rum – seriously wrong but oh so right

5. Birne-schnapps, a right little rocket in a glass.

6. Hot chocolate with rum – a wise incognito choice when your disapproving spouse/partner/boss/parent is somewhere local.

Have I missed any? Let me know. AT is nothing if not keen to undertake further research.

Après-ski venues are many throughout the Alps, but I feel it my duty to point out the places that have achieved (in my humble view) something akin to perfection. High on the list, there is Verbier's legendary Pub Mont Fort, the beckoning arms that welcome many a tired skier at the end of a long and arduous one-piece descent (good times – thanks, PMF). Nearby there is the Farinet where I have had more alcohol spilled on me in one evening than the total amount consumed annually by a small German town. Fact. Honourable mentions also go to Méribel's Rond Point – spot the dents in the ceiling from all that ski-boot crowd-surfing – and Zermatt's Hennu-Stall on the ski home to Winkelmatten, where fans have long flocked to rock out with Alex, Phil and the crew. But while the  contest is ongoing [Editor's note: and AT & the crew are most willing to be wined and wined by any venue vying for top place...don't be shy], I cannot tell a lie… so far winning in the après-ski stakes is the Mooserwirt, St Anton am Arlberg. Why? Because every day at three-thirty, the DJ comes on. The blinds drop. The disco lights are lowered. And, with the push of a button, enormous speakers begin to pump out the opening bars of The Final Countdown. From that moment on, the bar and its outdoor terrace are transformed from a relatively normal lunch spot to a heaving mass of people cheering, roaring and stamping their ski boots to the bizarre blend of 1980s stadium rock songs and cheesy Euro-pop known as après-ski music. From 'Heeeeyyyy, heeeeyyyy baby, oooh, aahh' to Highway to Hell and back to 'Cowboys und Indianer,' (I truly wish the random skulls were the weirdest thing about that last video) après-ski music has a logic only Birne-schnapps and exhaustion can explain.

Phew, I hear you say. At last, something easy and without likelihood of serious injury, hurray! Don't be fooled, après-ski might not involve coming to terms with any new perils such as rapid uncontrolled movement on frozen slopes chock-full of halfwits, or mastering new embarkation skills on high speed forms of chairlift-waits-for-no-man technology, but it is certainly not a hazard-free environment. You absolutely must not wander into this maelstrom of increasingly drunken morons dancing on wet tables in sub-zero temperatures in ski boots without being

a) in excellent spirits and

b) ready to become an identically drunken moron and

c) fully prepared to deal with the post-8pm consequences.

These will range from realising that your skis have been nicked (oh, how frequently… buy a lock, please) to drunken encounters with snow cannons, trees, pylons, amorous ugly people and other immovable obstacles to – worst of all – seriously, as in catastophically, pissing off your chalet host.

CHALET HOST – the person who will be most annoyed of all if your party rock up half an hour after dinner was supposed to be on the table. Sure, it is your holiday. But if, when you get back to the chalet, your be-aproned Mike or Ashley or – if the Chalet Girl stereotype is to be believed – dahling Patronella has a little tear in their eye as they serve up a lukewarm soggy soufflé, you only have yourselves to blame.* Granted, the culinary expertise of many a chalet host is such that dinner being overcooked by up to an hour and a half may not make any discernible difference… but nonetheless, contrary to all cynicism (and most of my personal experience, I must confess) there ARE chalet staff who take real pride in their cooking, cleaning and running some serious-ass customer service. And base-level discourtesy will seriously, seriously disappoint them. So if I were you, I would phone Patronella in advance, please, when the Final Countdown gives you a Total Eclipse of the Heart and you Just. Can't. Bear. To. Leave.

Or be prepared to hide your toothbrush…

* "Why is someone called Patronella serving me dinner?" you ask. "I'm in France/Switzerland/Austria/Italy for heaven's sake." Chances are if you book a ski trip with a major UK tour operator, you are probably going to get involved in a CHALET at some point, whether it is a chalet hotel, a self-catering chalet apartment or a catered chalet equipped with its own personal live-in slave. Originally the word 'chalet' referred to a rustic old wooden hut with a low sloping roof, roaring log fire and all manner of cutesy heart-shaped pillows, cow-bells, antique skis and other Alpine kitsch. In the cold reality of modern tour ops, the term is now applied liberally to any building within forty miles of a ski resort, a single feature of which can be zoomed in on and made to look rustic and appealing by a professional photographer.

Your CHALET HOST is probably one of two things: a wonderful creature who delivers to you vast quantities of delicious fried breakfasts, floaty-light afternoon tea cakes, hearty evening meals and endless quantities of top notch wine, all the while whistling a merry tune and personifying the excellent cleanliness standards of the TOUR OPERATOR. All tour operators, I might add, lie somewhere on the spectrum from the above-indicated perfection to the most colossal fuck-up artistry; the mindless incompetence, wilful indifference and scrooge-like penny pinching misery of which is actually pretty hard to overstate. So to conclude my point about the 'chalet' experience, extrapolate accordingly.

I'd love to stay and chat chalets, tell you stories about chalet food that would curl your hair (or stories about curly hair in chalet food…shudder) but I could never quite do it justice. Rather, I will refer you to the unquestioned expert.

Späters potaters.

AT