dontdeviate.net

Another year and another ski trip has come and gone, but for many other thousands of participants to hit the slope this year, Courchevel 2009 will remain one of the best, if not the most expensive holidays I’ve had the pleasure to have attended; and whilst the angst of having to attend work tomorrow is besieging the thousands of thoughts passing my mind, and involuntary spasms of muscular disfunction due to the multiple wipeouts, I have to thank one of the unlikeliest subjects that I and the gang of 12 met one Friday night. (I say 12, but a certain Mr Tozza was fast asleep….again).

Apres-Ski has always been one of the many pleasures (and causes of projectile vomit on chair lifts the day after) that pretty much everyone over the age of 18 comes to enjoy on these trips. It can be made good with a certain set criteria; price of booze, amount of opposite sex to admire (and sometimes fear) and most definitely the group you are with. It’s also conditioned by how much fun you want to have, a day of flying down white pistes with an added weight of 5kg between protective gear, and sun cream whilst chips with mayonnaise swirl around your gut can make you just want to pass out to a Kenny G album (yes I have just said Kenny G).

But this particular night was however surreal. A series of phantasmagorical events lead to an unwitting meeting, and for some, a particularly embarrassing moment that will be remembered for some years to come.

An innocuous meal, followed by drinks lead the group of many (we didnt have a name nor the inclination to name our group but deep down inside I was hoping for Optimus Prime) to head back to the hotel for a slippery nipple (the drink) and beer. The group then divided faster than democrats at the recent US primaries, taking my group to a self inflicted renaming of an eating and drinking establishment – “Oligarch”.

Yes there was more Russians and money flying around the place than Roman Abramovich’s recent boat trip to Sardinia.

It wasn’t the oligarch’s themselves that was making the place surreal, nor was it the bunch of men standing behind me taking photos whilst grinding with eachother, and professionally posing for the next cover of vogue. No, the real icing on the cake for “Oligarch” came by the way of michelin star food being accompanied by Gloria Gaynor at full volume whilst some diners (and then eventually all) started dancing on the tables.

Not something you’d be guaranteed to see at Claridge’s now, is it?

But ladies and gents, this was not the most surprising passing to the evening. I’ll get there in just two more minutes…….

“Le Templin” was dead. I don’t mean dodo dead, more like Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ dead, the un-dead, the…..you get the picture. To get to the rest of the guys required skilful manoeuvring across the dance floor and whilst my last imitation of Tony Monero landed me a three day rest in hospital with a slipped disc I wasn’t chancing it, I was charging.

Charging wasn’t probably advised. Actually it shouldn’t have happened at all when looking back. Avoiding three people was good, but elbowing one innocent bystander was bad, punishable by death bad. I could have taken out the chef and it wouldn’t have been so bad, but no. A waiter, not with my luck.

Prince William…..yes. Yes, bloody Prince William dancing with his girlfriend Kate Middleton!

I could say that the next hour or so was passed with a steely attitude and holaring across the bar, “Yo Will” or “yo, your Royal Highness”, instead I drank my 8 euro beer (that wasn’t a crime, a 330ml bottle of Heineken that cost 22 Euros was daylight rape!) and bopped along to the music. Bopped along when the Prince hit the decks himself. Continued to bop along even after the legendary Mr Chris Evans (not the radio 2 dude) was dared, by yours truly, to ask HRH if he had “Dexy’s Midnight Runners; Come On Eileen”. Can you imagine your one opportunity to speak to the Royal Highness and your words are “Excuse me, do you have Dexy’s Midnight Runners Come On Eileen?”.

What more could you ask for? That was courchevel 1850 people. Random, weird, bank breaking and absurd.

Oh and before you ask, no the good Prince did not have Dexy’s, I don’t think he knew what the song was and if he did, can you imagine what he’ll be saying to his friends when he sees them next.