Picture the scene. You’re sitting in the snow, one chairlift-ride in to your week’s snowboarding holiday. It is so, so cold at the top of this mountain. You have your goggles down over your eyes, meeting the scarf tucked into them above your nose which is beginning to freeze your breath onto your face.
What can you see? The sum total of absolutely fuck all, as it happens. Everywhere is white. Up, down. Left, right. No dimensions exist except the unbroken emptiness of thick blank nothingness. Board strapped to your feet you try to stand up, but without any sense of where the ground might be beneath you, gravity contorts into impossible planes and you find yourself back on the ground abruptly. You’re not even pissed - it’s 10am. Sliding down (what must be) a slope below you seems out of the question. The air and snow-stuck ground have merged into a single uniform white. Even seeing your own feet seems too hard.
Stick with me here.
Striding into this void beside you looms a shape. It is large. The only thing solid and real in this formless silent world of white. It is man shaped. It is wearing bright green waterproof mitties, the likes of which were last seen, en-masse, on a school ski trip somewhere around 1989. It is carrying a snowboard which, you know from when twelve hours previously you tried to pick it up weighs approximately more than you do, and is stiff and sprung enough to bear the weight of at least three normal humans.
It is your husband and his pristine, brand new, shiny never-been-used “black stick of death” snowboard, complete with also-new bindings, primed and ready for its virgin outing, here, now.
Which is unfortunate. Because this is freezing, blind, hell on earth. (Assuming we are still on earth and haven’t just actually died and been transported into some none-dimensional afterlife).
Lee is only a few metres away from me, but I can only just make him out. Usually, in this kind of scenario, you have two choices. Sit there freezing your tits off hoping the visibility clears just enough to make out where the actual piste is. Or, stand up, shut your eyes, push off into the whiteout and just hope for the best.
Unfortunately, what happened next gave us opportunity to do neither.
Two things occurred, in rapid succession. Arriving at my side, after a moment of deeply considered contemplation, first Lee announces loudly into the omnipotent whiteout that “WELL THIS IS A BAG OF ABSOLUTE SHITE IF EVER I SAW ONE”, flinging his brand new board down towards the snow with a flourish.
Somewhere, between the letting go and the landing, a hummingbird a thousand miles away beats its wings. Oceans rise and fall. Continents are unmade.
The second thing that happens is, it lands.
Smooth side down.
Bindings up.
And promptly fucks off at PACE straight downhill into the whiteout and out of sight within approximately three nanoseconds.
We blink.
“Shit.”
Peer into the gloom. Nothing.
“Shit!”
The depths of this predicament dawn.
“SHIT!!”
It is well and truly disappeared. This is not good. I watch closely, as all seven stages of grief cycle simultaneously behind Lee’s fogged up goggles. This, the face of a man who has just, to all intents and purposes, posted approximately seven hundred quid off the side of a mountain. Where has it gone? Nobody knows. Is it still going? Who can say. Will it kill anyone unlucky enough to be in the way of a quarter ton of sharp-edged equipment racing downhill at maximum velocity? Yes, or at the very least probably slice off their legs at the ankles. [‘I am never going to financially recover from this’ a lesser man might ponder]
Hoping against hope that this run might just be a short downhill with a nice flat finish, we edge gingerly down the slope. Me on my board, Lee on foot, straining our eyes for any sign of a riderless board, but no joy. No board. Adding insult to injury, Lee now faces the prospect of a slow walk back UP the mountain, to try and locate the top of the chairlift we had just ridden, in more carefree, snowboard-owning times. Then, the humiliating solo ride back down the chairlift, facing the quizzical glances of a fresh batch of chair-bound skiers approximately every ten seconds. Then a drive back to our chalet, to attempt to cobble together enough borrowed kit to get back up the mountain. Then all of this in reverse. All of which gives him ample time to consider that in fifteen years time, his wife may write about this on the internet.
Miraculously, he was eventually reunited with the board. Even more miraculously, this happened just hours later. The lifties, who know the mountain like the backs of their hands deduced from our estimated location, trajectory and direction of travel off which precipice the board may have shot and were able to find it once the cloud had lifted a little.
Great success!!
Only, because of COURSE things would go this way, later that day the entire resort was shut for the rest of the week due to the appalling weather conditions, and that was the beginning and end of our snowboarding experience for that year. You could not make this shit up.
I present all of this to illustrate to you two things. One, that you NEVER NEVER NEVER put your board down anything other than smooth-side up. Two, that even this absolute clusterfuck was not enough to dim our enthusiasm for spending time in the mountains. Here is my jolly little face from last week, somewhere in between Les Gets where we stayed (NO SNOW) and higher altitude Avoriaz (SNOW FOR DAYS), where even the painfully necessary forty minute bus ride bookending each day’s boarding could not dim the shine.
If you’ve never been snowboarding – just go. It is brilliant. But just, y’know, watch out for Lee….
BONJOUR!
Indeed. And happy 2023 while we’re at it. I had good intentions of writing all sorts of silly shite over Christmas, but decided not to bother in favour of binge-watching Detectorists whilst eating a whole camembert and doing a jigsaw, drunk, which is a pleasant way to spend a week off if ever I knew one. Glorious.
Freshly back from our week in the (sometimes) snows of the alps, I thought you might like some joy to divert you from *gestures vaguely* so, feast your eyes upon THESE JOLLY LINKS…
This dog trying to join in with his wolf mates
I discovered author Stacey McEwan on Instagram through subscriber Lucas (who always sends me funny things, THANKS CALHOUN!) and I really like the cut of her jib. She’s funny.
I love Ghosts. Do you love Ghosts? Everyone should love Ghosts. Did you watch the Ghosts Christmas Special (which was the finest most perfect Christmas telly EVER, fact)? If so you might enjoy these outtakes from Series 4 of Ghosts.
I asked my brother if he’d seen anything funny recently. He sent me this. Old, but still good. I’m not entirely sure if this was just because on some subliminal level this is the general appearance vibe he has been cultivating for some years now, but you can judge for yourselves by watching his piano video tutorials here if you fancy that too. He will kill me for this.
Book nerd updates: I’m currently reading Twelve Moons, a debut memoir by my Instagram friend Caro Giles. She writes beautifully about mothering, wild spaces and family - it’s on sale this week if that sounds up your street.
We’ve recently binged Slow Horses, on Apple TV but based on the Mick Herron books. It’s genuinely some of the best writing and acting I’ve seen on tv for a long time. Watch it, you won’t be disappointed.
Remember how in my last newsletter I wrote about how my sister was touring with electronica collective Acid Klaus? Well, they’re now on the bill for Wilderness Festival, so I’ll see you all there with big shiny bells on yeah?
That will probably do for this week. As ever, if you have fun stuff to share, send it to me by hitting reply, and if you enjoyed this email, please send it to your friends too.
About me
I’m Lindsay Butcher and I write words down for a living. I’ll write for you too if you like? Commission me to be hilarious on your behalf…
Come follow me on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram.
Want to read more? Check out previous newsletter editions here, or feast your brain on my blog AndOtherIdiots.
I don’t get paid to write this, but you can show your appreciation and buy me a coffee and/or just invite me to a live in your mountaintop chalet for the rest of the ski season or whatever. Thanks.