Colle di Tenda
by Roger McKillop
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: Slippin' and slidin' all the way through an unforgettable college skiing holiday.
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: Slippin' and slidin' all the way through an unforgettable college skiing holiday.
The single chair swayed gently in rhythm tae ma lollin’ heid. Oh! I wasni’ a weel Teddy! Last night’s booze still was playin’ merry hell wi’ ma stomach an’ ma liver jist didni’ want tae consider the consequences. Yesterday had been a very full day that had found me jiggin’ in the hotel disco, at 1.30 am, still in ma red an’ green ski pants! Oor resort, Colle di Tenda, in the Italian Martine Alps, had only 1/3rd o’ one run open, so we borrowed a car tae visit a nearby resort tae check oot it’s snow conditions.
The tone o’ the day was set, when we had tae remind Jim, the driver, tae try the other side o’ the road frae the yin he was currently occupyin’! It continued, through the breakdown, in the middle o’ the rush hour in main Piazza o’ Cuneo an’ danced it’s way up the twistin’ road tae Ponte Chinale.
Big Donnie, was sittin’ in the front passenger seat, bein’ a Rugby prop, he had little choice! As the car took a right hand hairpin bend, he had an unrivalled view o’ the bloody great bus that had just turned oan tae oor straight tae contest the very limited space wi’ us! Oor Don looked at the space atween the bus an’ the series o’ bollard, that were mascaradin’ as a safety barrier an’ decided that we wereni’ goin’ tae make it! The same thought had obviously crossed Jim’s mind because he veered intae the space between the bollards tae avoid the oncomin’ bus. This gave Donnie another excellent view, this time, o’ the total lack o’ geography immediately below him. Noo judgin’ that his last moment had come an’ bein’ a Rugby Prop, therefore yin o’ nature’s born philosophers, he decided tae leave some message for posterity, in the ether. Whit deeply spiritual form did this take? Efter giein’ it considerable thocht he settled oan the followin’ movin’ statement, “Haw, Jim, fuck! Fuck! FUCK!! FUUUUCK!!!” A’ think he caught the assembled mood perfectly.
We found the slopes o’ Ponte Chinale wrapped in a fog sae thick that we left nane the wiser aboot the snaw conditions! For the return journey, Donnie was consigned tae the back seat wi’ Davie an’ the cairry oot. Oh, whit a bad move! Aw’ Jim an’ I could hear was pssst, glug glug, hic, pssst, glug, hic an’ “Stoap the bus A’ need a wee wee!” We had a blow oot at 60 MPH an’ the pair o’ drunken buggers, didni even hear it! They didni’ fa’ oot the car, Jim an’ I mair sort o’ poured them oot an’ so tae diner, mair beer, the disco an’ even mair beer.
Dreadfully clear, action replays, o’ aw’ those things, that seemed like a guid idea at the time, played ower ma numb brain, in the cauld, uncomprimisin’ mornin’ light. Talk aboot cringin’! As A’ slumped aff the chairlift A’ was accosted by a young English School girl. She was, hopefully, holdin’ a pair o’, very, frozen ski boots. “You’ a ski instructa’ ar’n’t you?” “Aye”, A’ replied, foolishly. “Wot d’you fink I should do wif these?” Oan any other day A’d hae been mair sympathetic but ma heid was in the wars an’ A’ felt like “a hawf poun’ o’ cheap mince” tae use a quaint phrase o’ ma faither’s. Ma, briefly, considered reply was “Pit some gin an’ tonic’ in them!” Where upon the young maiden, tried, tae make sense, o’ this unexpected advice. “That’s a lot of feckin’ use!” She replied, “So’s yir bits!” was ma retort. The kids had been leavin’ their skis at the top of the chairlift, as they, along wi’ us, were the only plonkers there! This numpty had decided tae leave her boots as well, under a leakin’ roan pipe!
The kids were from a Manchester School an’ had an Irish P.E. teacher in charge, who, of course, was universally known as Paddy. Davie an I were standin’ in a ski queue, when a young English lad came up tae an’ butted in tae oor, erudite, conversation (in truth, we were talkin’ shite, as usual), with “W’ere’s Paddy?” Davie gave him a “Paddington hard stare” an’ said “FK!” “FK? W’ot’s that mean?” “Fuck knows!” Was the answer. “That’s good, I like that!”, an’ aff he jolly well buggered. Weel, as was oor want, Davie an’ I were in the vicinity o’ the bar in the hotel disco that night, wi’ the same wee lad standin’ ahint us. A fellow pupil came up tae him an’ said, “Willie, w’ere’s Paddy?” The young man looked straight at us an’ said, “FN! Oh fuck, that’s wrong in’it?” Ah, for such cross-border cultural exchanges!
The mysterious Paddy, first made his appearance when A’ chucked him oot o’ an impromptu party, thrown by some o’ the female students. They’d got a carry-oot an’ decided tae hae a wee drinky, a few o’ the boys invited themselves. They would start giggelin’ an’ the noise would escalate enough tae disturb the other schools, who were sharin’ the hotel. A’ kent that A’d get it in the neck, frae the other leaders if A’ didn’t curb their racket. A’ went along an’ telt them tae keep it quiet. Aw’ went well for aboot 15 minutes, it would be hard tae prove that it was oor party anyway, until there came the unmistakable strains o’ “The Northern Lights o’ Auld Aberdeen!” So A’ blasted them oot again, this time it lasted for a whole hour. It finally ended in an eruption o’ laughter an’ riot! A’ stormed intae the room an’ sent them aw’tae their beds, the boys A’ banished tae their ain rooms an’ twa strange adults, A’ gave, very, short shrift! A’ asked yin o’ the girls, at breakfast, “Who the hell were the twa strangers?” She replied, “Oh, it was great Roge’. After you’d been in the second time, we’d calmed down, when there was a knock at the door. We thought it would be you tae break up the party. When we opened the door there were two guys there. They were obviously teachers form another school. We thought we were really in the shit now, because one o’ them started shoutin’ at us, in an Irish accent. “What do yous mean by all dis noise? Meh kid can’t get ti’ sleep, because of you! It’s just not good enough, well what have youse got ti say?” “ We said that we were very sorry and that out lecturer had already told us be keep it down. We didn’t know that the noise would carry so much.” “Dat doesn’t make up for meh kids lost sleep!” “Look we’re really sorry, please come in and have a drink on us to make up for any trouble we’ve caused.” At which point Paddy pulls a bottle of Lemon Vodka from behind his back and said, “ Tank God for dat! I t’ought youse were never goin’ ti ask!”
Efter that we got on well wi’ Paddy, Davie an’ I taught him tae jump off aw’ the various bumps an’ drops we could find. Paddy took tae flyin’ easily an’ landin’ seemed also tae come naturally, that is every type o’ landin’ that didn’t include arrivin’ oan the ground, balanced, wi’ baith skis under you!
We also got tae know some o’ the kids, includin’ the infamous Murphy. He was English but the name seemed tae hae imbued him wi’ certain Celtic characteristics. Davie, Donnie an’ I were standin’ in the lift queue, when there was a terrible howl o’ fear an’ panic an’ frae oot o’ the mist there came a wobbly, giratin’ figure oan runaway skis. The airms were everywhere, the skis shoogled an’ the ‘hale package defied onythin’ Isaac Newton could hae explained! It screamed past us, rapidly runnin’ oot o’ snaw, shot through the air an’ landed in a very large patch o’ mud, which had been previously occupied by the snaw, oan which we were now standin’! We told Paddy aboot this incident, in, amused, detail, he just scowled an’ said, “Dat was bloody Murphy! He’s been di plague o’ meh life, ever since we started ti’ organise dis damn trip! He never came ti any o’ di meetin’s I called, so on di last day of term I asked di Rector ti announce a personal invitation ti Murphy, at di School assembly, ti attend di final ski trip meeting! It bloody well worked, di wee bugger turned up! This meeting was important as it was about di kids spending money, we wanted them ti bring it in Sterling, which we would keep in di hotel’s safe. Of course Mrs Murphy turns up ti wave di wee rat off an’ she hands me £150 in Lira! I said, “Mrs Murphy, we asked for di money in English money!”, “Oh but I thought that you were going to Italy!” Aw’ shit what was di point in arguing wi’ di awld bat! So we stopped in di Newport Pagnal service station an’ all di kids lined up ti get some money for refreshments. Der was I saying, “Der’s a pound ti you an’ £2 ti her an’ no you can’t have £5 ti another, der’s £2 only! When I next looked up der was Murphy’s expectant little face. “What di you want Mr Murphy?” “Some spending money, please Sir.” “But you‘ve only given me Italian money. Oh, hell, here’s a 1000 Lira, go an’ buy yourself a pizza!” O’ such encounters an’ crack are, fond, memory’s made!
Travel, they say, broadens the mind, tae prove this point, A’ll relate a story o’ later in the week. This was oor Davie’s 8th ski holiday wi’ the College an’ he was by now a thoroughly cosmopolitan young man. This he demonstrated yin mornin’. A’ was at the shavin’ mirror, when the bog door ahint me opened an’ Davie slooched oot in a, bare-ersed, troosers roond the ankles, crouch, in search o’ toilet paper. He paused in mid-waddle, looked, at me, ower his shooder an’ delivered that, never tae be forgotten, legend, “Roge’, in’t it amazin’ the things, Italian beer, can dae tae shite!” A’ rest ma case, Quod Erat Demomstrandum!
The tone o’ the day was set, when we had tae remind Jim, the driver, tae try the other side o’ the road frae the yin he was currently occupyin’! It continued, through the breakdown, in the middle o’ the rush hour in main Piazza o’ Cuneo an’ danced it’s way up the twistin’ road tae Ponte Chinale.
Big Donnie, was sittin’ in the front passenger seat, bein’ a Rugby prop, he had little choice! As the car took a right hand hairpin bend, he had an unrivalled view o’ the bloody great bus that had just turned oan tae oor straight tae contest the very limited space wi’ us! Oor Don looked at the space atween the bus an’ the series o’ bollard, that were mascaradin’ as a safety barrier an’ decided that we wereni’ goin’ tae make it! The same thought had obviously crossed Jim’s mind because he veered intae the space between the bollards tae avoid the oncomin’ bus. This gave Donnie another excellent view, this time, o’ the total lack o’ geography immediately below him. Noo judgin’ that his last moment had come an’ bein’ a Rugby Prop, therefore yin o’ nature’s born philosophers, he decided tae leave some message for posterity, in the ether. Whit deeply spiritual form did this take? Efter giein’ it considerable thocht he settled oan the followin’ movin’ statement, “Haw, Jim, fuck! Fuck! FUCK!! FUUUUCK!!!” A’ think he caught the assembled mood perfectly.
We found the slopes o’ Ponte Chinale wrapped in a fog sae thick that we left nane the wiser aboot the snaw conditions! For the return journey, Donnie was consigned tae the back seat wi’ Davie an’ the cairry oot. Oh, whit a bad move! Aw’ Jim an’ I could hear was pssst, glug glug, hic, pssst, glug, hic an’ “Stoap the bus A’ need a wee wee!” We had a blow oot at 60 MPH an’ the pair o’ drunken buggers, didni even hear it! They didni’ fa’ oot the car, Jim an’ I mair sort o’ poured them oot an’ so tae diner, mair beer, the disco an’ even mair beer.
Dreadfully clear, action replays, o’ aw’ those things, that seemed like a guid idea at the time, played ower ma numb brain, in the cauld, uncomprimisin’ mornin’ light. Talk aboot cringin’! As A’ slumped aff the chairlift A’ was accosted by a young English School girl. She was, hopefully, holdin’ a pair o’, very, frozen ski boots. “You’ a ski instructa’ ar’n’t you?” “Aye”, A’ replied, foolishly. “Wot d’you fink I should do wif these?” Oan any other day A’d hae been mair sympathetic but ma heid was in the wars an’ A’ felt like “a hawf poun’ o’ cheap mince” tae use a quaint phrase o’ ma faither’s. Ma, briefly, considered reply was “Pit some gin an’ tonic’ in them!” Where upon the young maiden, tried, tae make sense, o’ this unexpected advice. “That’s a lot of feckin’ use!” She replied, “So’s yir bits!” was ma retort. The kids had been leavin’ their skis at the top of the chairlift, as they, along wi’ us, were the only plonkers there! This numpty had decided tae leave her boots as well, under a leakin’ roan pipe!
The kids were from a Manchester School an’ had an Irish P.E. teacher in charge, who, of course, was universally known as Paddy. Davie an I were standin’ in a ski queue, when a young English lad came up tae an’ butted in tae oor, erudite, conversation (in truth, we were talkin’ shite, as usual), with “W’ere’s Paddy?” Davie gave him a “Paddington hard stare” an’ said “FK!” “FK? W’ot’s that mean?” “Fuck knows!” Was the answer. “That’s good, I like that!”, an’ aff he jolly well buggered. Weel, as was oor want, Davie an’ I were in the vicinity o’ the bar in the hotel disco that night, wi’ the same wee lad standin’ ahint us. A fellow pupil came up tae him an’ said, “Willie, w’ere’s Paddy?” The young man looked straight at us an’ said, “FN! Oh fuck, that’s wrong in’it?” Ah, for such cross-border cultural exchanges!
The mysterious Paddy, first made his appearance when A’ chucked him oot o’ an impromptu party, thrown by some o’ the female students. They’d got a carry-oot an’ decided tae hae a wee drinky, a few o’ the boys invited themselves. They would start giggelin’ an’ the noise would escalate enough tae disturb the other schools, who were sharin’ the hotel. A’ kent that A’d get it in the neck, frae the other leaders if A’ didn’t curb their racket. A’ went along an’ telt them tae keep it quiet. Aw’ went well for aboot 15 minutes, it would be hard tae prove that it was oor party anyway, until there came the unmistakable strains o’ “The Northern Lights o’ Auld Aberdeen!” So A’ blasted them oot again, this time it lasted for a whole hour. It finally ended in an eruption o’ laughter an’ riot! A’ stormed intae the room an’ sent them aw’tae their beds, the boys A’ banished tae their ain rooms an’ twa strange adults, A’ gave, very, short shrift! A’ asked yin o’ the girls, at breakfast, “Who the hell were the twa strangers?” She replied, “Oh, it was great Roge’. After you’d been in the second time, we’d calmed down, when there was a knock at the door. We thought it would be you tae break up the party. When we opened the door there were two guys there. They were obviously teachers form another school. We thought we were really in the shit now, because one o’ them started shoutin’ at us, in an Irish accent. “What do yous mean by all dis noise? Meh kid can’t get ti’ sleep, because of you! It’s just not good enough, well what have youse got ti say?” “ We said that we were very sorry and that out lecturer had already told us be keep it down. We didn’t know that the noise would carry so much.” “Dat doesn’t make up for meh kids lost sleep!” “Look we’re really sorry, please come in and have a drink on us to make up for any trouble we’ve caused.” At which point Paddy pulls a bottle of Lemon Vodka from behind his back and said, “ Tank God for dat! I t’ought youse were never goin’ ti ask!”
Efter that we got on well wi’ Paddy, Davie an’ I taught him tae jump off aw’ the various bumps an’ drops we could find. Paddy took tae flyin’ easily an’ landin’ seemed also tae come naturally, that is every type o’ landin’ that didn’t include arrivin’ oan the ground, balanced, wi’ baith skis under you!
We also got tae know some o’ the kids, includin’ the infamous Murphy. He was English but the name seemed tae hae imbued him wi’ certain Celtic characteristics. Davie, Donnie an’ I were standin’ in the lift queue, when there was a terrible howl o’ fear an’ panic an’ frae oot o’ the mist there came a wobbly, giratin’ figure oan runaway skis. The airms were everywhere, the skis shoogled an’ the ‘hale package defied onythin’ Isaac Newton could hae explained! It screamed past us, rapidly runnin’ oot o’ snaw, shot through the air an’ landed in a very large patch o’ mud, which had been previously occupied by the snaw, oan which we were now standin’! We told Paddy aboot this incident, in, amused, detail, he just scowled an’ said, “Dat was bloody Murphy! He’s been di plague o’ meh life, ever since we started ti’ organise dis damn trip! He never came ti any o’ di meetin’s I called, so on di last day of term I asked di Rector ti announce a personal invitation ti Murphy, at di School assembly, ti attend di final ski trip meeting! It bloody well worked, di wee bugger turned up! This meeting was important as it was about di kids spending money, we wanted them ti bring it in Sterling, which we would keep in di hotel’s safe. Of course Mrs Murphy turns up ti wave di wee rat off an’ she hands me £150 in Lira! I said, “Mrs Murphy, we asked for di money in English money!”, “Oh but I thought that you were going to Italy!” Aw’ shit what was di point in arguing wi’ di awld bat! So we stopped in di Newport Pagnal service station an’ all di kids lined up ti get some money for refreshments. Der was I saying, “Der’s a pound ti you an’ £2 ti her an’ no you can’t have £5 ti another, der’s £2 only! When I next looked up der was Murphy’s expectant little face. “What di you want Mr Murphy?” “Some spending money, please Sir.” “But you‘ve only given me Italian money. Oh, hell, here’s a 1000 Lira, go an’ buy yourself a pizza!” O’ such encounters an’ crack are, fond, memory’s made!
Travel, they say, broadens the mind, tae prove this point, A’ll relate a story o’ later in the week. This was oor Davie’s 8th ski holiday wi’ the College an’ he was by now a thoroughly cosmopolitan young man. This he demonstrated yin mornin’. A’ was at the shavin’ mirror, when the bog door ahint me opened an’ Davie slooched oot in a, bare-ersed, troosers roond the ankles, crouch, in search o’ toilet paper. He paused in mid-waddle, looked, at me, ower his shooder an’ delivered that, never tae be forgotten, legend, “Roge’, in’t it amazin’ the things, Italian beer, can dae tae shite!” A’ rest ma case, Quod Erat Demomstrandum!
About the Author
Edinburgh-born Roger McKillop is a retired Sports Studies lecturer. He has been writing poetry in Scots for many years and has had his work published in The Scots Magazine. His pen name is Roger Ceann Maol Beag, which means Wee Roger with the Bald Head!