I was going to blog about booze, drinking and the general merriment, humiliation and injury that comes attached to this. However everyone knows what it’s like to be drunk. Sufficed to say the evening life of a ski resort focuses on little else but chucking large quantities of booze down your neck and trying to get home over great expanses of ice and snow.
However, far and away the highlight of the drinking week at Courchevel 1550 is Flugel night. At first glance Flugel night might be just another one of those ploys by the local bar to get you to spend far too much money on vast quantities of another novelty beverage (essentially a shot of vodka Redbull in a little bottle). This is in fact until you walk into said bar on said night. It can only be described as total carnage.
On my first Flugel night we arrived, and I can honestly say that I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s a fairly dingy filthy little place at the best of times, always full of seasonires spending their pitiful earnings on strong larger, but on this particular night someone seemed to have turned most of the lights off, turned on the pumping techno and thought it a good idea to throw most of the contents of the bar all over the floor. Clustered round the bar were about 20 people, smashed out of their heads and buzzing their tits off, banging out what can only be described as a primal beat on the bar with the little empty Flugel bottles they clutched in their hands. The same bottles are what littered the floor. It was actually rather feral and disturbing. Needless to say I joined them immediately.
When drinking Flugel one must: Bang the bottle repeatedly on the table; place the bottle on the table; remove the lid and place it on your nose; pick the bottle up with your mouth; drink the contents and replace the bottle on the table without using your hands; place the cap facing upwards on the top of the bottle (again without use of your hands); throw the bottle on the flour with great relish; repeat ad-infenitum until you’ve got the shakes and you can barely remember your own name. This process can then be followed by yattering randomly to anyone who’ll listen, jumping up and down like a loon, crawling around on the floor, or boy hunting. None of which matter cos the next day it will all be a blur.
Arrr, Flugel night. How I love you. Believe me when you live somewhere this small something like Flugel night coming around is enough to make your whole week.
