Après - Skank :

Johno and me had been pestering our pal Dave who runs The Office joint down the road for an opp to spill some reggaeton into the village since we arrived here two months ago "G'on Dave, gis a night!" - so he finally caved in and left us to our chaotic devices.

All our sound kit was tucked under a few metres of snow in Cheeques, and maybe covered in mould. We accidentally left it till the last minute to sort out some replacement kit, which sort of didn't happen. But we kind of found a quick fix solution anyway, and with that, took straight to the Slalom bar for some elated post powder punching beers with our ace mates. A bit hysterical with giddyness we sloshed our freezing demis about mocking each other with shear mountainous loved up ferociousness. We rolled around the apartment for a bit, drinking some more of my now famous [don't say a thing, you know who you are] upper drinks + singing in piping hot showers. Johno piled together his tunes + we bellowed our way back out into the village. If there were any other souls about, I wouldn't know, because we had everything we needed in this phenomenal line up of unique individuals.

Around an hour after we were meant to have set up, we finally mastered the rig + Johno started pelting out some heavy reggae beats. We bounced up + down laughing + cuddling + hollering at each other deep into the night. We drank bombs + swirled our limbs around each other. We indulged in intimate chatter + inhaled each other's scents, continuously swinging to the sunny songs.

As the table filled up with large levels of Leffe's, Johno informed me; "Over to you, DJ KnullarChops", and so I took to the disc jockey throne [a chair, in amongst the bar, on a laptop - pro set up, always]. As predicted, my passionate selection of poppy Cumbian beats + Balkan bazaar music went down with the other crowds like a plummeting lead snowball, but at least my guys continued to show their loyal appreciation by continuing to jive as if they've just been let out of prison. The downside of getting to play your favourite music, is that you don't want to be gawping at an increasingly blurry screen - your legs + arms + butt + brain are calling for that huge space on the underwhelmed dance floor you see before you. So that's how we played it for the next hour - tune queue, slide about + take those moves to the next level. Slurp of Leffe and the pattern repeats itself once more.

Just as the evening was climaxing with none other than Parov Stelar's Catgroove we thought it couldn't get any better. Then.

sssssscccccccccttttttttoooooooomph ,

marks the sound of the rest of my already failed meniscus tearing in on itself, leaving DJ KnullarChops writhing about on that empty dance floor in explosive agonising pain.

Not even the sounds of Shazalakazoo could extract me from this pit of ultimate prattishness I'd achieved.

And it was time to be carried home, again.

Still though - Après Skank - what a great do.

[although - all the pictures I took at this much anticipated high profile night came out crap, so here's one of my Curls, we were singing Dark Dark Dark on the chairlift + smiling a lot at each other just that very afternoon]