I have some new words that I am going to submit to the Oxford English Dictionary people in the hope of further extending the scope of this great language.
They are:
'jagered' (pron. yay-gerd) - to be intoxicated. Example: "John was completely jagered last night; he could hardly stand up."
'jagering' (pron. yay-gering) - to drink an unfamiliar alcoholic beverage to excess. Example: "Mary spent the night jagering. By the end of the evening she was well and truly jagered"
'jaging' (pron. yay-ging) - to explosively expell the contents of one's stomach. Example: "Mary and John spent the morning jaging in the bathroom having been utterly jagered the night before."
Yes, I consumed something called Jagermeister. Nasty drink it is too. I peered at the dark liquid and asked myself the obvious question: "People drink this stuff for fun?"
Jan 1 was an odd day. Very subdued. Myself and another member of our party hit the slopes while the others slept off their respective excesses. Television was watched. Lethargy and apathy reigned. We quietly ate a meal. We sat in the hotel hot-tub and speculated on the quantity of foreign fluids, bodily or otherwise, that were causing a thick scum to form on the surface (I'm still itchy, even 12 hours later.)
At 10pm we trotted off to a club.
At this point I have to confess that I don't dance; I didn't dance much before bursting that disk in my back and now the twisting and bouncing about seem a really bad idea. If its going to go again I'd rather it go on the slopes where I might get a ride in the heli-ambulance. So instead I adopted my usual role of casual observer while nursing a bottle of beer. And there wasn't a huge amount to observe, behind me a game of pool was being played badly by some kids with fake ids. Ahead of me tumbleweed was blowing over the dancefloor (aside from one chap who'd clearly taken an illegal substance of some sort and had decided he was John Travolta for the evening.)
I was just beginning to tire of looking at the dance floor and admiring the pick-up technique of my female companions (if its cute, its fair game) when the club dancers appeared and proceeded to gyrate on stage. At this point I gave thanks for being a man. Although I harboured a lingering fear that watching such things might make me go blind... and then fatigue overwhelmed me: "Canada tired you out, huh?"
I wanted to say: "No, the whole cattle-market feel of this place is starting to make me feel like I need a damn good shower." I didn't, of course, instead I mentioned ski lessons the following morning and the fact that out of the whole party, I was the only one who hadn't spent large chunks of the day asleep. I doubt anyone heard over the music.
"No bringing strange men back to the room" I admonished and then was gone, 8 hours of sleep later and the sky is blue and the snow is calling me. Time to load a bullet into metaphorical revolver of my skiing and spin the barrel to see if today is the day that that pesky back of mine finally gives up the ghost.
