Sadly, a giraffe turned out to be substantial quantity of beer rather than an intriguing new sexual position as I'd hoped. Still, a plastic tube full of beer that is taller than First-Born is not to be sniffed at. The bear was also suitably impressed.
My new best friend X and I pottered out of the chalet some time before midnight and slid our way into town. Tumbleweeds (or whatever the alpine variant is called) might as well have been blowing through the street. We ignored the distressingly signed "English Pub" (why is it that the English go abroad and then insist on tracking down the "Ye Olde English Pub" rather than sample the local fayre?) and headed downstairs to a basement bar called the Buddha Bar.
I'm not sure that the fat guy himself would have approved. Then again, any red-blooded male would have approved of our waitress. A giraffe was duly ordered, admired and then drunk. X embarked on a rant concerning the anglicisation of our resort (the irony that we were both English escaped him somewhat.)
The beer was good though...
