Next week, hordes of British holidaymakers will descend upon the Alps for their half-term skiing escapades, children in tow, ready to carve through the slopes. Once upon a time, skiing was a refined pursuit, an elegant mix of old-money aristocrats, jet-setting sophisticates, and respectable middle-class families enjoying their winter retreat. However, those halcyon days of grace and civility have been all but obliterated. In their place, social media paints a grotesque picture of a new breed of ski hooligans—a far cry from the slightly inebriated but ultimately harmless reveller of yesteryear. Instead, we now witness the rise of the wealthy, self-obsessed, and utterly tasteless snow-goers.
The modern ski yob is not just a brash high-street delinquent—oh no, this is a yob with money to burn. Botoxed, waxed to within an inch of their lives, and armed with an ear-splitting voice that could trigger an avalanche, they flood the Alps in pursuit of Instagram likes. Gone are the days of Capucine in her chic sable bobble hat, or Audrey Hepburn elegantly puffing a cigarette in Megève, exuding effortless style. Instead, the slopes are now littered with micro-influencers in skin-tight shapewear, tirelessly arranging the perfect “tits and arse” shot for their followers. If they’re not chasing Insta fame, they’re tech bros in overpriced ski gear, eager to outdo one another with garish displays of wealth and dubious etiquette.
But the real tragedy of modern ski culture does not take place on the slopes—it manifests in the après-ski debauchery that has spiralled out of control. Party-lunching has transformed from an enjoyable mountain-side indulgence into a stomach-churning spectacle. There was a time when a leisurely tartiflette, crisp green salad, and a well-chilled glass of Grüner Veltliner, served in a charming wooden hut with gingham curtains, was the epitome of skiing sophistication. Now, such simple pleasures have been replaced by garish scenes of Dubai-style excess. Sushi in the mountains? An abomination. Mountain food should be hearty—stews, venison, steaks smothered in melted cheese. One should eat like a 19th-century Alpine hunter, not a misguided oligarch trying to impress his latest conquest.
Dubai-on-the-Slopes: A Spectacle of Bad Taste
The trend for extravagant, Instagram-fuelled après-ski culture has reached absurd heights. What was once a charming post-ski ritual has been transformed into a gaudy nightmare. The Folie Douce franchise—once a delightful bit of Alpine mayhem—has metastasised across the mountains like an invasive species. Bad house music, electric violins, and questionable behaviour abound, as ski resorts increasingly resemble tacky nightclubs from 2006. The atmosphere is reminiscent of the worst excesses of bottle-service culture: overpriced drinks, reserved tables for the ‘elite’, and men of a certain age behaving in ways that should have been left behind in their youth. The whole affair reeks of performative “snowfluencing”—entirely for show, utterly devoid of charm.
A particularly egregious development is the rise of ski influencers and OnlyFans content creators, intent on flooding social media with their desperate thirst-trap antics. It is now commonplace to see women skiing in bikinis, trailed by a professional photographer, balancing a ring light while trying to perfect their sultry pout. Not to be outdone, their male counterparts parade about in Speedos, flexing in choreographed formations. Naturally, one might be tempted to double-tap in amusement—but let’s not encourage such behaviour.
Luxury Gone Mad: The Cost of Conspicuous Consumption
Adding insult to injury is the rampant consumerism now engulfing the Alps. Private members’ clubs—places that should have no business existing in a ski resort—are popping up, demanding exorbitant entry fees that make even St Moritz look quaint. While the old-school glamour of Dracula in St Moritz or a night at the GreenGo in Gstaad has its appeal, the new wave of ultra-luxurious ski experiences smacks of nothing more than ostentatious one-upmanship.
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For the modern ski yob, nothing less than the most lavish accommodations will suffice. Take Les Airelles in Courchevel 1850, where a night in one of their 48 rooms starts at a cool £3,000—rising to £35,000 a night for a four-bedroom penthouse, which naturally includes a chauffeured Rolls-Royce and a monogrammed Celine bag as a parting gift. Then there’s the Chalet Edelweiss, where a week’s stay in high season can set you back an eye-watering £400,000. One can only assume they throw in a few monogrammed Saint Bernard puppies for that price.
As this vulgarity engulfs the Alps, one cannot help but wonder—when did skiing lose its soul? The answer, perhaps, lies in the insatiable hunger for social media clout, the collapse of traditional elegance, and the modern world’s relentless pursuit of the flashiest, most extravagant experience money can buy. And as we hurtle down this slippery slope, one thing is clear: the days of Audrey Hepburn-esque sophistication on the slopes are well and truly over.
