I haven’t watched any of the Winter Olympics, none of it. Its like tennis, a game I really love to play, but can only watch Wimbledon because its fab but never bother with the Australian Open, or the French. Especially the French. And yet these are big events of worldwide significance. And they are sports, live on tv, for which I’m generally not very discerning. But I don’t watch them.

So I missed ‘our’ girls (the ‘our’ bit is because I’m not sure whether we can still claim Scots as our own) winning the bronze in Curling. I love all that brushing and sweeping and I’m very fond of Eve Muirhead. She’s a babe. Can I say that? Does that empower her or objectify her?? I’m never sure, so best say it quietly and hope she doesn’t notice. Especially as all that brushing must give her muscles like a prop forward. Even though she looks very slim and lithe and…

But tomorrow I’m entering my own Winter Olympics. The time has come to wax my skis, fish out my white lip paste and iron my roll-neck sweaters. Remember roll-necks? Went out of fashion in 1976 when Haircut 100 (thankfully) split up. But not for skiers. We need all the roll necks we can get. Mainly to mop up all the booze that gets spilled at lunch.

So I’m off to Courchevel for a few days to try improve my skiing. Something that’s evaded me since my first ever week, about 35 years ago. I rapidly improved that week. From like zero to averagely bad. Which is precisely where I’ve positioned myself ever since. Fortunately I like going fast. And having ‘all the technique of a three-legged dolphin’ helps me greatly in this respect.

Mel won’t ski. Well she won’t ski with me; too dangerous. The daughters, having been dragged round numerous European mountains as children, have also developed a dislike for my winter sport of choice (sleeping in front of the fire apparently doesn’t count as a sport). So I ski with my mates. And at an advanced age, skiing is a euphemism for ‘eating’. Its all about lunch. And dinner. And tea. Breakfast’s good too. And snacks. Coffee and hot chocolate stops. Mulled wine. Red wine. White whine. Cheese. Croissants. Bread. Because although skiing is essentially a physically demanding and active sport, we try to consume 7 times our body weight each day in fine foods. Which is why we go to France. Or ‘Russia’ as that part of France is now known.

France is one hour ahead of us, timewise. So when the lifts close on Sunday afternoon, that’s just perfect timing to hit the Sports Bar and watch Spurs play Norwich. Its all planned. No-one there will want to watch ‘Come Dine with Me’ on the other channel and Guinness tastes pretty much the same with a French accent.

I’ve spoken to many skiers this week. And for every one that says ‘you simply MUST ski such-and-such run’, there are 19 who say ‘you simply MUST eat at such-and-such restaurant’.

I try and explain that I’M A SPORTSMAN’ not a fucking pig!!! And my sport of choice is taking out French Snowboarders and knocking their obnoxious little offspring over in the lift queues.

Happy skiing

A xxxx