Mucking About In Fountains.

That’s how the joke goes: what’s the difference between goldfish and goats? Goldfish like to muck about in fountains. You can do the rest. You’ll have to because when it comes to writing I may as well be semi-retired; which as far as you’re concerned is probably half way towards never hearing from me ever again, you lucky dog. I rolled that little gem out because the Winter Olympics are upon us again and what better way could you choose to describe the Winter Olympics than as a grab bag of silly buggers doing you know what in dangerous places? As I started writing this earlier I watched live footage of the 41 year old American alpine skier Lindsey Von take a pretty grim looking tumble on her comeback run after a five year break. Within minutes she was wrapped up tight like a polyester mummy and being lifted out on a rope by a helicopter. She was accompanied on that rope by a man who must have had balls of solid iron, so much so that I started to worry they would drag the helicopter back down to the ground. They say it’s a bad sign when they don’t waste time actually putting you in the helicopter, so we can only hope she pulls through and stays this side of the void. If she does I doubt she’ll be skiing again anytime soon, but then to compete in top level alpine skiing common sense is rarely a factor one considers for long.

I’ve been skiing a few times, but gave up on it a good fifteen odd years ago. There comes a point in the act of hurling yourself down an icy mountain side and hoping you don’t shit yourself in the process that you have to concede that unless you get considerably better at it as soon as possible you may as well start looking for something else to do with your time. That’s not to say there is nothing to commend it as a pastime. On a sunny day in the mountains, the air crystal and sharp, with fresh, firm snow beneath you and a deep cornflower blue sky above, you could almost fool yourself into thinking you’ve found heaven on earth. To feel the sweat slide down your back after a day of push and pull, swish and swoosh and even a mild challenge to make your stomach tighten is a most rewarding sensation. To feel the bustle and hear the clack and crank of ski lifts and pods rattling away, dragging you higher and higher with nothing worse to do than enjoy the scenery. And then to stand on a balcony with a cigarette and a cold beer and watch the day slowly wind down as the last chancers finish off their final run of the day is nothing short of bliss; sweet, sweet after ski.

But it isn’t all fun and games. Skiing is hard work. No matter how much fun you’re having your body is always working hard. The thighs and calves start to ache in new ways with each passing day and your feet are either in a state of boxed compression or plastered up to cover the blisters. Good skiers glide, bad skiers suffer. Skiing is an expensive business too; when I was recently offered the chance to go on a three night trip to the French Alps and was told that it would set me back to the tune of £1300 I winced and took less than a second to gracefully demur. Skiing is one of the ultimate elitist sports, up there with tennis and golf, though not quite at the wanker entry level that you find at your average polo match. And on top of that I have to remember the main reason I stopped in the first place, which was a blurry fall I had, briefly bubbled up with confidence, going too fast on a slope that was otherwise about as dangerous as a ham sandwich. I was left with bruised ribs and a headache and for about half an hour I sat on a bench in the shade of an alpine valley while a companion went to get a car and an appointment with a doctor who eventually prescribed me some magnificent French pharmaceuticals. For that half hour I didn’t see another soul, but the peace was unsettled by the fact that I was completely stuck out on my own and in pain, and so I started to cry and when I’d finished doing that I decided that that was it – if a sport can make you cry then it isn’t worth the hassle, at least not for me. Oh, by the way, the other pretty much overwhelming problem with skiing is that you are surrounded by skiers. And most skiers are arseholes. Snowboarders are even bigger arseholes than skiers, which is quite an achievement.

But what am I moaning for? I’m definitely ready for some cold, bright Winter Olympic action. The last one in Beijing, where they muscled up thousands of tonnes of fresh snow every day using energy and water this planet can scarcely afford, was good fun but an alpine Olympics is always going to take gold. I don’t know for sure where skiing for pleasure was first invented but if wasn’t the Alps then I’d be slightly surprised. For it is only in the Alps that you can get such a dense concentration of chest-beating Europeans: of French arrogance, Italian indignation, German mechanical brutality and Scandinavian steel. No wonder Britain has such a poor record at this event – even if we were any good we’d still be swamped by all that cattle-bell ringing and Heidi hollering. Apparently we only have one natural ski resort in Britain (as opposed to the Beijing variety) and that’s in Scotland, a country that seems to think that when it comes to winter games you’re either a curler or you’re not; interesting that curling is one of the few cold sports that it is possible to do well at whilst also entertaining a serious smack habit. And as some speed skating (because it is surely a better option than a repeat of The Celebrity Chase old enough to feature Len Goodman before he lost the ability to speak) sets the backdrop to a grey February afternoon I look forward to skeletons and luges, daft couple getting all dramatic on ice to something stupid like ‘The Birdy Song’, the sheer insanity of the full fat ski jump and all that draining cross country shit where they stop off to win a teddy at the fair with an air rifle. And, despite myself, I’ll enjoy watch jumped-up 19 year old kids, who know nothing about the world other than the tiny, shallow bit of it in which they exist, spinning through the air, at one with their snowboards; as graceful as ballet dancers but with none of the boredom. There’s such beauty in the mountains, and an awful lot of fucking about to enjoy.

G B Burton. 08/02/2026

Ps, when did Steve Cram become an expert on curling? Do the BBC have to rely on the same people for every job, everywhere, all the time?