FSOM – The Winter Olympics… not one for journalists!

Don’t you just love the Winter Olympics?

Old Fifty Shades certainly does, even if watching some of the sports bring back painful memories.

Now Fifty Shades is a pretty competent skier, with the emphasis on the first word as much as the second.

FSOM’s competence means his technique is good enough that he can get down most slopes from the gentlest blue run to all but the perpendicular blacks in a fashion.

Sometimes, that fashion resembles an arthritic frog, especially on the upper reaches of steep slopes.

But when it comes to the bottom of the slop, he is able to turn on the style, and on the last 200 metres run-in, there is nobody to touch him for style, elan and grace – especially if there is a mountain restaurant at the end.

It’s all done for show, of course. Across the slopes of Europe snow-bunnies of all nationalities ranging from statuesque Frauleins, picturesque mademoiselles, doe-eyed signori, and stunning Scandinavians have removed their glossy lips from their gluhwein or halted a fork full of bratwurst or a spoonful of gulaschsuppe inches before their gaping maw in awe and appreciation at the stylish master of the slopes who has just turned up.

A couple of carefully choreographed, text-book perfect parallel turns and the showboating finale of a jet-stop which sends the snow flying and deposits just the right amount of cooling ice in a cocktail announces the arrival of the man known throughout the Alps as l’éclair bleu, die blauen blitz, il flash azzuri or in plain English – The Blue Flash.

That be-goggled demon with the chiselled chin and the tanned visage is none other than Fifty Shades, of course in his latest guise.

He is known as The Blue Flash as this is the colour of his ski attire, it being a tasteful assemblage of Royal Blue salopettes, topped off by a matching coloured anorak, complete with hood.

He hasn’t always been the Blue Flash. Previous incarnations – based on the colour of his ski attire – has seen Fifty Shades’ Alpine alter-ego appear as the Black Flash, the White Flash, the Red Flash, and – based on a fashionably unwise impulse purchase – the Yellow Flash, which from a distance made him look like the sort of stain on the snow that foxes make to mark out their territory.

Of course the arrival on the lunchtime scene of the Blue/Black/White/Red Flash may be dramatic and designed to catch the eye, but in the manner of Dyanmo producing a three-course meal from his ear or David Copperfield making an African Bull elephant materialise in a family-sized saloon car, it’s all done to deceive.

Those impressed by the showbiz entry will be completely unaware of the panic, sweat and fear that had gone into negotiating the unseen section of slope.

But isn’t that what skiing and winter sports are truly about? Looking cool?

To paraphrase the founder of the Olympics, Baron Pierre de Coubertin, It’s not the winning, but looking nang which counts.

However, this has not always been the case and in trying a range of winter sports, Fifty Shades’ bubble of dignity has been punctured more convincingly than a maiden aunt taking a large hatpin to a nephew’s chewing gum bubble, leaving him with a face like a plasterer’s radio.

FSOM has been lucky enough to be the recipient of invitations to the biggest ligging, freeloading sprees you can imagine – the press trip.

These often involve tourist boards of those resorts which live in the shadow of better-known ones, inviting journalists to come and see what they have to offer.

Unlike St Moritz, Kitzbuel, Meribel or Cortina d’Ampezzo, these are lesser-known resorts for a reason.

At best, their snow record might be patchy, and keen skiers turning up with their planks at the height of the season find verdant slopes on which goats are happily grazing. Or these resorts may literally be in the shadow of their more famous neighbour, and while there is plenty of snow, the sun never comes above the horizon between November and March and skiing becomes the sort of endurance test that Scott of the Antarctic didn’t pass.

In their desperation, tourist officers of these resorts resort to the tried and trusted method of ensuring good press by plying the journos on the trips with alcohol.

However, FSOM was once invited to a ski resort bidding to stage the winter ‘ollies’, with a view to writing glowing things about its facilities. And what better way to be able to be able to write authoritatively on these facilities than to be able to try them at first hand?

This was Fifty Shades’ undoing as his shortcomings were exposed as blatantly as a naturist’s buttocks on a private beach.

But buoyed by braggodoccio and Jagermeister, he took the challenges on.

Biathlon – cross-country skiing and rifle shooting? That can’t be all that hard. It looks effortlessly easy on the box. Fifty Shades was a competent skier and hitting metal ducks at fairground shooting arcades convinced him he was a half decent shot.

The first shock was when FSOM stepped into the cross country ski bindings. The fact you wear a specialist shoe which clicks into the toe binding leaving the heel free was a pleasant surprise to one accustomed to the restrictive heavy boots of alpine skis.

But if Alpine skis are like attaching a couple of planks to your feet, to replicate cross-country skis, go to a drawer in your kitchen, pull out a couple of breadknives and strap them to your feet.

They are thin and wispy with the result that FSOM fell over when he tried to take his first step. And the second, third and upwards.

Once Fifty Shades had found his technique and rhythm he was fine and off he went at a lick.

He would have been fine had the course been as straight as the railway across the Nullarbor Plain, but he soon realised he would have to turn and go uphill, both of which presented big problems.

Fifty Shades had never skied uphill before. That’s what chairlifts are for.

It became clear quite quickly that cross-country was exhausting and the reason the guys on the telly make it looks effortless is because they come from countries where skis are strapped to their feet before a diaper is attached to them. They would have skied to kindergarten.

Cross country races usually contain the word ‘kilometre’ in there somewhere, but the resort officials realised they were dealing with hacks who not only possessed a core of unfitness, but who the night before had got stuck into the stuffed pigs knuckles and beef stew, as well as the local hooch, which came in dangerous-looking unlabelled stoneware jars.

Instead of sending us out into the countryside with a map, our circuit was around 500metres. But that was still enough for Fifty Shades, and when he arrived back at the shooting range he was panting like a Labrador left inside a car on a hot day, and seeing little flecks of light when he tried to focus.

The organisers wisely did not trust us to carry our rifles around our circuit, like the real athletes, but we were invited to get into the prone position.

This suited FSOM as he thought it was a welcome nap-time until somebody thrust a .22 rifle with live ammo into his hands.

Recalling all the scary stuffed animals with wild staring eyes and goldfish in plastic bags he had won in his fairground shooting days, Fifty Shades took aim at the targets, his steadiness not helped by his heartbeat which was banging faster than a rutting shrew.

He felt better when his first three bullets smacked satisfyingly into three discs, but his delight was deflated when it was pointed out that he was actually aiming at the wrong set of targets.

Confidence shattered, his next two shots were wild.

Nobody knew where they went, but the local news headlines that night led on the story of the police hunt for the mystery gunman who, in what appeared to be the country’s first drive-by shooting, winged a housewife in a nearby village as she prepared dinner, while other villagers tucked gleefully into a free roast elk dinner, a bonus after hunters apparently left their kill behind.

If biathlon wasn’t bad enough, Fifty Shades was then invited to have a crack at curling.

Again, what could be easier? At this point, Fifty Shades will resist the temptation to snipe at curling as the perfect sport for women as they can sweep to their heart’s content. He’s better than that.

Once more, the ease and elegance of the sport on the box, was misleading.

For starters, curling is carried out on ice. Ice is slippery. That would be bad enough, but the shoes worn in curling are designed to confuse the clumsy. One shoe is smooth-soled, the other sole is gripped. This is to allow curlers to slide on one foot while propelling themselves with the gripped-sole shoe.

All this is based on the belief that the wearer has some sort of sense of balance.

Stick a broom in one hand and suddenly Fifty Shades was confronted with the equivalent of rubbing his stomach with one hand while tapping his head with the other.

Fifty Shades’ spell at sweeping ahead of the stones prompted a messy tangle of broom, legs and feet, resulting in a wet and bruised arse.

He didn’t fare much better when invited to propel a great big lump of granite down the ice.

You will have seen the technique, which involves crouching low on the ice, balancing on the smooth-soled shoe to provide a harmonious blend of man, broom and stone, sliding along to delicately and skilfully release the projectile down the ice towards the House.

Fifty Shades was much more flexible back then and as he assumed the position and hunched over the stone, it started well.

But the ice is slippery, his standing foot gave way, he released the stone too early and it all unravelled, with the result that stone thudded against the sidewall and to a stop while Fifty Shades continued to slide down the ice toward the House. He slid slowly to a halt within the target area, but unfortunately he did not count towards the score.

Looking back, it was a blessing the resort directors didn’t allow us to take part in ski jumping, or luge or skeleton.

Fifty Shades might well have been the first person in the history of the luge to stop halfway down and ask for directions.

The good news for resort directors around the world is that Fifty Shades is ready, willing and able to try out other Olympic sports.

Fifty Shades is sure we can persuade the International Olympic Committee that Mojito swigging while swinging in a hammock, Freestyle Sunlounger Arranging and Pedalo Racing are bona fide sports.

By John May

Follow @maisy68

This photograph was provided by Globovisión.