United make mark in winter wonderland

I want you to imagine the scene. Last week, I was participating in the delightful Altitude Festival in the ski resort of Méribel and had just taken a 20-minute ride in a snug fibreglass bubble almost vertically up a mountain. Now, I have a problem with skiing. My view is that if you take my nervous, if prepossessing, physical mass and strap it to two slippery planks then release it three miles above sea level in eastern France, it won’t stop until Bruges. So I was simply there for the view.

The word “view” does the awe-inspiring sight that greeted me a massive disservice. Jagged, ice-glazed ebony peaks thrust violently into the sky, vast swaths of blinding white snow stung my eyes. I was on the roof of the world. The thin, fresh, cold air bit into my lungs and the sun slowly burnt my numb cheeks. It was simply one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Then somebody said: “We’d better get back down if we want to make the Man United game . . .”

Word shot through the assemblage of ski punks, snowboard rats, slalom monkeys and obese pop-quiz captains. It was Arsène Wenger’s last throw of the dice for “Les Gunners” against the behemoth United. I turned back to the stunning vista and glanced down at the head of the piste. Gaggles of ex-pats were nudging each other and mouthing the word “Football!” before tearing downhill in great sweeping curves. I reluctantly stamped back through the snow like Winnie-the-Pooh in Gore-Tex to my wobbly ski-lift ride down to the sports bar, leaving my winter wonderland behind . . .

Once through the door my senses were assailed by the gamey tang of bar snacks, beer and blokes, the staccato bark of Sky Sports jingles, Andy Gray’s angular Scottish burr and the warm glow of the massive plasma screens. The game was none too shabby, United going about their victory with sparkling, if grim efficiency and Arsenal’s season drawing to a disappointing end.

Later that night, I idly pondered that United were themselves not unlike the Alps. Immovable, spectacular and always there, and perhaps that’s what had drawn everybody off the slopes. Marcus Brigstocke, the festival organiser, looked round at me ruefully. “Not really, mate,” he said, “the ski lift shut at 4.”