FHM article 2003
It is a brave man who claims to know the mind of God, risking as he does, a slapping with the business end of a lightning bolt. But one can only assume that, on the day he created snow, the Lord was in one almighty foul mood. Why else would he invent something that snaps the fingers off Arctic explorers, swipes old ladies to the floor and provides handy ammunition for bullies in their war against the pant-wetting weaklings of the world's school yards?
The alternative scenario is that God is a skier. It must surely have occurred to the big chap, presumably just after he had made the first mountain, that spanking it down a snow-laden slope on a couple of flimsy metal strips in a fine pastime. Who can say?
HOLIDAY ON ICE!
It's a trip up the odd mountain for our intrepid explorer in search of a good time
Either way, several millennia on from God's DIY fest, skiing is the number one use for a tall lump of rock, with legions of snow aficionados regularly heading off for high altitude pleasures on and off piste. And in our continuing bid to meet new people and general enjoy ourselves, we felt duty bound to join them.
Our destination was Meribel, the French ski resort famed for both challenging Alpine slopes and top-notch nightlife. It sounded a fine combination until our fist morning on skis found us falling about like recently run-over baby deer, and picking up bruises like a box of semi-rancid apples crashing about in the back of a van with knackered suspension.
Several hours of tricks and tips later, we could at least stand up straight. "I started skiing at three," explained Davy. "If you live in the mountains, you learn early." this would explain why were finding skiing tricky--our own formative years were spent throwing small toys out of playpens and dribbling profusely.
But there was one thing we were good at. "Aprčs ski is very important," Stephane added. "You have to go for a drink after a day on the piste. It's a big part of skiing." A couple of Southern Comfort drinks later, all memories of our incompetence had evaporated as we resolved not to be so useless the next day. If only the bruises had vanished as quickly...
Happily, salvation was at hand. Our wobbly piste meanderings brought us into contact with Davy Moles and Stephane Martin-Cochel, French skiers an snowboarders extraordinaire. "How the hell do we do this?" we pleaded, our legs collapsing beneath us.
