White Knight

Although the class divides in the UK are no longer as significant as they once were there are still distinct dividing lines which can be drawn. On of these lines can be drawn clearly by a sport. If you are in your early twenties and you know how to ski, then chances are you will be of the financially superior classes. I went to school in a South Yorkshire comprehensive; I know of no-one I went to school with who can ski. Plenty are as thick as two short planks, few could stand up on the actual artifacts. However, that is not to say we were not familiar with the sport.

Thanks to Ski Sunday, and the sadly now departed David Vine, we were regular skiing fans in our house. Watching intently from behind a coffee table laden with a ploughman's tea we would attentively do as we did with motor-sport in the summer months; collectively wait for someone to push the boundaries of speed and gravity too far and hurtle off course into a tangle of poles, skis, lycra and bright orange netting. And whilst men ditched cow bells and scrambled across the slopes to their aid we would collectively mutter a distinct "Ooooh" before asking dad to stop hogging the Branston Pickle. Simple times.

This week however an event came to my attention which enforced how wrong I had been about skiing. Not just a source of masochistic meal-time family television, nor an upper class jaunt. No, when done properly, by those who have the sport on their doorstep, skiing can give you a phenomenal sporting atmosphere that will be rarely rivalled. Step forward the good people of Austria and the sporting event you need to seek out and see for yourself; the Schladming Night Slalom. Because hurtling down near sheet ice at high speeds is not dangerous enough when you can see where you're going you need the addition of darkness and over 50,000 raucous Austrians to make it worthwhile.

Not only was the skiing on the floodlit track hich-octane but the noise levels from the assembled crowd would have reduced your average prawn sandwich toting football fan to a cowering pile of dust. Aided by cow-bells and hooters the noise increased in decibels until the final two skiers attempted the descent, the Austrian pair of Manfred Pranger and Reinfried Herbst. By the time Herbst left the start gate an Austrian one-two finish was pretty much certain and so the volume doubled and the home country skier descended the slope to a myriad of Austrian flags, waving amidst scores of bright red flares. Herbst triumphed in the partizan atmosphere and celebrated by diving face first into the snow at the foot of the piste. If skiing had this associated atmosphere in this country then we'd all have shared memories of Kitzbuehel.