"Yes, I can ski a bit. Definitely up for a ski trip. Where the heck is Andorra*?"

* - Andorra is an independent principality situated between France and Spain in the Pyrenees mountains. It's tiny, but very beautiful.

I've operated as spare wheel on a couple of ski trips over the years; the first was in France back in 1997 when an old school friend invited me along to make up numbers and a very kind Canadian lady taught me how to ski, and the second was a few years later when a colleague invited me to join a small group he was putting together to go to Andorra. And I had to look it up on the internet then too.

So, within two weeks of the question, five of us were sat on a flight to France after picking up a last minute deal at a local travel agent.

If I'm brutally honest I don't remember much about two of the lads other than to note that they were good company and easy going. They were both good friends with the chap I worked with and the three had known each other for years and been away together many times. I was one spare wheel, the other was a lad I shall call Troy who was a friend of one of the other guys and likeable but somewhat hyperactive.

In real life Troy was a semi-pro water skier. He'd never gone skiing on snow before but, needless to say, he took to it like a duck to water and his balance was phenomenal. So, once we'd all taken a day or so to get used to being on two planks of wood again we were soon doing the red runs and my colleague was limbering up to get on the black slopes some of which were full of moguls**.

** - Not newspaper tycoons, very difficult terrain consisting of many dips and bumps in the snow, and usually blooming steep.

Andorra was beautiful and we were blessed with good weather for a few days, then a massive dump of snow, then good weather again, so pretty much perfect for skiing. The only thing that marred the resort we were in was the people, who were mostly British.

I know this is a sweeping generalization but I'm prone to them occasionally, particularly when it comes to my countrymen and women on holiday. Most Europeans speak a couple of languages, and that usually includes English. This means that most English folks don't bother to even try when they go to another country. The place was full of young, loud, drunken Brits demanding a morning fry up, pizza and copious amounts of schnapps.***

*** - This stuff was not the schnapps I'd grown up tasting due to having a Swedish grandfather, this was alcoholic, tasted sickly sweet and fruity, and was probably able to remove paint. It was awful. Proper schnapps warms you from the inside out and actually tastes kinda nice. This stuff was just designed to get you hammered and spending more money. I suspect that was exactly the intent, but I stuck to the beer.

Here's another stereotype for you. You can often spot a Brit on holiday as they tend to be the ones speaking slowly and very loudly in the hope that the local person they're speaking to will understand them better if they talk and enunciate very clearly with excessive volume.****

**** - probably turned up to 'moron' on the guitar amp, which is one level above 11. (And if you've not seen it, go watch This is Spinal Tap)

Thankfully, once you got onto the slopes, you could leave the hungover numpties behind and venture out over seven mountain ranges. The variation in skiing was wonderful, tricky black runs, technically challenging reds, sweeping blues through pine forests, and easygoing greens where you could glide serenely along and have a chat with the rest of the group.

We were there to ski, not to get off our faces on awful schnapps, and we certainly did that. While most tourists were still in bed at 11am, we'd already been on the slopes for three hours making the most of the freshly prepped snow and clear ski lifts.

Except for one day when it snowed. This meant the next day was splendidly powdery, but for that one day we got a couple of hours on the skis, then had to call it a day due to lack of visibility. It was Troy I think who came up with the bright idea of finding a jacuzzi. It took a little while but we found a hotel around the corner with a jacuzzi for one. So, as it was his idea we left him to it and went looking for another one. And the hotel next door came up trumps with a jacuzzi for four and a swimming pool. We gently basted ourselves for a while in the jacuzzi, took a swim and then headed back to the hotel a couple of hours later.

We got in to find Troy looking a little glum.

"Wassup buddy?" said his friend who'd invited him along.

Troy muttered something and his friend started to giggle. "Oh Troy, you didn't."

"Yes, I bloody did," he said, his voice rising. "I didn't know you weren't meant to use shampoo in a jacuzzi."

The bubbles hadn't quite made it out of the window apparently, but he had spent the better part of an hour cleaning the jacuzzi in the hotel while the manager muttered darkly at him in a mixture of Spanish and French which thankfully Troy didn't understand a word of.

"Gav, you know some French, what does 'stupide bâtard anglais' mean?"

"It's less than complimentary."

Troy harrumphed and settled into the sofa. He'd dressed to go back out into the snow, but it hadn't stopped dropping white feathery flakes outside yet so he was sat on the sofa in his undergarments, a fetching pair of stretchy seamless longjohns that, had they been any tighter, probably would have got him arrested.

His friend patted him on the shoulder. "Come on Troy, it's not the end of the world. Why don't we try that Pizza place we saw the other day? It actually looked half decent. Remember? The one in the back streets away from all the tourists."

Troy brightened up. "Sure, that sounds like a plan. Bugger the jacuzzi. We could get a few beers in too and there's meant to be a band on tonight in that pub we went to on Monday."

So, a short time later, the five of us headed out on the town, Troy leading the pack with a purposeful stride and jaunty step and myself and my colleague bringing up the rear. As we walked, the other two lads who were walking immediately behind Troy started to giggle. I turned to my friend and he grinned and held a finger to his lips. It wasn't until we got outside that I realised what the other two were giggling about. Troy had been hidden from my view but as we spread out a bit outside and the street lights illuminated the area I realised he'd not got any trousers on. He'd obviously got very comfortable in his tight fitting ski underwear and had simply thrown on his boots and coat, the anticipation of pizza overriding everything else.

Well it did until the cold air hit him.

"Bloody hell, it's cold tonight isn't it?" he muttered, hugging himself in his ski jacket.

"Perhaps you could do with a few more layers," suggested one of the others.

"If I put any more on I'll roll down the street. I've got... shit. Where's me strides? Key!"

My friend mutely held out the key which was snatched out of his hand and Troy retreated rapidly to the hotel room with four grown men giggling like loons in the snow behind him, giggles that turned to roars of laughter as a drunken Brit wolf-whistled his tightly clad backside from the other side of the road.

"Stupide bâtards anglais," he muttered a few minutes later, now wearing a smart pair of jeans.

"Not bad Troy, your French is improving."

"Gav, how do you tell someone to ---- off in French?"

We found the restaurant, ordered some pizza, poured a few beers down Troy and he cheered up immensely, very quickly seeing the funny side of trousergate, and then we found the pub he'd mentioned with the live band.

It was rammed.

I have to have a very good reason to go into a space so jammed with people that you can't lift your arms without goosing someone.

There was a band. That was a good reason, and it turned out to be a brilliant funk band who covered all sorts of excellent musicians. A lot of what they played was Jamiroquai, which was fine, but they also played some 70s music too and they had the place bouncing. Admittedly it was bouncing as one big blob because there wasn't room enough to bounce separately, but they were superb. I love good live music and after a little while, and some group bopping, I managed to find a corner with one of the other lads and we grabbed a beer and nodded along to the music for a couple of hours.

Sometime later in the evening and slightly deaf from the music, we all took a deep breath of cold air and made our way back through a fresh dump of snow to the hotel.

"This is going to be great tomorrow," noted my friend.

"Absolutely," said Troy. "Looking forward to it. Um..." he'd stopped abruptly and was looking at a man lying in the snow. "Is he dead?"*****

***** - I'm beginning to realise that this particular phrase has happened a few times whilst I've been travelling...

One of the lads who was closer than I was bent down to check. "No, he's still breathing."

"Is he really just wearing a shirt and trousers?" said Troy incredulously.

"Yup, obviously a Brit."

The lad nearest him slapped him none too gently on the cheek. "Hey, fella, are you still with us?"

"Wassa? Yeah mum, I'm up. Hey man, I was sleeping."

"Dude, you're outside in the snow."

"Oh."

"Where's your hotel? You're going to die if you stay out here."

"'S 'at one," said the lad drunkenly as we pulled him to his feet, pointing vaguely at a hotel on the corner.

"Okay mate, let's get you home."

"Thanks boys, you're great. I love you."

Thankfully the hotel he steered us to was warm, welcoming and the only thing on reception was a sign saying "Back in 5 minutes". One of his friends arrived to keep him company so we arranged him carefully on a comfortable looking sofa and left him to it.

The next few days of skiing were superb. We all wiped out a few times in deep patches of snow and I lost a hat on the ski-lift, but we'd all got into our stride by this point and were thoroughly enjoying things.

"I'd like to try the black run on the other side of the mountain," said Troy.

"Are you sure," said his friend. "It's hellish steep."

"Yup, let's do it."

And so we did.

I distinctly remember standing at the top of it. It was built like a brick wall. Vertical. Well ok, not quite vertical but hell it was steep.

"I'll go first," said my friend. And, as the most experienced skier in the group, off he went. He took his time and we watched as he navigated his way down, gliding to a halt as the slope levelled out about half a mile away.

Troy grinned. "Me next!"

"Troy, wait, don't just..." one of the other lads started but lapsed into silence as Troy accelerated down the slope.

And kept accelerating.

"Does Troy know what a turn is?"

"Doesn't look like it. Oh god, I can't look."

Troy was pointed straight down the hill and had settled into a low tuck. After a few seconds a distant cry of "Shiiiiiiii....iiii....iittttt...." Dopplered up the hill.

One of the lads started giggling helplessly in terror, watching in morbid fascination as the group anticipated another round of "is he dead?". Troy was going so fast at this point that his skis were slapping off the snow rapidly, making a horrible rattling noise, and he'd managed somehow to stay in his racing tuck, with his poles tucked between his arms and his ribs, as other skiers scattered out of his path.

"If he loses it now, he's toast," muttered the other lad. "Oh god!"

Troy had leant back and was now squatting on his skis, his backside just above the snow, his ski poles sending up a penumbra of powdery snow as they dragged behind him.

"How the hell is he still upright?"

"I dunno, but we should've filmed this. I reckon he's broken the land speed record."

And then he reached the more level area, narrowly missing my friend who'd seen him coming and had beaten a hasty retreat, managed to pull himself back up into a standing position and coasted gently to a halt by the treeline.

We approached the slope with considerably more caution than Troy and reached him and my friend a few minutes later. Troy had taken off his skis and was running around in circles like a small child after eating too much chocolate. He was grinning like a maniac.

His friend reached out and shook his hand. "I don't know how the hell you did that mate, but that was amazing, and utterly terrifying to watch."

"I AM BUZZING!" shouted Troy and carried on dancing around for several minutes more. He didn't stop until nature intervened to dampen his mood when a large glop of wet snow fell off a tree and danced down his neck prompting a scream of outrage and much hilarity.

Snow falling from roofs was also an issue in town as things warmed up a bit over the last few days we were there. Great piles of snow lay on the streets under the edges of the roofs, with locals warning tourists about falls from above. Half a ton of snow falling from three stories up can put a bit of a crimp in your evening. Look up!

The last few days were a bit of a blur of skiing, good food and drink and great fun, but we eventually wound up the holiday and made our way home without further incident, unconscious snow morons or Troy having any more adventures in his underwear.

I like Andorra. It's perhaps a tad touristy for my tastes. That said, I reckon I'd go again, particularly if there's a Troy there.