Winter Olympics

Every four years the Winter Olympics arrives like an unexpected house guest from Scandinavia.

It stands politely at the door, wrapped in Lycra and frost, while Britain peers out from behind the curtain and says, "Do we know you?"

The Summer Games make sense. We understand running. We occasionally do it ourselves, usually for a bus, an overdue train, or an appointment we swore was at half past. We grasp swimming. Some of us even throw things, albeit normally at the recycling bin. There is a comforting familiarity about it all.

But the Winter Olympics? That is a fortnight devoted to sliding about in specialist pyjamas on terrain we normally avoid in a Range Rover. And I must confess, I do not watch it. Not a minute. Not even accidentally while searching for the news.

I can just about process skiing in theory. Man on plank goes downhill quickly. Fine. Gravity is relatable. But luge? Skeleton? Two grown adults voluntarily launching themselves head first down an ice chute at motorway speeds on what appears to be a reinforced baking tray? I struggle to see this as sport rather than an elaborate Scandinavian insurance claim.

And then there is curling. Ah yes, competitive housework. One individual gently nudges a granite kettle across the ice while two colleagues sweep furiously in front of it as if trying to erase the evidence. I am assured this is a contest of subtle angles and tactical genius. To me it looks like a domestic mishap unfolding in slow motion.

Entire nations take this very seriously. In Norway, cross country skiing commands audiences that would make a Premier League club weep. Small children there can ski before they can spell. In Britain we close the schools at the sight of a single flake and issue stern warnings about grit supplies. Our natural winter sport is peering suspiciously at the boiler.

Interest here, when it flickers, depends on whether we have a medal hope. When Lizzy Yarnold wins gold, we are briefly a nation of aerodynamicists. When Eddie the Eagle hurled himself nobly off a ramp, we adopted him as a patron saint of pluck. But once the novelty fades, so do we.

The truth is that the Winter Olympics feels like a magnificent spectacle conducted in a climate entirely alien to the damp pragmatism of the British Isles. It is impressive, certainly. Brave, undoubtedly. But compelling to those of us whose winter athleticism extends to walking briskly to the car? Not especially.

So when the snowbound fortnight rolls around, I nod respectfully at the highlights on the news, make a cup of tea, and return to pursuits that do not involve intentional contact with ice. I leave the hurtling, sweeping and airborne theatrics to the Norwegians. They seem very keen.

It's a national disgrace that there's no 'Wrong Snow on the Railway Lines' competition.