There’s something delightfully eccentric about the Winter Olympics, with its daredevil, frankly bonkers events.

I stumbled across the TV coverage by chance, like an out-of-control freestyle skier hurtling towards some trees. And watching the Keystone Kops craziness of ski cross and the terrifying speed of the bobsleigh has rekindled my interest in spectator sport.

I grew up watching sport on TV; rugby, football, cricket and athletics were permanent fixtures on our telly and my parents had an infectious enthusiasm for them. It was impossible not to get caught up in the buzz of them shouting and cheering at the screen as athletes sprinted towards the finishing line.

Events like the Grand National, the FA Cup Final and the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race were essential family viewing, and we followed the Olympics and World Cup with a swell of pride.

Grandstand, Ski Sunday, A Question Of Sport and Superstars were mainstays of our viewing schedule. We watched open-mouthed as the semi-final drama of Italia ’90 unfolded. I became obsessed with Torvill and Dean’s Bolero, watching it so many times I knew every move. My brother and I even loved wrestling and were ardent fans of Big Daddy’s bellyflops.

As I got older, left home and acquired my own remote control, I stopped watching sport. I have no interest in football, unless there’s a vague chance we might win a major international tournament. I’m still disgruntled that Coronation Street has been moved to Thursdays to accommodate midweek football matches.

But the Winter Olympics is a different kettle of fish. I enjoy the combined silliness and deadliness of sports like curling, ski cross, speed skating, bobsled skeleton and the luge. Watching lean, mean ice machines in helmets and body stockings hurling themselves down a perilously-slippery run at 90mph is compelling.

I particularly like to watch skiing, mainly because skiers tend to look a bit too pleased with themselves so it’s fun to see them occasionally tumble.

I had my fill of ski bores during my one and only skiing holiday. I shared a chalet with a bunch of people who spent every apres-ski discussing their prowess on the slopes. Once I’d learned to ski, thanks to my scary chain-smoking instructor barking orders at me in broken French, I enjoyed it. But I grew tired of the black run bores.

So watching the madcap new Olympic sport of ski cross is like a breath of fresh air. These loopy daredevils, leaping off slopes and over obstacles, often thrown at them by the crowd, have brought much-needed fun to the po-faced skiing world.

If we get anymore snow, it could catch on here…