Piste off to Val d'Isère

It was as I dangled from a broken-down chairlift over an icy precipice, halfway up the French Alps in a ferocious blizzard, for ten, then 20, then (don't panic, yoga breathing) an entire 30 minutes, that I finally allowed myself to admit that I don't much care for skiing. The day had started off beautifully sunny in Val d'Isère and I had graduated from the nursery slopes, where I'd been taking my inaugural ski lessons, on to the actual mountain. Despite three days of tears, tantrums and tentative snow-ploughing, I was looking forward to seeing what I'd been missing up there. And yes, it was quite something; glaring migraine-white after 48 hours of snowfall so heavy we'd been unable even to leave our chalet the previous day.

Having never skied before (my parents wouldn't have dreamed of holidaying anywhere colder than the UK and my school trips rarely reached further than Butlins Minehead), the landscape was fantastically alien to me. I tackled a green run, slowly following my instructor Raff down, as he shouted, 'You look like a chicken! Arms in front!' And then I fell, platypus feet tangled in an impossible position behind me at such an angle that I couldn't get up without sliding down the mountain. Raff whooshed over to rescue me and dragged me the rest of the way down as my partner, also a first-timer but fearless enough to be a natural, sped past with a jolly wave of her pole. I mumbled obscenities in her wake.

Don't get me wrong, the experience in general was fun (until it wasn't). I loved my outfit: Perfect Moment red ski pants and a reversible blue/polar bear-print jacket that fitted right in with the garish gear sported on the slopes. I loved our chalet, Bellevarde Lodge, complete with hot tub, hot chalet hosts and hot breakfasts (as well as hot dinners and home-baked cakes). And I absolutely loved the après-ski.

While everything else in Val seemed out to confuse me - the buses are called trains, a gondola is a lift, the alarm that sounds does not indicate an imminent avalanche but is to remind everyone that it's the first Wednesday of the month (noted, thanks) - the party scene was something I quite happily got my head around.

It all starts at La Folie Douce, an Ibiza-like oasis in the heart of the mountains, which hardier types ski to and everyone else (me) accesses via the bubble lift from La Daille. The complex features a swanky restaurant, La Fruitière, as well as a less expensive self-service eaterie where you don't have to book. But the pièce de résistance is the outside bar/club area where at 3pm banging house music threatens to cause an avalanche and kids dance on tables in their ski boots as champagne is shaken over them from the DJ balcony. A fire-breather blows flames from the bar and a flamboyant chap called Kely Starlight sashays across tables while singing over dance tracks. He's then joined by a woman who takes the high notes and a man dressed like Shaft with a Barry White baritone who stalks the crowd occasionally booming 'It's a paaaaaaaaarty!' into a microphone. When I visited, a rotund Russian man in the VIP area stripped to his underpants and danced on a sofa before throwing his Rolex into the crowd. And this was a quiet day, Kely assured me.

At 5pm the music stops and everyone is ushered off the mountain. At the bottom a bus takes revellers to the next après stop - Dick's Tea Bar. For all the hype I'd heard about this place as a Sloaney institution, it struck me as a rather average bar, although the warmed slippers you're given on entering and the smiley staff in their blue onesies make it that bit more special. (It really comes alive after midnight when you're likely to find a Made in Chelsea cast member struggling behind the decks.) I preferred the nearby Café Face, which seemed a more relaxed place to chill after a traumatic day on the slopes. When we dropped in, the chanteuse from La Folie was singing a strange mix of slowed-down pop songs while crawling along the bar, as a small man played the violin.

By 8pm the party winds down and everybody clomps off for dinner. Drunkenly negotiating 3ft of snow with a pair of skis balanced on my shoulder, poles dangling from my wrists, a skewwhiff hat/helmet combo and tortuous ski boots that found new ways to abuse me with every step, was a struggle. But the unlimited wine and hearty fare waiting for us back at our cosy, modern lodge was well worth it. Talk around the dinner table that we shared each night with our chalet mates - two well-off families with charming children who I seriously doubt have ever been to Butlins Minehead -focused on the slopes. Apparently Val is renowned for its runs being more difficult than at other resorts. It's also home to the famous Face de Bellevarde piste, the site of the men's downhill in the 1992 Winter Olympics as well as an annual World Cup race - kudos that attracts serious skiers to the resort but makes it not quite the right place for beginners like me.

Swinging precariously from that creaky chairlift halfway up the Solaise mountain as we waited for some laissez faire mechanic to get us moving again, I recalled my heroines Patsy Stone and Edina Monsoon's trip to Val d'Isère in Absolutely Fabulous: The Last Shout. While Eddy almost kills herself on the slopes, Patsy swigs from a bottle of Bolly on the chairlift and declares, 'I'm going round again, Sweetie.' If, like Pats, I could have gone skiing without ever actually skiing, I would have had a blast. But after a week like this one, I need a holiday. ES

CHECK IN
VIP Ski offers seven nights at Val d'Isère's Bellevarde Lodge (sleeps 12) from £889pp, based on 12 sharing, including flights from London Gatwick, transfers and chalet catering (0844 557 3119; vip-chalets.com)