These days most of us rely on the internet for finding hotels, optimistically disregarding the obvious perils. When I do a search I discard anywhere with three stars or more, which generally leaves me a handful of options. The location is critical. I narrow down the choice by ignoring hotels not within walking distance of the town centre. The streets around railway stations are often convenient but they tend to attract the more insalubrious type of institution. After that I hunt for clues in the text or elsewhere. A guide-book recommendation is a major plus but the best-known places often fill up well in advance. Website descriptions and photos may be of some use but at the lower end of the market finding a good value room is mainly a question of luck.

Among the five hotels on the list you can guarantee that one will be a haven for cockroaches and illicit activity of all kinds; another will be in the midst of an ambitious renovation programme and next door to the loudest nightclub in town. The challenge is to spot the odd one out: the respectable, family-run place with working showers, comfortable beds and passable breakfasts.

In my Euroland experience, €50 a night is about the minimum for a reliable room in a city centre hotel. Pay any less and you take a gamble. A two-star rating is encouraging but I have found the star system to be, er, shall we say “flexible” on occasion.

Until recently my worst hotel experience was in a nameless French town. It was very cheap, too cheap. I should have known better. The red neon sign outside was nature’s way of warning me off. Unfortunately it was too late at night to wander round town looking for an alternative. The receptionist was cheery enough, or at least so it seemed through the clouds of smoke. Obviously he didn’t have my reservation but it didn’t matter as I was the only one of the six billion people on earth foolish enough to be staying there that night. He showed me up the creaking wooden stairs. The room was a dingy, dirty and dilapidated disaster. A battered table was all that prevented a tottering wardrobe from crashing to the floor or, more likely, through to the floor below. The unwashed bed covers had apparently endured a twin attack from moths and cigarettes. It was with a heavy heart that I peered into the bathroom. Sure enough, the shower produced no more than a few drips of brown liquid. The toilet was repulsive. I contemplated spending the night in my car but finally plucked up the courage to stay. In the light of day (I scarcely dared use the electric light that night) I saw that nothing had been touched in the hotel for perhaps 30 years.

As I sat down for breakfast in the deserted dining room I contemplated my fate. Relieved that I would soon be on my way, and hungry ahead of a long journey, I was determined to eat whatever was put before me. The bread roll (estimated age 2 weeks) was probably the newest addition to the hotel. I chomped away manfully and managed several mouthfuls. I packed my bags, paid the pitiful sum and ran out of the place as fast as I could.

For some time I hoped and believed that this would remain my worst hotel experience, at least in the sheltered life that we lead in Europe. Recently, however, there was a challenger. Planning a short trip to Italy I did some extensive internet research (OK, 10 minutes, isn’t that what everyone does?) and settled on a hotel that hovered around the magic €50 threshold. Upon my arrival I was concerned to see the whole frontage covered in scaffolding. The pneumatic drills were so loud that I struggled to communicate with the receptionist. On the way to Number 23 I passed another room which had a huge hole in the wall where the window was being replaced. I was relieved to see that my room was structurally intact and fairly well appointed.

I slept well as the drilling stopped before nightfall. In the morning I looked forward to a hot shower. I ran the water in the bathroom but it was cold. With that familiar feeling of helplessness, I stood beside the shower letting the water run, more in hope than expectation. No luck. As I was waiting I heard a voice. It sounded as if the builders were starting up again now that it was 8 am. The voice was so loud that it could almost have been coming from my room. Once I had established that the water temperature was permanently fixed at 3 degrees I wrapped myself in a towel and peeked out of the door. A workman was sitting on a stepladder in my room painting the window.

He didn’t seem surprised to see me but then my open suitcase and wallet lying on the table had probably given him all the clues he needed. He greeted me in a friendly manner and indicated in sign language that he would only be another 10 minutes. There was a chill breeze blowing in through the open window. On balance I decided I was better to wait in the bathroom than to argue with him. 45 minutes and no hot water later he finally finished off and climbed back out of the window. By this time the room was freezing and there was a strong smell of paint. I got dressed and went downstairs for an inedible breakfast. Afterwards I tried to complain at reception that a painter had climbed through the window at 8am and occupied my room for an hour. Unfortunately the noise from the pneumatic drill made it difficult to converse and the receptionist proved conveniently hard of hearing.

With these experiences behind me, I appreciate it all the more when the gamble pays off. Each time I choose a hotel that turns out to be better than expected I convince myself that I have learned to interpret the little clues and that I will never make a bad mistake again. As a quick test, see if you can spot the catch in these two sample internet descriptions:

“Friendly hotel welcoming gests for 10 years. All rooms with en suite. 15 minutes from historic center. Euro 45.”

Yes, that’s right. It takes 15 minutes by helicopter, or perhaps in a limousine with a police escort. The occasional spelling mistake doesn’t put me off. I regard it as a badge of authenticity.

“In the heart of the city, hotel X is perfect for turists seeking rooms with character at affordable price. Rooms from 40 Euro.”

Alarm bells should be ringing. “Character” is what hotels develop after 20 years of neglect. It’s also a word beloved of estate agents, which is warning enough in itself. I would also check the location in this case. “Heart of the city” could turn out to mean “notorious red light district”.

It was on the basis of such flimsy evidence that I chose a place to stay in Sydney. Judging from the brief blurb, it was some kind of student residence, which sounded ideal as I was looking for self-catering accommodation. After one desultory exchange of e-mails I agreed to pay in advance by money transfer, which was a fearful gamble.

Some days later I emerged from the airport in Sydney after the interminable journey. As I got into a taxi I reflected that I had no real proof that the place I had booked even existed. I could easily arrive at the alleged location and find a hole in the ground or a private house. I was therefore relieved when we arrived at the given address and I saw an austere but plausible student accommodation block. Jet-lagged and bleary-eyed, I was delighted to be greeted at the entrance, although I did register that the warden seemed a little surprised to see me. I was shown to a basic but perfectly adequate room.

Early the next morning, still in another time zone, I walked along the corridor to the communal bathroom. An invigorating shower helped to wake me up. I emerged from the cubicle wrapped in my towel and was surprised to see a row of female students in dressing gowns cleaning their teeth. One of them let out a small shriek and I bolted for the door. I scampered back to my room as quickly as I could. In my half-asleep state I had wandered into the women’s bathroom. Mortified, I imagined being kicked out onto the street, homeless in Sydney. Once properly dressed I had a quick look for the men’s bathroom. It must have been hidden away and I couldn’t find it.

I went downstairs for breakfast. There were about a dozen young women in the kitchen area. They all looked round as I entered, although none said anything. I poured myself a bowl of cereal and sat in the lounge to eat. I noticed a row of bibles on a bookshelf. I could hear a couple of the girls sniggering in the kitchen. Finally I twigged. From the other side of the world I had unwittingly booked myself into a student hostel for Christian young ladies.

When I arrived here, some three years ago, I had never been skiing. I was determined to give it a go but making the initial step was quite intimidating. In a country whose citizens ski as soon as they walk, it takes a surprising amount of effort to find out exactly what equipment is needed. Making preparations for that first day on the slopes can be daunting. For the record, this is what you need:

• Ski trousers
• Lightweight, waterproof jacket
• Ski goggles
• Woolly hat or helmet
• Ski gloves
• Thick socks
• Reckless disregard for personal safety

You can hire the rest – boots, skis and ski-poles or a snowboard.

There is no escaping the fact that skiing is an expensive business, even for those who live close enough to go on a day-trip. Borrowing skis or a snowboard may save money but the sizes and settings need to be carefully adjusted, which only an expert can do competently. Hiring is a better option for most people.

I didn’t relish the prospect of driving on those treacherous mountain roads so I boarded a small train that winds its way up above the resort of Villars in the canton of Vaud. The weather was not promising – low cloud and drizzle. It was therefore a wondrous sight when the train broke through the clouds into bright sunlight. There was a spontaneous cheer from the passengers and a scramble for sunglasses. Suddenly the world below was completely hidden below the clouds. All around were spectacular peaks covered in snow and clear blue sky.

I had booked an individual lesson with an instructor and been told to arrive without skis. With my childhood memories of Ski Sunday on BBC Two, I was quite clear that I wanted to ski rather than snowboard. I was later to discover that skiers and snowboarders are two mutually suspicious tribes. Once established in one camp, crossing the great divide is regarded as treachery so make your choice well.

Snowboarding has a younger image and obviously draws comparison with surfing. Legend has it that it only takes two days to learn the basics.

Skiing, on the other hand, is more popular. The great advantage of skiing is that you can use the ski poles to propel yourselves forwards on flat sections. Snowboarders have to disengage one foot and clamber awkwardly until the next downhill section or take the board off completely. If you want to try out other activities later on, such as ski mountaineering, you will need to ski.

For most people skiing is not too difficult to learn but youth, general sporting aptitude and an inexplicable desire to throw yourself down steep mountains are all advantages.

The local ski instructor in Villars was friendly and helpful. He gave me a pair of short skis (only 1 metre long) which are easy to control. Within a few minutes I was actually skiing. It was a wonderful feeling. He flattered me by saying I was doing well for a beginner. We tried out the very gentle nursery slope and some simple exercises. It took a few attempts to use the drag lift properly but after two hours of lessons I was ready to be let loose on the mountain. The instructor told me not to go down the nearby red run on my first day. I agreed, nodding in a mature and responsible fashion. As soon as his back was turned, down I went. Again, and again, and again. I lost a ski at least twice in five tumbles on my way to the bottom of the run. A 60 second run took me 20 minutes.

For most learners the temptation to try too much too soon is overwhelming. One voice in your head screams “aaaggghhhh!” in terror while another says “go on, have a go.”

After a couple of days of practice I thought I was doing rather well. I could manoeuvre myself down some of the reasonable slopes with only one or two panic attacks along the way. On one particular red-rated run I concentrated very hard and descended at express speed. Or so I thought. Half-way down I was passed by a retired gentleman on what appeared to be wooden skis. It may have been my eyes deceiving me but he appeared to take a swig from a flask as he went past.

Unperturbed by this unexpected sight, I continued my rapid descent. I had the old Ski Sunday theme tune in my head as I imagined crossing the finishing line in Chamonix or Wengen. I was ready to raise my arms in triumph when a bright pink blur zoomed past and skidded expertly to a halt ahead of me, deftly taking my place in the queue for the ski lift. It was a girl aged no more than 7. She was entirely dressed in pink, from skis to sunglasses. She pulled a lollipop from her pocket, in the manner of an old soldier relishing a celebratory cigar. There was no sign of any parents or minders. Presumably, after trailing in her wake for a couple of hours, they had taken the sensible decision to adjourn to the bar. I resolved to do likewise.

The episode reduced any risk of over-confidence on my part and motivated me to choose my runs more carefully: from then on I looked for the pistes populated by incompetent Brits rather than local whiz-kids.

The next time I took a map of the pistes with me. They are fine in theory but it’s easy to take a wrong turning. I was navigating my way down via the easy slopes when the path forked into two and I mistakenly took the “courageous” option. As I picked up speed I passed a sign covered in snow. I think it said something like “This way for certain death”.

Afterwards it took me a long time to collect together the various pieces of ski equipment and clothing strewn across the side of the mountain. I was lucky still to be in one piece.

However carefully you choose your route, you will never be safe from the terrors of the slopes, otherwise known as any 14 year-old boy on a snowboard. They delight in picking on traumatised beginners, passing in front and behind so close that they can surely hear your pounding heart. Collisions do sometimes happen but beginners are usually best to concentrate on keeping themselves upright rather than worrying about other people who are easily capable of skirting around them.

One of the reassuring things about skiing in the British-dominated alpine resorts is that no matter how useless you are, there are always plenty of others who are worse. In Chamonix a certain family taking lessons from an impatient ski instructor seemed not to progress beyond the gentlest nursery slope for the whole day. While I was watching, dad was instructed to turn left towards the children’s play area. He put pressure on the wrong foot and managed to turn right down the Slope of Doom instead. As he disappeared from view we heard a shriek. Several minutes later he clambered back up into view carrying one ski and spitting snow out of his mouth. The children thought it was hilarious but poor dad didn’t seem to see the funny side. He probably decided it was time to check out the après-ski.

Just as taking driving lessons from a relative or close friend is sure to result in relationship disaster, so taking ski lessons from family or friends is similarly hazardous. There is, however, one important difference. In a car the teacher depends for survival on the actions of the driver. It is therefore in the teacher’s interests to give sensible instructions, even if they come through gritted teeth. On skis or a snowboard it is a different story. The teacher can glide along at a safe distance, making patronising, helpful comments in response to your wretched mistakes. Provided that the two of you don’t collide, the teacher has little to fear. The teacher can toy with the pupil, exacting as much discomfort as he or she likes, while sympathising just enough to seem sincere.

A paid instructor wants you to enjoy the lesson and come back for more. In contrast, a friend or family member mainly wants you to admire and envy their expertise. If you don’t need crutches when you buy them a drink later on, well, that’s a bonus. You have been warned.

After two winter seasons of skiing I can now make my way down regular pistes on carver skis without too much difficulty, adjusting my speed according to my companions. I’m not yet a ski fanatic but it is great fun. Technically, of course, I have much to learn but I feel ready for a new challenge next season. Maybe it’s time to go off piste?

A little voice in my head says “too much, too soon”. I will ignore it.

After several years of evolution the “budget” flight phenomenon now has its own complex set of unwritten rules, otherwise known as “jetiquette”. We expats, for whom flying is part of our weekly routine, cannot help but notice the little slips that betray those less regular travellers than ourselves. Who has not smiled with amusement as the panic-stricken tourist scrabbles frantically for their passport?

My fellow expats, it is time to lead by example, to educate those who need our help. Let us examine how to master the “budget” flight, step by effortless step. In order to measure our success I suggest a simple point scale. You earn points for good style and lose points for embarrassing faux pas. For now let us assume you are travelling home alone. Accompanied flying is an entirely different discipline.

The aim is to exploit each stage of the journey ruthlessly to your advantage and yet make the other passengers regard you as a paragon of chivalrous virtue.

The journey really begins when you receive that party invitation or remember Great Aunt Mildred’s birthday. Unfortunately easyJet/Ryanair/Flybe/random others have realised you want to go home for the weekend and put up prices accordingly. Grudgingly you book your “budget” flight anyway. Never confess that you spent more than £100 on any “budget” flight (-20 points if you do).

The first tactical consideration is the choice of flight. Delays are more likely later in the day. Friday evening may seem the best bet but you might regret it when the bar closes in the departure lounge and you’re still there.

Packing for a weekend should take no more than 15 minutes (male version) (10 point bonus). Now that there is no longer a 5kg limit on hand luggage you have merely to make sure that your bag is within the size restrictions. Failure will result in total humiliation at check-in (-20 points).

Arrival at the airport should be between 120 and 70 minutes before the flight. Any earlier leads to boredom, any later may cause stress (-20 points in either case).

The choice of check-in queue is a key strategic decision whenever there are two or more lines. Forget the length of the queue and go for the line with the least luggage. Anybody carrying vast amounts of junk is bound to argue about excess baggage. Correctly selecting the faster moving line is worth 10 points. You will of course have the flight booking details jotted down: tickets are so 20th century. Forgetting your passport or arriving too late results in instant disqualification.

At Geneva and many other airports there are more shops and cafés in the main concourse than in the departure lounge. If you’re early check in, pick up your boarding pass then spend some time browsing the expensive tourist tat. Generally there’s no need to queue to go through customs until 30 minutes before boarding time. Finding yourself on the departures side too early is an error of inexperience (-10 points).

At the security check remove your coat or jacket then take your wallet, phone, and any other items out of your pocket and put them in your hand luggage. It will help prevent a costly beep (-20 points) when you go through the scanner and reduce the risk of being searched.

An easy bonus is on offer to all those who take food and drink with them. Airport cafeterias universally sell poor quality food at rip-off prices. They know that you’re trapped and desperate. There is nothing as satisfying as pulling a tasty snack from your pocket as you sit in the airport lounge. Everybody around you will gaze in admiration (10 points). Carry a drink in a plastic bottle as an accessory for 10 more.

At the departure gate don’t expect boarding to start on time. Airlines conspire against you because they don’t trust you to arrive promptly. Boarding is usually 15 minutes after the advertised time. You will notice lots of people calling home to report delays. Premature calling is embarrassing (-10 points). You’re not late, at least not yet. Maintaining a relaxed air as you enjoy your delicious snack earns a nice little 5 point bonus.

Upon hearing the call for boarding many of your fellow travellers will anxiously rush forward. Ignore them. It’s an error that nobody who really understands “jetiquette” would make. You won’t get home any faster by being at the front of the queue. I promise.

After the poor wretches travelling with babies have been let through, everybody else will be massed together in an unseemly huddle, ignoring the half-hearted calls for order by the harassed staff. You will probably hear snide comments about foreigners not understanding British queuing. Rise above it all in the knowledge that queue-jumpers are already out of contention. Breathe deeply (10 points) but do not allow yourself to slip too close to the back, or you will be doomed to a middle seat. Now is the time to switch off your mobile phone.

If boarding has not begun 25 minutes after the appointed time then you really are late. Every 30 minutes of delay will cost you 30 points. It’s not fair but then neither is life. You can claw back 10 points by making no more than two phone calls to announce the news. There’s a small 5 point bonus for producing suitable reading matter at this point. Discarded newspaper “Style” sections definitely don’t count.

Seating on most of these flights is unallocated. An aisle seat allows legroom and access to the toilet, whereas a window spot will guarantee a degree of peace. I am in generous mood so you may choose either without penalty. Taking a middle seat, on the other hand, will cost you 20 points and deservedly so. I prefer to be next to the aisle because you can often pick your neighbour. Go for the aisle seat in a row where there is just a single person sitting by the window and you have a fair chance that the middle seat will remain empty (10 points). If you are likely to need a toilet break you must sit in an aisle seat and wait until the drinks trolley has passed (-10 for transgressions).

Your hand luggage should fit comfortably in the overhead compartment. Don’t forget to take out your reading material and sustenance before take-off. Opening the overhead compartments during the flight is a big no-no (-10 points). Any small items may be placed under the seat in front of you but doing so will restrict your already cramped legroom.

“Jetiquette” demands that you pay polite attention to the safety briefing, even the bit about life-jackets, which seems a little unnecessary for those journeys across Europe involving nothing more watery than a few large puddles.

During the flight you lose points for making any purchases (I’ll allow a coffee, with reluctance). You should be equipped with suitable reading matter but not inconvenient broadsheet newspapers (-10 points). Opening your magazine just as your neighbour starts to look bored earns 10 points. Using a computer smacks of desperation.

To talk or not to talk? It’s quite a dilemma. If seating is allocated you have more leeway to start a conversation since fate has thrown you together.

If you do decide to talk the opening lines are easy. You can remark that the plane is surprisingly full/empty for the time of day; that it looks as if you will be on time/late. Let your comments be positive and your manner relaxed. You will quickly gauge whether the conversation is worth pursuing. Snoring is generally a bad sign, as are headphones. Collect 20 points if chatting away makes the flight pass more quickly. Lose 20 points for any mention of politics or needless whinging.

Flights that take off anything less than 30 minutes “late” miraculously tend to arrive “early”. This is because all airlines regard their passengers with contempt and brazenly lie about journey times.

When you have landed and come to a complete halt you may jump up and remove your bag from the overhead locker. Casting aside other people’s possessions or elbowing your neighbours is to be avoided (-10 points). You can earn 10 points by magnanimously allowing anybody else in your row to go ahead of you. You will, of course, leave them for dust inside the terminal.

There is a 50 point bonus if you swap e-mails (no phone numbers allowed) with your neighbour, provided that no betrayal is involved. Any swapping of contact details must take place before you leave the plane as the crowds could easily thwart destiny afterwards. And you may feel a little awkward if you leave it until your new friend is embraced by a tearful partner in arrivals.

With hand luggage in tow you can speed through the crowds with the disdain of Michael Schumacher lapping the back-markers. Collect 2 points for each person you pass and use any available moving walkways. Your passport will be immediately accessible for the security check. If you have to wait for a suitcase (you had better have a good excuse) there is no point rushing because you will face an agonizing wait at the baggage reclaim.

Ten minutes staring at that motionless, rubber conveyor belt can seem like an eternity. “Jetiquette” demands that you switch on your mobile phone at this point. If it’s absolutely necessary you may make one brief call. You lose 20 style points if the clothes that seemed appropriate at the departure airport now look ridiculous under the ugly glow of the arrivals terminal. Many otherwise competent travellers make this unfortunate mistake.

Usually your bags do eventually arrive, although not without a couple of heart-stopping moments first. Lost luggage will cost you 50 points, damaged luggage 30 points. Mitigate the damage and claw back 20 points by carrying half a change of clothes in your hand luggage.

Now it’s time to look as innocent as possible and walk through customs. The EU channel is generally deserted and green channel searches are unusual. Being stopped costs 20 points. Discovery of any illicit items merits disqualification.

30 points are on offer for the first person from each flight to make it through customs. Sail through as quickly as you can and accept the well-deserved welcome from those who await you at the airport or beyond.

“Jetiquette” takes a little practice but with experience 100 points will be a breeze. If you didn’t score so well this time console yourself with the thought that some of your fellow travellers at least learned from watching you. And there’s always the chance for revenge on the return flight on Sunday.

A couple of days before the Opening Ceremony I found myself queuing at 7.30 in the morning outside a large building close to Nea Ionia metro station in Athens. The crowd grew rapidly behind me and I congratulated myself smugly for my wisdom in arriving well before the 8am opening time. We were all volunteers waiting to receive our accreditation badges and uniforms before being unleashed on an expectant city.

At 8 the doors duly opened. I waved my driving licence and invitation letter at the security guard and expected to sail through but didn’t. He needed my passport. I had taken my driving licence rather than passport because I thought the consequences of accidentally losing it would be less serious, fool that I am. As a Swiss resident and therefore a veteran of much form-filling, I should have known better. The security guard took great pleasure in shaking his head and sending me on my way. My lodgings were miles away in Voula in the south of Athens. It took me three hours and 30 Euros worth of taxis to go back, pick up my passport and return to Nea Ionia. By this time the queue stretched far into the distance, shimmering in the midday sun. I had another three hours sweltering in the queue to reflect on my misjudgement but at least this time I made it past the security guard.

Inside the building the scene resembled Argos a few days before Christmas. I picked up a ticket reading “4978″. Across the room a screen displayed the message “now serving: 263″. I exaggerate but you get the idea. Once the wait was over the service was excellent. Smiling and enthusiastic Greeks guided me through the process, providing my accreditation badge and volunteer uniform. I was ready to go.

Olympic Games accreditation, which is designed to control access to venues and transport for the likes of athletes, officials and VIPs, creates a hierarchical society of bewildering complexity. The significance of the accreditation badge goes far beyond mere utility and reflects the status of the wearer, much like the ownership of cows or fast cars in other societies. When you meet somebody at the Olympic Games the first thing you notice is their level of accreditation. Athletes are obviously the most glamorous but among the rest there is a clear pecking order. The larger the number of obscure acronyms you have on your badge the better. Certain colours and numbers are preferable to others but this takes a trained eye. Most desirable of all is the infinity symbol resembling a figure of 8 on its side. This gives you access to all venues and places you securely among the aristocracy. As a relatively humble volunteer in the Main Press Centre I lacked access to sports venues but I knew my badge would at least keep me a level above the horror of the unaccredited caste, otherwise known as tourists.

I was immediately struck by the vast scale of the summer Olympic Games, which is almost incomprehensible to the uninitiated. There were 300 medal events in 28 sports across 35 venues in Athens. About 200,000 people were accredited, of whom about 11,000 were athletes, 20,000 were media representatives and 50,000 were volunteers. Most of the remainder were officials or workforce of one kind or another – everything from long-jump measurers to ice-cream sellers. To support the competitive activity there was a vast operation behind the scenes, away from the eyes of spectators. For each competition venue there was a training venue; the athletes and many of the media stayed in purpose-built villages; there was dedicated bus transport to and from every venue for athletes, media, and technical officials; and the Main Press Centre operated 24 hours a day on seven floors, each the size of an out of town supermarket.

I worked reasonable office hours in my volunteer post, which left me time to see a number of events, including a gold medal for Britain in track cycling, when Bradley Wiggins overcame the challenge of Australian Brad McGee in the 4km pursuit. Afterwards statisticians were scrabbling for the record books to check whether it was in fact the first time that two Brads had contested an Olympic final. Another memorable event was the women’s marathon. I was in the Panathinaiko Stadium along with thousands of other Britons to cheer on Our Paula. The heat was incredible and between us we must have bought enough bottled water to fill a swimming pool. We could scarcely imagine what the runners were going through out on the roads. The crowd was dismayed when Paula dropped out but there were rousing cheers for all of the finishers in the fine stadium that was built to host the first Olympic Games of the modern era in 1896.

In the months and years leading up to the Games there had been endless stories about construction delays, budget overruns and internal wrangling. In the end the venues were wonderful, the organisation immaculate and Athens sparkled as rarely before. The city had been transformed since my previous visit in 2001. The metro was fast and reliable, the streets were spotless and the ancient monuments shone proudly at night.

As the Games progressed the popular parts of the city such as Syntagma Square and Monastiraki became busier and busier, until eventually the streets were packed all day and all night with sports fans from all around the world. Britons made up one of the biggest and certainly the most vociferous contingents. The atmosphere everywhere was friendly and relaxed. Some visitors may have grumbled about excessive hotel prices and occasionally unhelpful taxi drivers but everybody was glad they had come.

In contrast to a team championship, where your team’s almost inevitable elimination is brutal and final, the Olympic Games offer many chances of redemption. Not much luck in the judo? Never mind, there’s always the modern pentathlon. And even if your country is not involved there is the sheer fascination of watching the best athletes compete on the biggest stage. The action is especially compelling for sports you know well or for sports that are easy to understand. If you watch a sport that you yourself play you will probably find watching Olympic-level competition a humbling, inadequacy-inducing experience.

One event in the easy-to-understand category is the pole-vault. Without having any special knowledge it is abundantly clear that the athletes who combine the speed, strength, timing, technique and bravery to climb to almost 6 metres (men) or 5 metres (women) are operating close to the limits of human performance.

Whatever your opinion of the Olympic Games – and there are plenty of cynics – there is definitely something magical in the air. You have only to see from the reactions of the athletes how much it means to them. For the most part they spend years toiling away in near anonymity for one chance of a fleeting moment in the limelight. The likes of men’s basketball or football have their big tournaments elsewhere but for swimmers, gymnasts or rowers the Olympic Games are the pinnacle, the focus of a lifetime’s ambition. Whether their hopes are dashed or their dreams come true, it is an amazing spectacle to behold.

Attending the Olympic Games in any capacity is a unique, overwhelming experience but it requires a surprising degree of discipline and compromise. There are simply not enough hours in the day to fit in a shift of work, watching competitions, partying with friends, eating, shopping, sightseeing and sleeping. Something, somewhere has to give.

I now know from personal experience that the Olympic Games last 16 days because that is as long as anybody can continue to function without eating properly, sleeping or standing still. One official I met, toughened by numerous Olympic campaigns, compared sleeping to visiting the dentist: it’s a good idea once in a while but it’s not something you would want to do very often.

I left Athens with many precious memories and a mixture of emotions but, above all, with the feeling that it had been a privilege to be a part of the 2004 Olympic Games.

The summer Games in Beijing are now just two years away, and recruitment for volunteers for those Games opens in August 2006. If you enjoy sports and like the idea of an active holiday why not apply to be a volunteer?

The problem is one of access. Here in Switzerland we can receive television from several countries but inexplicably the Swiss, Austrians, Italians and Germans all fail to show either cricket or English football. Do these people not realise what they are missing? French television does at least broadcast rugby and I am immeasurably grateful for that.

In this internet age, scores and results are instantly available but the obsessive sports fan always needs more. At about £3 per issue, British newspapers are a rare luxury and usually a day out of date. The lacklustre European editions available here are scarcely cheaper and leave out half of the content.

Consequently, my daily fix of British sports news has to come from the internet. After taking 20 minutes to read three newspaper articles online between the pop-up ads and subscription messages I either scream in frustration or decide to fork out £3 for the printed version. The honourable exception is the fast and reliable BBC website. Judging from the number of articles on expat life in recent months, they have realised that there is a significant market, even if it consists of people who don’t pay the licence fee.

Before I wallow too deeply in self-pity, I must acknowledge that I am fully aware of possible remedies for my affliction. Several acquaintances have ingeniously installed Sky. To do so in a private property is illegal and expensive so I have ruled it out until I become yet more desperate. One day I will sort out a fast internet connection at home, which will enable me to listen to British radio stations and to flick through the maddening newspaper websites more often. This may relieve the symptoms but it will certainly not cure the underlying malaise.

In reality there is only one answer to my prayers. Where I live it is called the “Great Escape” but elsewhere it might be the “King’s Head” or “Rosie O’Grady’s”. It is, of course, the local expat pub, that monument to Anglo-Saxon cultural hegemony. In every town in continental Europe from Bordeaux to Budapest you will find it, brazen, unrepentant and irresistible.

It is a remarkable British and Irish export success story. You know it from its name, from the Guinness signs and from the noisy crowd within. But most of all you know it from the magic words “English Football” displayed outside.

The ingredients are not complicated: a dark, wooden interior, draught beer in pint glasses, a dartboard, a raucous juke box, and a big screen on which to show Sky Sports. Australian bar staff add another dash of authenticity. The Irish theme is an optional extra. It generally requires a name starting in “O’ ” and a few of those unconvincing “Tipperary 5 miles” signs which are presumably mass-produced in Hong Kong.

Mix these elements together and you can be sure that the crowds will come. The largest group are the “locals”: Britons and other English-speakers who are in town for a year or two. They may work in multi-nationals or at the international school. Others are studying at the local university. For the most part there are groups of men, perhaps with a girlfriend dragged along unwillingly. The braver type of au pair may also turn up, usually with a sidekick.

A couple of over-sized regulars prop up the bar, pint in hand, and then there are the Lonely Planet generation: couples on a long weekend, taking a break from sightseeing. Often there are a few genuine natives, young and confident, who mix easily in the English-speaking environment.

The guidebook reference and the central location are critical to catch the passing trade. Increasingly, this includes the stag and hen parties whose preferred formula for 2004 consists of easyJet/Ryanair flight plus random European town plus dodgy hostel plus many cheap beers.