No, Mr Jackson! I expect you to die!

IN retrospect, I rather fancy that for suaveness and courage there could have been just a cigarette paper between me and James Bond.

In one of the most memorable opening scenes of any 007 adventure, Bond - in a natty yellow ski suit - is pursued across the snow by at least half a dozen bad eggs. He shoots one with his Q-designed ski pole, does a full loop jump and then skis right off the edge of the mountain - before releasing a splendid Union Jack parachute and making his escape.

Well me, too!

Roger Moore's reward in The Spy Who Loved Me was a punch-up with Jaws and a leg-over with best-ever bond babe Barbara Bach.

My reward for launching myself off an Alp and trusting a red, white 'n blue (but sadly French tricolor! The shame!) parachute was merely a cold beer, the respect of friends and the joy of finally completing something new without hearing about it first from an attending paramedic!

My incentive for skiing off the side of a mountain rather than choose one of the numerous perfectly-pisted runs to the bottom was not to escape dead-eyed Soviet agents. It was just because it looked like bloody excellent fun!

And fun it was - until I was strapped into a harness which was strapped to a French bloke who was the one actually strapped to the parachute.

With the pro behind me and the parachute laid out behind him, all I could see was a mere ten-foot run off, lots of very spikey looking trees about mile below and a landing area the size of a handkerchief!

My instructions were clear. "Keep your skis straight. Stand tall, lean forward and keep going! I'll take care of the parachute - but you have to get us off the mountain!"

That's a level of responsibility I was ill-prepared for and probably not insured for. But by this time we had drawn quite a crowd so there was no way I could back out. B*ll*cks, just go for it!

We've all experienced moments of profound relief, but I know that true happiness is a parachute that snaps open and lifts you skywards just as your ski tips dip into nothingness!

The next five or six minutes were pretty damn groovy. After drifting silently over the trees the 'pilot' suggested some acrobatics. Go on then. All of a sudden we were swinging high to left and right, spiralling down and 'enjoying' a number of stomach-churning manoeuvres.

The landing was very nearly oh-so-cool. We came in fast and low and touched down in a mountain restaurant garden. But just as it seemed we'd keep it together and stay on our feet. I lost control in a deep pile of powder snow and we binned it like total amateurs!

Last year I was a competitive slalom skier, this year I was a parapente extraordinaire.

I strolled over to where Mrs J, suddenly looking very much like Ms Bach as Agent XXX Anya Amasova, was waiting and looking suitably impressed. "Vodka Martini, shaken not stirred?" she offered.

"In a mo, luv. I think I wet my pants."