2002-11-27 - 6:12 p.m.

So last night�s party at the Moose-shunting embassy (I can say this as I[�m one quarter Canuck) was drear-o-rama, and noticeably dignitary-free. It boiled down to trying to cram in as much wine and sushi canap�s as you physically could whilst some perma-grinning heifer in gawdy corporate branded t-shirt tried to sell you the delights of hiking in the Yukon. I swear, such is the standard of mindlessness of PR people that you could more or less regurgitate everything you�d just consumed down the front of their logo�d tops and they�d still be prattling on with that unfaltering smiling rictus. That industry needs serious doses of self-deprecation and humour and the slightest microbe of a hint of imagination and they�d be welcome to join us as human beings. Really. You�re living for a product. The words �fuck over it� and �get the� spring readily to mind.

Plus, they booted us out after just two hours.

I know that�s like that Woody Allen joke where the two women are in a restaurant: �The food here is awful.� �I know, and such small portions!�