2005-05-27 - 9:56 p.m.

Montreal, Canada

Arrived last night after a simple transatlantic flight took THREE planes, stopping off in the charming airports of St Johns and Halifax for an hour each, which added to my enjoyment of the journey SO much, as you can imagine.

Another thing that completely frosts my testes is journalists who make the official tours that we have to go on more excruciating than they need to be. I mean, these city tours are usually OK, but nothing to get all excited about and start asking questions on a scale that makes the Spanish Inquisition look like a casual enquiry.

We�re in a cheese shop, for instance, and I�m ready to move on after about fifteen seconds, seeing as all I can see is a lot of cheese that you can�t move for in London, but you go along to be polite. All I can think is that every second spent in here is a second not spent quaffing down overpriced wine for free or being fed delicate hors d�oeuvres by cute waiting staff you could just poach and put on a piece of toast. It�s gluttony on a base level, but excuse me, we�re sitting here looking at a cheese shop. I�m edging towards the door, and suddenly mister look how sick-beckoningly KEEN I am is asking about manufacturing processes and which actual competitions did that cheddar win and CAN I RAM SEVERAL PIECES OF BRIE UP MY OWN BACKSIDE AS IT MIGHT JUST SATISFY MY UNCONTROLLABLEE CURIOSITY.

Mate, we have gorgeous young Canadians waiting to indulge our every culinary whim and you want to talk turkey about fucking CURD STORAGE. The cheese man�s a nice enough guy, but I just don�t get the urge to make notes every time he burps, you know?

I guess some journalists are more professional and naturally curious but please, people, ON YOUR OWN TIME. I got blatant a blatant freebie habit to attend to.

One thing I did learn: As I understand it, in Montreal, staircases are sexual objects. I mean, I have my fair share of weird fetishes, but those Catholics, man, they are one set of sick churchy puppies.

First of all (this is in the olden days, he says, not having a clue what century), they insist stairs leading up to flats are on the outside of buildings, so that everyone can see you�re not a bandy-drawered strumpet binging home people to fornicate with. Then, when people started designing staircases that were curved, or, heaven forbid SPIRALLED, they said they were too provocative, and people were forced to brick them up. God knows there�s nothing that gets me in the mood like a well positioned , jaunty set of steps. I have to take lifts just to stop getting hot under the collar.

I�m sure the golden boy of the press has already written a damning, historically accurate thesis that has been snapped up by The Economist or Stairs Monthly�I was too busy tucking into the buffet to make notes.