Canadian Matt

I found a man in LA. His name is Matt. And he's Canadian. Which makes him tall, and charming. Plus terribly matter of fact.

Naturally, he's travelling with a friend. They're sharing a room, and his friend (the not pretty one) doesn't like me. So much so that, even when I turn the Skip Factor up to ten, he's still as charmed as a flattened weasel.

However, I met Matt in Mickey's, a bar full of gogo boys and bad drag. It turns out that American drag is much like Australian Drag, but lazier - they don't sing, they can barely be bother to mime, and there's not much dancing - it's just hairdoes, shrugging and great nails.

We got chatting to diss the drag, then got... well... drunk. As in really drunk. American bartenders aren't stingy with an order of spirits, and, when you add jet lag to the equation... well.... somehow, we got back to my room. Got naked. And then fell asleep.

I was woken at five am just in time to see a pile of balloons cascading from the ceiling, covering the bed. Neither of us have any idea where the balloons came from. Clearly, we must have stolen them.

So - in West Hollywood is missing about a dozen red balloons... sorry.

Irritatingly, I had to work the next day. With a hangover the size of Geneva. It was odd. Especially as the lovely Rob and Daniel came knocking on my door at 8.30 demanding camera equipment and instructions and I was... in Canada at the time.