Toronto's the kind of place that people love. I mean, really love. All right-thinking folk love it. The only people that could say anything mean about this beloved city must surely be heartless, evil sociopaths. Luckily I am all three.

I thought Toronto would be a great excursion for a couple of days. It was not too near, and neither was it too far. Travelling there from Detroit offered the cheap thrill of crossing the border into Canada and maybe, like my book, being busted by Canada Customs.

I imagined Toronto to be a very clean sort of a place, somewhere where we could live like kings because of the exchange rate, somewhere where we wouldn't be laughed out of town for being weedy English vegetarians.

I didn't once consider that I might not like it. I don't know what got Simon and I off to such a bad start with the city, but from the moment we saw the CN Tower on the horizon a bad cloud of stinking crappiness descended onto us. First we got lost on one of Toronto's many outer ring-roads, a toll road even whose rules of payment I didn't understand (I'm still expecting a bill to show up on my credit card statement). Then it took us hours to find our quaint bed and breakfast, which, well wouldn't you know it, was located in the boring and very wrong end of town. Maybe if things had started more brightly I wouldn't be writing all this with a sneer on my face.

Yet more fuck-ups delayed us getting into our bed and breakfast. These were the fuck-ups of the mild, easy-going hippy who ran the place. Jean-Paul (not his real name) hadn't sent us the door code in time. Everything about this guy wound me up, more so since I had just driven for several hours in heavy traffic and was buzzing with exhaust fumes. He was just so nice, so friendly, so laid-back, and his mellow demeanour made me want to scream. He exuded whitey hippy arrogance, he was so right-on, and so right. In his world Detroit is "a rough place, non?" and in Toronto, by comparison "Everybody just gets along with each other." He told us that the Dalai Lama was in town and that everybody was very excited about it and that just put me in a worse mood. As he was settling us in I noticed that the place was crawling with ants. Jean-Paul said that he didn't want to use any nasty chemicals to get rid of them. He said, "You don't mind a few little ants do you?" in a way that it was impossible to disagree with. "Oh no," we replied, brushing the little black fellows from our luggage, "we love ants."

I thought Jean-Paul was the exception to the rule, but whilst we were in Toronto we came across many others like him, you know, helpful people.

One time I was looking at a map, standing by myself on the pavement, working out where I was. A very friendly man calls over "Hey there, where ya goin'?" He was the perkiest man I've ever laid eyes on. He was grinning, all cuddly and nice. He was holding his arms out as though he was going to hug me. He looked like the friendliest uncle in the world. The only trouble was that I didn't need or want his help, and his Ned Flanders style interruption had caused me to lose my place on my map. I answered politely: "I'm okay, I don't need help" to which he replied "there's no need to take that tone, I was only trying to help." I passed him on the street later and scowled at him. He was wearing a big smiley badge. Fucker.

Later on that day, in the gay village, not far from the most hideous rainbow-coloured gay mural in the world (complete with non gender-specific homos in wheelchairs), I saw a crazy lady collapsed drunk on the street. "Ah, that's more like it," I thought to myself. Then a crowd of helpful folk rallied round her and got her on her feet. I saw a cloney guy taking charge of the situation. The crazy lady swore at them all and stalked off. The clone went back on his way, past me, muttering a complaint that he didn't get any thanks for helping her up.

Simon summed up Toronto perfectly for me when he exclaimed: "It's like a big Crouch End." The locals may love all the juice bars, funky pitta bread sandwich shops, hip boutiques and neat little riot-free ethnic-neighbourhoods-as-tourist-attraction, but (cue overly polite shit-eating grin) they're not really my kind of thing.

Eventually all the bright-eyed smiles and real good living pushes me to the edge and I start seething "Quality of life!" at people as an insult. See that guy roller-blading into work? Quality of life! Those people hanging out at the coffeeshop, sharing a joke or two? Quality of life! These beautiful vintage houses that you live in for a miniscule rent? Quality of life! That beautiful park right on your doorstep? Quality of life! Your right-on, dull as dishwater, socially conscious liberal beliefs? Quality of life!

As the hate kicked in I start to understand why Bruce LaBruce, a Torontonian, populates his films with neo-nazis, sexual freaks, black separatists and evil low-lifers - the whole good-natured city must have driven him to it. Likewise the forgotten zine I found that sat on a dusty shelf of the gentrified gay bookshop summed it all up for me in it's title: 'Cunt Attack!'


* Actually this is untrue. There are several things about Toronto that I like very much. Here's a short list:

• Allyson Mitchell's studio. All of knitted, thrifted, fuzzy, plastic, kitsch, stoopid, furry, velvety life is here.

• In the lobby of the National Film Board of Canada you can sit and watch films in pod-like viewing chairs. It costs nothing and you can search for pretty much anything.

• The CN Tower. It's tall, yes it is.

• The graffitti I saw in the toilet of a coffee shop in Kleinburg, a hateful twee suburban nightmare of a town. It said: "I pea on seat."

• Toronto islands, out of season they are bleak and lovely as Coney Island in the winter.

• Vegetarian hot dogs are available on any street corner you can name.