Amelia and I just spent a romantic couple of days in the lovely Paris. There are tons of things I love about London but it has to be said - Paris just pisses on it. We spent the evening in Hotel Amour: red & black shiny walls, pink carpets and marble baths full of champagne & vodka on ice, not bad eh? There were musclebound boys in tight pants wandering about; soggy strumpets cavorting in the shower together and we were even straddled by a blonde masseuse infront of a crowd of gawping French...

...It almost made me wish that I actually liked sex.

We were there courtesy of Diesel who were celebrating their lingerie range in sex- strewn, alcohol- sodden French stylee. Hence Hotel Amour, which was hired out for the evening only to be filled with nubile lingerie models and lecherous French photographers.

The Diesel guys seemed intent on feeding us, plying us with booze, ferrying us about to parties & restaurants and generally being very accommodating, which was quite fine. I didn't get any free pants though.

Having been complimentary about the looks of it’s capital city, can I just square the balance and moan about French food like a Brit? At the posh restaurant we went to, the appetiser consisted of some sort of pink fish paste in a sherry glass served with little currant cakes filled with ginger goo. The waiter took pains to warn me that my steak would be served red, as if I couldn't handle blood like a Frenchman. On the menu at a café the next day was a salad containing ‘gizzard’ and a bottle of Evian water cost 4.50 Euros at a touristy café by the Seine!

Parisians are very clever. They can tell that I’m English instantly and usually speak to me in English before I have managed to murder one single word of French. Today I actually managed to forget the French word for cheese while ordering a baguette. It’s fromage. It would be great if Diesel took us to Italy next time. My Italian is rubbish but I really like spaghetti.