A. and I have become slightly obsessed with Canadian Sun Gods, after a couple of them shared our hostel dorm room. They’re tall and blonde, with beautifully sculpted figures coloured by a warm tan, that just makes you want to slide into bed with them – especially when they’re lying there asleep with very little clothes on and just a thin sheet modestly hiding their important bits. These are good, hearty boys to the bone – one had two towers of canned tuna on his bedside table, the other a Christian book of inspiration, and both were immaculately neat, even making their bed on the day of checkout.

We rarely had the chance to speak to them – our lives simply didn’t coincide. While these clean souled, glowing with golden masculinity specimens of beings were playing competitive volleyball in the city all day, we were sleeping off a night of hardcore clubbing and other midnight debauchery. It was a case of polar opposites – they the disciplined, righteously healthy, morally upstanding Sun Gods, we the dirty dark Princesses of Night, fueled on a dangerous consumption of hedonism with self destruction, no club closes without our presence.

We’d like to see them try our marathon… an exercise regime of shopping all day, club hopping all night, little sleep, two meals a day, all the excess… then we’ll see who’s tough!

I said to A. I bet they smelled great. Like wood, like freshly cut grass, like newly tilled earth, like a cool ocean breeze, like summer rain. When we awoke to find them checked out one morning, A. went to their pillow and inhaled deeply – “It really does smell great!” I jumped into the bed and wrapped the sheet around me – “there’s no going back to malnourished, sun-deprived, cocaine snorting indie boys now!”